Enica pulled her head away from his rank breath and the gaze of his mad eyes, and saw a chance. She relaxed, stopping her struggles.

‘You’re a hero,’ she said softly. ‘A great hero.’

Piso’s head swayed as if struggling to understand the change. He glanced down. The tunic was tightly bunched under the woman, so he began to yank hard at the material until it started to tear. Anger and hate filled his eyes again as the tunic ripped open from hem to neck. ‘And you’re no lady,’ he shouted, realising that she was wearing nothing underneath it.

‘I’m a bitch,’ she said, licking her lips. Piso started to drool, and the feel of it on her skin revolted her, but she had a plan and just one chance, so ignored it. He felt for her legs, and Enica helped him to lift her a little further onto the table top, and let her knees part.

The change in her mood for some reason made his eyes burn with new anger.

‘Bitch!’ he growled and hit her on the face again.

Enica’s legs were in the air and the tribune was trying to wriggle so that his breeches would drop, but the trousers remained stubbornly in place so he felt for them, trying to work out what was wrong. Her right hand reached the bone-covered haft of a table knife on the plate beside her. Piso was staring down at his trousers, then grunted with satisfaction as the breeches at last dropped. Enica crossed her legs, grasping the tribune tightly and used that to lever her torso up, the knife in her hand. Piso’s eyes widened and then the tip of the blade drove into his left eyeball with less force than she had hoped. He squealed, a noise more animal than human and reached up to his face. Enica clung on to him, ripped the blade free, dragging the remnants of the eye out of the socket, and plunging it into the man’s neck. His arms flailed and she let go with her legs, slamming hard onto the table and losing her grip on the knife. Piso staggered, moaning, and when he pulled the blade free a jet of blood sprayed all over her bare skin. Yet the tribune would not die and came at her. Enica half rolled, half fell from the table, losing the rest of her tunic and the dying man dropped onto her. His face pressed against her and she was not sure whether he was trying to bite her or kiss her, and the blood was everywhere so that it was hard to take firm hold and lift him off. She had finally managed to shift the corpse and push herself away when the door opened.

‘Bugger me!’ Vindex said. Bran was behind him, face grim as if he had failed, but then Sulpicia Lepidina pushed past them. She took in the dead tribune, his mutilated face staring one-eyed at the ceiling, and Enica, standing up, naked save for her boots, her white skin half covered with blood. The tribune had fouled himself in his last moments, adding to the stench and the wreck of the room.