A warrior stepped forward from one of the tribal contingents, a tall, powerfully built figure. He spoke bitterly, stabbing his finger at the governor to drive home his point.

‘That’s Venutius, of the Brigantes,’ said the interpreter. ‘Husband of Queen Cartimandua.’

‘Then he’s the king?’

‘No, sir. The queen rules the tribe. He is her consort, and does not share her liking of Rome.’

‘I see. And what does the consort have to say?’

‘He is angry at the effrontery of your words. That you should tell the tribes to adopt Roman ways, here on the ground that has been sacred to the tribes from time beyond memory. He accuses you of forcing us to give up our gods.’

Venutius’s words had provoked angry muttering and Ostorius raised his hand and called for silence. Once the muttering died away he spoke again through his interpreter.

‘Rome has no intention of taking away your gods, or your sacred sites. You are free to hold to your beliefs. Or choose ours, as you will. You can embrace our ways or live much as you do now. That is your choice. But you must learn to live under our rule and our laws. It is a small price to pay for an end to the bitter conflict of recent years. And before that, the continual raids and small wars that raged between your tribes.’

Venutius listened to the words and responded immediately, in the same angry tone as before.

‘He says that is the way of the tribes. How else is a warrior supposed to prove himself? He must show his courage and his skill in battle. If you take that away from him then you take away his purpose in life.’

Ostorius replied firmly. ‘Then the warriors must find a new purpose. They must learn to be farmers, or they can volunteer to serve Rome in the ranks of our auxiliary forces. That is their only future. You must accept the truth. Your warriors must give up the old ways, or die in battle against the legions.’

Venutius laughed harshly.

‘He says you give him no choice.’

‘On the contrary. I am offering him the choice between life or certain death.’

When the governor’s words were translated there were cries of protest and angry shouts from around the circle and Cato feared that his superior was in danger of pushing the tribal leaders too far. Then another man emerged into the open. He raised his hand and commanded the attention of the others. He was solidly built but had run to fat and his jowls hung heavily, fringed with a neatly trimmed beard. Though he was clad in a woven cloak and leggings, beneath he wore a Roman-style tunic and his hair was cut much shorter than the other natives. He strode confidently into the middle of the ring and waited until he had silence before he addressed the gathering.

‘Who in Hades’ name is that clown?’ asked Macro.

‘I can guess,’ said Cato. ‘Cogidubnus, of the Regni.’