'More official business?' asked the centurion meekly.

'No. I would know of it. And even if he came to Londinium for private purposes,' continued the procurator levelly, 'why would he visit an establishment as grim as this?' He now glanced directly at me. 'A British aristocrat laden with expensive jewels is as much at risk of robbery in a hole like this as a lone Roman would be. This place is for locals – and even they have to be brave!'

I refused to be drawn, but left the yard, ducked inside the bar and looked around. As wine bars go this lacked charm and distinction. We had found it halfway down a short, narrow alley on the sloping hill just above the wharves. A few crude shelves held flagons. A couple of windows with iron grilles let in some light. From its filthy straw-strewn floor to its low shadowy rafters the bar was as lousy as bars can get. And I had seen some.

I tackled the woman who kept the place.

'I know nothing,' she spouted immediately, before I could ask her anything.

'Are you the owner?'

'No, I just wait at table.'

'Did you summon the centurion?'

'Of course!' There was no of course about it. I didn't have to live in Britain to know that if she could have hidden this crime, she would have done so. Instead, she had worked out that Verovolcus was bound to be missed. There would be trouble and unless she made it look good today, the trouble would be worse for her. 'We found him this morning.'

'You never noticed him last night?'

'We were busy. Lot of trade in.'

I gazed at her calmly. 'What sort of trade was that?'

'The sort we get.'

'Can you be more specific? I mean -'

'I know what you mean!' she scoffed.

'Sinful girls, after sailors and traders?' I threw at her anyway.

'Nice people. Businessmen!' Nasty forms of business, I bet.