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I do not pretend that this is a historical novel, in the sense that it is a closely documented and minutely factual account of what actually happened in a.d. 61 in Britain. Perhaps no one could write that novel, to satisfy the Omniscient Overlooker of All—for, in any case, the few records which remain are heavily biased and are written from one viewpoint only, that of the conqueror, the Roman invader. And such an account could be as untrue as, let us say, Hitler’s conception of the Battle of Britain.

I have, therefore, tried to ‘read between the lines’, to guess what sort of people these were, so that I might understand why they did this and that. And I have guessed that, in many respects, they were not greatly unlike us, for in the long scroll of history they are relatively close to us in time. I do not imagine that a dominant woman of Nero’s time was very different from a stubborn matron of today; or that the common soldier (if there is such a thing) has greatly changed his habits and outlook.

To convey a sense of the timelessness of the whole thing, I have adopted an ironical attitude to it and have used certain expressions which the characters might have used, had they lived now. My mockery indicates no disrespect to history, or to my characters; it is a form of sympathy, a stoic recognition that we are all involved in mankind, as Donne said. And my use of contemporary language I defend by saying that I am sure that all ages have their own slang; but because I do not know Camp Latin I am driven to use the argot of my own day to produce the impression I need.

This attitude can be justified, of course, only if it results in a credible story, if the characters can cause the reader to suspend his disbelief for a few hundred pages. I hope that my book may do this.

As an afterthought, I would mention that Boudicca killed some 70,000 Romans and their ‘collaborators’ during her brief flare-up; and that wherever workmen dig within the City of London, they come upon a thick layer of ash—a curious reminder of the thoroughness with which the Queen reacted to Nero’s theft of her possessions. So, it seems ironical—almost an act of mockery—that she figures in a splendid chariot as a British heroine on the banks of that very Thames which once ran red with the result of her exertions.

Yes, surely one can only treat such a theme with a tender, and sometimes tearful irony!

HENRY TREECE