Standing in the shade and half concealed by the bald bloke with the scroll and the big nose, they waited. The sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky. One of them waited patiently and the other slightly less so. Luke shifted his position again and enquired how much longer.

Jane sighed in exasperation. ‘Listen – we’re alive. We’re safe. We have water and a couple of snack packs. No one is shooting at us. Be grateful.’

They were, however, in the right place. On the other side of the street, men were beginning to arrive. Important men, wearing voluminous togas with a purple stripe. Some were on foot; others were carried in wooden chairs. A few of them went straight inside but most gathered on the steps, conferring with each other. Many held scrolls or had slaves to carry them. They stood in groups of two or three, heads together, nodding importantly.

‘Why don’t they go in, I wonder?’ said Luke. ‘Get in out of the sun.’

‘They’re politicians,’ said Jane, scornfully. ‘How will people know how important they are if they don’t hang around looking important in front of the people.’

‘Such cynicism in one so young.’

‘Any idea who’s who?’

‘Well, I don’t think the great man has arrived yet. I’m certain he’ll be among the last to arrive, but thinking back to my Shakespeare, there should be Cassius and Brutus and . . .’ He tailed away, entangled in the mists of schoolday memories.

‘And Cicero? And Mark Antony?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

‘Well,’ said a voice behind them. ‘Why don’t you ask an historian?’

29

29

Jane had not been so wildly and unrealistically optimistic as to envisage them both carving out a life for themselves as Rome’s first purveyors of fried chicken and chips in a world that had, so far, encountered neither, but she’d never thought they’d be recaptured quite so quickly.

Two hours, she thought. If that. Just two fire-trucking hours.

She turned very slowly. In front of her stood a tall man dressed in white. His elegantly embroidered tunic bore a golden key design around the neck and he was wearing a toga with a wide purple stripe, so he was obviously a man of some importance. But, she thought, even without him speaking in English, she would have known he was not a Roman. His light hair was longer and far less disciplined than that of the men around him, most of whom sported really sharp hairstyles. She wondered if he was part of the Hunter Division. The ones tasked with the difficult jobs. If so, he was really, really good. He’d tracked them down almost before breakfast.

She stepped forwards before Luke could do anything stupid. ‘It was me,’ she said firmly. ‘I did it.’

‘Good heavens,’ said the man mildly. ‘Did you, indeed?’