Sextus Julius Frontinus was in his forties, a dedicated ex-consul whom I had met a couple of years before in Rome. We had worked together to solve a cruel series of female fatalities. Most consuls stink; he seemed different and I took to him. Frontinus had all the makings of an old-time Roman in power: soldierly, cultured, intrigued by administrative problems of all kinds, decent, absolutely straight. He had asked for me by name as his trouble-solver on the Togidubnus palace audit. My success there made me even more popular.

'If anyone can decipher what happened to the King's crony it's you, Falco.'

'Honeyed words!' I never treated men of rank with fake respect. If my manner seemed abrasive, that was tough. Frontinus knew I would do a good job; I had a fair idea what this crime was about, and I was blunt: 'My guess is, Verovolcus skulked up to Londinium hoping to escape notice. He wanted to stay in Britain. Then he cut across some locals at the bar. The hothead tried to lord it. They took exception. Someone tipped him arse-up in the cask-lined waterhole. While he was gurgling – or just before they plunged him in – they took the chance to pinch his torque. They scarpered. Any officer on your staff with local knowledge should track them down. Find the torque and it should convict them.'

'Nice theory,' retorted the governor, unmoved. 'I can accept that. Now prove it, Falco, before Togidubnus hears the tragic news and gallops here with sparks flying.'

He was very down to earth. He must have been chosen for Britain because the Emperor thought him both efficient and adaptable. I knew from talking to him already that he had a heavy programme ahead. In the three years he would administer Britain, Frontinus was planning to Romanise the province completely. He was about to embark on a major military expansion, with a big campaign against the untamed western tribes, then perhaps a further campaign in the north.