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the coin spinning into the air, and caught it in the same hand when it fell.
    â€œHe’d like to think so. H.A.L. Brigshaw? Author of
Inglorious Empire
and
The Practice of Freedom
?”
    â€œDoesn’t sound like the sort of stuff I read.”
    â€œBut you read the papers, don’t you?
The Express
thinks he should be thrown in the Tower pending execution at Traitor’s Gate. Mind you, he’d be pissed off if it didn’t.”
    â€œPolitics isn’t my thing.”
    Adam laughed, aghast. “Better not let Hal hear you say that – not unless you fancy being beaten into submission. We’re all passionate about politics here, except Marina of course, though even she gets worked up about Africa. We lived there for years till Hal got the sack. Emmanuel’s going back next week.” Adam tossed the coin again. “Keep an eye on the news.”
    â€œWhy, what’s going to happen?”
    â€œHis people have already got the students organized, and the Trades Unions in Port Rokesby are with him. He’s working with Hal on a strategy to get the miners on board, and once that happens the colony will be ungovernable.” Again the coin span on the air between them.
    â€œWhich colony is that?” Martin asked, flustered by his own ignorance. But Adam seemed untroubled by it. “British Equatorial West Africa,” he answered. “The Tories know they’ll have to get out of course, and there’s a puppet of their own they’d prefer to leave in charge, but Emmanuel’s the only man who can keep the tribal factions together. He should be Prime Minister within the year, and then it’ll be a clear run to independence.” Adam shrugged airily at Martin, who stared at him as though listening to a signal from a distant star. “But then you’re not interested in politics. I suppose you’ve got more important things on your mind.” With studied casualness, he tossed the coin over and over again.
    Martin frowned across at him, baffled by the shifting moods of this house. He felt he had stumbled into a culture of baseless discontent where, for all the authority and precision with which they were used, words had a slippery existence of their own. They seemed to correspond to nothing actually present in this privileged world – except perhaps for the anomalous African shivering in borrowed trousers.
    â€œIt’s not that I’m not interested,” he said. “Or that I don’t care. It’s just that I don’t know much about it.” He bit back the complaint that he had not shared the opportunities enjoyed by Hal Brigshaw’s family. The coin sprang into the air again. With a swift movement Martin reached out, grabbed it, and turned back into the window alcove to examine his catch. Embossed with the garlanded head of a young man, the coin lay thin and mysterious in his palm.
    â€œGive it back,” Adam demanded.
    â€œHey, this is Roman, isn’t it? Where d’you find it?”
    â€œI was given it for Christmas. My mother had it from an uncle when she was a girl. I’ve always wanted it. Now it’s mine. Give it here.”
    Martin was examining the coin by winter light. “I can make out an
R
, an
I
and an
A…
” He was reluctant to let this ancient thing go, could feel himself possessed by the desire to have it for himself.
    â€œIt’s Hadrianic,” Adam said. “There’s a portrait of Antinous on the reverse. He was Hadrian’s lover. Some legionary probably brought it here from Alexandria or Asia Minor.” His voice stiffened: there was a peevish edge to it now. “It’s quite rare and I’d like it back please.”
    â€œAll right, all right, keep your hair on.” Martin handed back the coin, but already Adam was ruing his failure to trust the possibilities of friendship: “I’m sorry.” He tightened his fist round the coin. “I