I nearly lost him on the main road. I glimpsed my mother inspecting onions by a greengrocer's stall. Judging by her grim face, the onions, like most of my lady friends, fell short of her standards. My mother had convinced herself my new job working for the Palace involved good money, simple clerical work, and keeping my tunics clean. I was reluctant to let her discover so soon that it was the same old round of trudging after villains who chose to slouch through the streets when I wanted my lunch.
It took deft footwork to avoid her without losing him. Luckily the green cloak was an unpleasant shade of viridian, easy to pick up again.
I trailed him to the river, which he crossed on the Sublician Bridge; a ten-minute hike away from civilization to the Transtiberina hovels where the street hawkers crowd when they are kicked out of the Forum after dark. The Fourteenth District had been part of Rome since my grandparents' day, but there were enough swarthy immigrants over there to make it feel alien. After my task that morning I did not care if one of them knifed me in the back.
When you don't care, they never try.
We were walking in deep shadow now, through streets overhung by perilous balconies. Thin dogs ran in the gutters. Ragged, lug-eared gypsy children yelled at the terrified dogs. If I let myself think about it, the whole district terrified me.
The green cloak was travelling at a steady pace like a citizen going home for lunch. His build was ordinary, with thin shoulders and a youngish walk. I still had not seen his face; that hood stayed up despite the heat. He was too shy to be honest, that was sure.
Although I kept water carriers and piemen between us out of professional etiquette, there was no need. He did none of the ducking and dodging that would have been sensible in this seedy neighbourhood. He never once glanced behind.
I did. Regularly. No one appeared to be shadowing me.
Above our heads limp blankets aired on ropes, and below that other ropes carried baskets, brassware, cheap clothing and rag rugs. The Africans and Arabs selling them seemed to accept him, but exclaimed to each other harshly as I passed; still, they may have been just admiring me for a handsome lad. I caught the scent of new flat bread and sickly foreign cakes. Behind half-open shutters worn women with ugly voices were shouting their exasperation at idle men; occasionally the men lashed out in temper, so I listened with fellow feeling while I quickened my step. In this area they sold intricate little copper knives with spells traced on the blade, addictive drugs distilled from oriental flowers, or boys and girls with limbs like cherubs whose trade in vice was already rotting them with hidden disease. You could purchase the promise of a heart's desire, or a shabby death-for someone else, or for yourself. If you stood on one spot too long, death or some worse crisis might find you without the bother of praying for it.
I lost him south of the Via Aurelia, in an ominously silent street, about five minutes into the Fourteenth.