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supervising the preparation of a meal; the rich scent of boiling grape-juice mixed with the sharper tang of liquamen reducing in its earthen pots told me there would be visitors that night. I would not be missed for an hour or so; I slipped out by the servants’ entrance, gaining the alley that ran alongside the house. I paused long enough to bring old Zenobia from her den, clutching her enormous broom; my father had christened her that, after the fiery Queen of Palmyra who once caused a slight embarrassment to Roman arms. Then I set off jauntily for the market. At my hip, bumping my thigh as I walked, swung the little sword. I jogtrotted importantly, feeling the drag and bounce of the little weapon, very much a man.
    As usual there was a great deal to see. Most of the shopkeepers were busy already, setting out their wares in stacks and piles; in the Street of the Wine-sellers a few early-morning drinkers lounged, cups in their hands, watching me incuriously as I passed. In the market I dodged round one of our housepeople, bargaining for a barrel of oysters. I ran on down the narrow street beyond, where the poorer folk and artisans lived, to the town wall and the west gate. It was hardly ever guarded; I passed through, dropping to a walk, followed the white paved road to where the first of the olive plantations began. Beyond, a mile or so from Italica, was a patch of uncultivated land, thick with saplings and tall weeds. I had played there often enough before; I could normally rely on being undisturbed.
    None the less, the wood was full of enemies. The saplings were Goths and Alans, the weeds lurking Persians. I fell on them all, with wild war-whoops; not all of them in my native tongue, for years back Marcus had taught me the battle-cries of the German and British auxiliaries. The Persians fell most satisfyingly; the Goths were more resilient. In fact one of them resisted the sword so successfully as to cause a major burr in its edge. I was disappointed; I would have to wait now to catch Marcus in a good mood, and persuade him to beat it out for me.
    I was tired by the time I reached the far end of the copse, and streaked with sweat. I rolled in the grass, lay face down, feeling the blood pound in my temples. I wondered whether to go back into town to the baths, and dismissed the idea. I would almost certainly be caught and scolded by one of the servants, and my day out spoiled. I got up and walked on again, to where the white walls of the Villa of Hadrian cast a pleasant shade.
    It stood a little way back from the main road that ran west to Lusitania. It was an unusually fine house, built round three sides of a square; the fourth side, facing the road, consisted mainly of stables and buildings that housed farm implements and waggons. I hung about round the gateway, peering through at the neatly tended courtyard, till a surly slave shooed me off. I wandered on again, round the windowless walls of the place; beneath them, I was safe from observation.
    Behind the house, some yards from its rear wall, stood a tall clump of trees. I lay down at the foot of one of them, on my back in the grass, holding the sword above me. I juggled with it, feeling how the weight balanced in its pointed tip bent my wrist forward and back. After a while I half closed my eyes, lay watching the odd clouds that crossed the deep blue sky. If I concentrated I could make it seem as if the clouds stood still and it was I, and the solid earth beneath me, that moved, bowling along majestically to an unknown destination. In time the insect-hum round me faded, and I began to doze.
    I was roused by a hard kick on the shin. I sat up resentfully, still half asleep, shielding my eyes with my hand. Publius was standing over me. He was wearing a tunic of fine yellow linen; and his pointed-chinned face was alight with suspicion and dislike. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked arrogantly. ‘This is my father’s house, and this is private land. You have no