‘Caesar made war here.’

‘And the Romans are afraid of the Ocean,’ Cunedda said. ‘Isn’t that so? They would never dare cross the water anyhow.’

‘Caesar crossed,’ Nectovelin said simply. ‘The truth is, nobody wants to believe the legionaries would come again because nowadays everybody sucks on the golden teat of Rome. You’re a potter, aren’t you, boy?’

‘Yes.’ Actually Cunedda was much more than that; he ran a thriving business, employing twenty artisans, having made good use of his inheritance.

‘And who do you sell your pots to? The Romans?’

‘Not just the Romans—’

‘Those who ape them. The Trinovantes, the Iceni, the Atrebates. Those who live under their protection. Certainly not to us Brigantians.’ Nectovelin jabbed his finger in Cunedda’s chest. ‘If not for the Romans you wouldn’t make a living at all, would you?’

Agrippina said, ‘Go easy, old man. Don’t forget he’s paying your wages.’

Cunedda said, ‘Anyway what’s wrong with taking money off the Romans? I would have thought you’d approve.’

‘Why does it matter to you what I think? You’re shagging my cousin, aren’t you?’

Cunedda coloured.

Agrippina snapped, ‘So you knew all the time?’

Nectovelin tapped his forehead. ‘You think I lived to the ripe age of forty-seven without eyes that see, ears that hear? Anyhow Bala told me.’

Agrippina gasped. Bala of the Cantiaci had once been a friend; they had fallen out over Cunedda. ‘That malicious bitch, I’ll rip her throat out.’

Cunedda laughed. ‘Now you do sound like Nectovelin’s cousin.’

Nectovelin pinched one nostril and cleared the other, leaving a trail of mucus on his beard that he wiped away with his sleeve. ‘And that’s why you came to the beach. To get around me.’

Agrippina linked his arm affectionately. ‘Oh, don’t be difficult, you ridiculous old fraud. You know you’ve been the nearest thing to a father to me, since my own father died.’

‘But you don’t need my say-so to spread your legs.’

‘Don’t be crude! No, but I want you to be part of us, part of our relationship.’

Nectovelin eyed Cunedda. ‘There are worse choices you could have made.’

‘Thanks,’ Cunedda said dryly. ‘But I thought you didn’t like us Catuvellaunians.’

‘It’s nothing personal. I don’t like any of you soft southerners.’ He glared around at the sunlit beach. ‘This is the arsehole of Britain. And that’s why Caesar shoved his Roman sword up it.’

‘And if this is an arsehole,’ Cunedda said carefully, ‘are you the turd that is passing through, old warrior?’

Nectovelin frowned, and for a dreadful moment Agrippina thought he would take offence. But he winked at Agrippina. ‘Nice reply. But I was the wittier, wasn’t I?’

‘Oh, you’re a regular Cicero,’ Agrippina said dryly. ‘You must have a little bit of Roman in you after all—’

‘As did Cassivellaunus once Caesar got hold of him.’