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pigtail at the back, although his forehead was not shaved as it would have been in my own tribe, and he lacked the long waxed moustache that would have suggested noble descent. His dress, too, was a mixture of traditions. He wore a Roman-style tunic, rather than trousers, under his Celtic plaid.
    He was gazing at me with suspicion, but he replied in the same language. ‘You are not from these parts, citizen? Your dialect is strange to me.’
    ‘As yours to me,’ I said. It was true. It was almost as difficult for me to comprehend his barbarous Celtic accent as to follow his fractured Latin. Nevertheless, the discovery that I was a fellow countryman had some effect. It had stopped the furious bull in his stampede and I hoped it forged a kind of fragile bond between us, though he was obviously still extremely wary of me. The tribes of Britain have often nurtured worse enmities between themselves than were ever felt for our conquerors.
    I said to reassure him, ‘I am from the farthest south-west corner of Britannia.’ That, I hoped, was safe. Tribal tension is always greatest between immediate neighbours.
    Eppaticus nodded his huge head slowly. ‘And I am Trinovantine.’
    I had heard of them. One of the most warlike and quarrelsome tribes in the country: at one time, they had even joined forces with the Iceni to revolt against Roman rule. Of course, that was more than a century ago, and old scores had been officially forgotten – at least in public – but men still spoke in whispers of the terrible revenge which the Romans had inflicted on the warrior queen Boudicca and her daughters, and the razing of the cities (including Londinium) which had supported the rebels. I imagine that the Trinovantes have little love for a toga.
    No surprise, then, to find Eppaticus clinging to Celtic ways – in fact it was more surprising to see the extent of his Romanisation. And he could hardly welcome an emissary from the governor. Indeed, he was staring suspiciously at me.
    ‘Ah, yes! A Trinovantine. The barley ear,’ I said, to cover my frantic thoughts.
    I meant nothing particular by that – any trader in the island might have said the same. The original coinage of the Trinovantes was marked with an ear of barley, and therefore everyone in the province associated the name with the symbol, but the effect on Eppaticus was startling.
    He let out a roar that rattled the wall-hangings. ‘What has Caius Monnius been telling you? It was an arrangement – he was as much to blame as I was. It was a private matter, between ourselves, and now he tries to incriminate me! I’ll kill him!’
    I looked around the corridor. The slaves were watching the exchange with expressions which ranged from horrified amusement to blank incomprehension.
    ‘Eppaticus,’ I said, ‘be careful what you say. Many of the servants here speak Celtic.’
    He gave a snort of contempt. ‘I care not which hears me,’ he bellowed in Latin. ‘He betrays me to the governor. I said before and I say again, I kill him. I throttle him. I wring his dirty Roman neck!’
    ‘Eppaticus,’ I said gently, ‘you are too late. I told you. Caius Monnius is dead. Someone has throttled him already. That is why the governor has sent me here.’
    He seemed to understand the message for the first time. He stared at me a moment. ‘Murdered?’
    Then, surprisingly swiftly for a man of his stature, he pushed the slaves savagely aside, and – still roaring like a bull – before anyone could stop him he fled headlong from the house.

Chapter Six
    As soon as they had picked themselves up and pulled themselves together, two of the house-slaves ran out after him. I followed, a little more slowly, as my age required.
    But as I arrived at the front entrance they returned, panting.
    ‘It is no good, citizen, he had a horse outside, being held by a beggar. He was on to it and away in no time. We almost caught him, but he was too quick for us.’
    I frowned. ‘Who is he? Apart from being