‘Oh, we mustn’t mention that,’ Xander said. ‘Every emperor likes to believe he has built the whole world single-handed.’

Brigonius popped a harmless-looking bit of meat into his mouth. ‘Well, don’t ask me. I doubt if I’ll understand anything anyhow. Haven’t you noticed - aside from us, everybody here is speaking Greek!’

Karus grunted. ‘And an archaic form at that. How pretentious!’

‘It’s to please the Emperor,’ Xander said. ‘His own family are from the provinces, you know. Like all those born most humbly he has the highest aspirations, and so has decided he is a devoted admirer of all things Greek.’ Brigonius thought this pompous little man spoke of an emperor as if he was an irritating schoolboy.

‘Well,’ Brigonius said, ‘in that case it’s a shame the Greeks didn’t build walls of stone, for surely Hadrian would copy them.’

Karus slapped his forehead. ‘May Jupiter bugger me but they did! Didn’t they, Xander? You should know, man!’

Xander, wide-eyed now, nodded. ‘Of course, of course.’

Karus grinned and gripped Brigonius’s arm. ‘My friend, I think you may have just won us the contest.’

Severa’s gaze flickered suspiciously between lawyer and architect. ‘You two had better be sure you know what you’re doing.’

Xander was flustered, but Karus grinned, a lawyer’s smile. ‘Trust me.’

And now time ran out, whether Severa trusted Karus or not. Trumpets sounded, a clear peal above the babble. All heads turned to see the former slave Primigenius standing at the door, beside a beaming Marcus Claudius Verecundus, the host. Primigenius called, ‘Stand for Publius Aelius Hadrianus.’

And the Emperor walked into the room.

Hadrian gave a brief, gracious speech of welcome, then bade everybody sit and continue with the meal. After a decent interval little groups of citizens approached him with their requests, petitions, disputes to be resolved, or paeans of praise. Severa’s party waited their turn.

Brigonius watched the Emperor, fascinated. Hadrian sat with his courtiers, talking animatedly, perhaps about the hunt they had just come from. Hadrian, a heavy-set man, wore a toga, but his face was flushed, his thick hair damp from sweat, and his breathing was heavy.

He immediately struck Brigonius as a mass of contradictions. It was clear that he wanted to seem accessible, but his entrance couldn’t have been more dramatic if he had rode in on his horse. He aspired to Greek culture, and yet he exuded the primordial thrill of the hunt. He was the richest man in the world, the very quintessence of Rome - and yet he wore a barbarian beard whose magnificence Brigonius envied. His skin was pocked by the scars of some disease: another contradiction, that the most powerful of all should be afflicted by a disease which could strike down the commonest of people.

And though there was none more powerful than Hadrian there was a fearful look in his eyes, an almost hunted look.