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Emperor distrusts such stuff.’
    â€˜So Vespasian’s curiosity is scholarly?’ queried The Brother.
    â€˜He is a cultured man.’ That was to say he was on record as once quoting a rude line from a play by Menander concerning a chap with an enormous phallus, which by the standards of previous emperors made Vespasian a highly educated wit.
    But it was Vespasian the crusty old general who must preoccupy foreign politicians. ‘True,’ The Brother pointed out. ‘But he is also a strategist.’
    I decided to stop feinting. ‘And a pragmatic one. He has plenty to occupy his energies within his own borders. If he believes the Nabataeans are interested only in pursuing their own affairs peacefully, you can rely on it that he will elect, like his predecessors, to make gestures of friendship to Petra.’
    â€˜And were you sent to say that?’ queried The Brother, rather haughtily. For once I saw him tighten his mouth. So the Petrans were afraid of Rome – which meant there were terms we might negotiate.
    I lowered my voice. ‘If and when Rome chooses to assimilate Nabataea within its Empire, then Nabataea will come to us. This is a fact. It is no treachery towards you, and perhaps not even an unkindness, to state it.’ I was taking a lot upon myself here, even by my risky standards. ‘I am a simple man, but it seems to me that time is not yet here. Even so, Nabataea might do well to plan ahead. You lie in an enclave between Judaea and Egypt, so the questions are not will you join the Empire, but when and on what terms. At present these are within your own control. A partnership could be achieved both peacefully and at a time that suited you.’
    â€˜This is what your Emperor says to me?’ queried The Brother. Since I had been told by Anacrites to avoid official contact, I had of course been given no instructions about speaking for Vespasian.
    â€˜You will realise,’ I confessed frankly, ‘I am a fairly low-grade messenger.’ The hooded eyes darkened angrily. One lean hand played with the jewelled dagger at his belt. ‘Don’t be insulted,’ I urged him quietly. ‘The advantage to you is that a higher-powered embassy would necessitate action. Important men sent on delicate missions expect results; they have careers to found. The day you find a Roman senator measuring your civic monuments, you’ll know he’s trying to find a space for a statue of himself in a laurel wreath, looking like a conqueror. But any report I make can be filed away in a casket if Vespasian wants to preserve the status quo.’
    â€˜Assuming you make a report!’ The Brother rejoined, going back to the fun of threatening me.
    I was blunt. ‘Best that I do. Pegging me out on top of one of your crow-step altars could rebound on you. The peremptory death of a Roman citizen – which I am, despite shabby appearances – might be a neat excuse for sending in a Roman army and annexing Nabataea immediately.’
    The Brother smiled faintly at this idea. The death of an informer, travelling without official documents, was unlikely to justify world-scale political initiatives. Besides, Anacrites had told him I was coming. Apart from his personal hatred of me, in diplomatic terms that was probably meant as a warning to the Nabataeans: Here’s one observer you know about; there may be others you fail to detect. Rome feels so confident, she’s even spying on you openly.
    My own fate was not a diplomatic issue. Anyone who took a dislike to my face could safely cast my corpse on their local rubbish tip. Accepting it, I smiled back peacefully.
    At our feet the man who really was dead still waited for attention.
    â€˜Falco, what does this unknown body have to do with you?’
    â€˜Nothing. I found him. It was coincidence.’
    â€˜He brought you to me.’
    Coincidence has a habit of landing me in tight situations. ‘Neither the