The legatus’ face flushed red once more and the twitch returned to his cheek. Crispinus had always been a clever man, who learned quickly and saw to the heart of matters. He was also ambitious, even by the standards of the old aristocracy, seeing politics as a game and playing it to win and win well. Yet excessive intelligence and ambition were dangerous, and even while he was just a tribune there had been plenty of doubts about his loyalty. Ferox remembered the then governor of Britannia, and Crispinus’ uncle, more than entertaining the thought that his nephew might be part of a plot to overthrow the Lord Trajan, but suspecting that he would straddle a fine line between treachery and loyalty. As the governor had said, Crispinus was the kind of man who planned to do very well whichever regime was in charge.

Ferox felt tiny drops of spittle on his face before Crispinus regained control. The young senatorial tribune Ferox had known all those years ago would never have betrayed his emotions in this way, but his service in Britannia had not ended well. Crispinus had played both sides during a rebellion headed by a prince of the Brigantes, the greatest tribe of the north. Ferox still was not sure whether the tribune had been spying on the rebels or had joined them or perhaps he had done both and was making sure that he prospered whatever the outcome. The rebellious leaders claimed that Trajan was dead and that the governor wanted to make himself emperor, so that they were the defenders of the true emperor yet to be chosen by the Senate. The leaders knew that none of this was true, but plenty of men had believed the stories, and the defeat of the first column sent against them added to their numbers. By then the Brigantian prince was parading Crispinus as a captive and proof of the empire’s weakness. He put an iron slave collar around the tribune’s neck and made him walk on all fours like a dog. That may have been the least of the abuse he had suffered, and rumours spread of beatings, torture, and even rape. After the defeat of the rebels, Crispinus could barely walk, refused to talk, and cowered at the slightest hint of threat or loud noise. His term with the legion due to expire, he had been sent back to Italy and the care of his family as discreetly as possible.

‘How is your wife?’ The change of tack and the studied innocence of the question was far more like the young tribune he had known all those years ago. ‘Do you manage to hear from her, these days? I suppose it is some time since you last saw her.’

Five years, three months and – Ferox did a quick calculation because so much had happened lately – thirteen days. He wondered whether the last number was unlucky before deciding that things could not be much worse.

‘The queen is well so far as I know, my lord,’ Ferox said, remaining at attention and barking out the words as if they were a formal report.