Then came the screaming, street by street, square by square, spreading outwards like ripples across the still surface of a pond, and the spell was broken. Somewhere out of sight, a woman called her children back inside. Dogs slunk into alleyways, their instincts telling them to get off the streets. A shutter clattered as a shop owner pulled it across his precious goods. Then another. And another. Other shopkeepers were heaving their merchandise inside as fast as they could go. Doors slammed. The streets were emptying. Rome knew the beginnings of trouble when she saw it. In the strange silence, Luke could hear the whispers. The Latin equivalent of ‘What the hell is happening’, presumably.

And then, faintly at first but growing ever louder, the sounds of a panic. The crash of carts overturning. Smashing pottery. Shouts of alarm. Of fear. Of grief. And anger. The unbelievable news had hit the streets. The people’s champion, Caesar, was dead. Shockingly, bloodily dead. Assassinated by members of their own Senate. He sprawled now, ripped and blood-soaked at the foot of the giant statue of his old rival, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus – Pompey the Great.

Markham looked around, saying, ‘We really need to be off the streets.’

Luke pushed his way to the front. ‘Our pod’s not far now. Follow me.’

Now there were very few women or children on the streets. Men were emerging from doorways and alleys, grim-faced, tightening their belts and armed with cudgels, long knives, anything they could find. The news was spreading faster than a forest fire.

Certainly faster than they could force their way through the crowds, thought Jane. They couldn’t run. They couldn’t do anything that would attract attention to themselves. Never mind the official guards – the citizens themselves would be looking for someone to blame. Caesar was their leader. Their darling. There would be no mercy for anyone they suspected and unfortunately, that suspicion would include foreigners, those against whom they had a personal grudge and anyone else they just didn’t like the look of.

Peterson was wending his way briskly through the crowds, giving every impression of a man with an important appointment elsewhere. They did their best to follow in his wake but there were knots of men everywhere, blocking their path and growing ever larger. Time and again they were forced to detour out of their way and into another street.

There was the crash of a cart being overturned. A man’s voice was briefly raised before being drowned out in angry shouts. Someone was whipping up the mob. Caesar was the people’s favourite. Had been the people’s favourite. The next step would be armed gangs of men roaming the streets looking for someone to blame.

Peterson paused, pulled off his toga because now was possibly not the best time to be posing as a member of the Senate, bundled it up any old how and tossed it into a doorway.