After the slightest hesitation, to indicate that he was making a concession to his hosts, Quintillus followed the man inside. The contrast with the bright sunlight outside was striking and Quintillus wondered at the echoing darkness as he followed the dim form of the Briton across the roughly paved floor. A small opening in the apex of the roof allowed a shaft of light to fall between the beams, and tiny motes of dust glided through the soft golden hue. Quintillus noted that the air was pleasantly cool, but smelled of beer and cooking. At the far end of the hall was a small doorway with a leather curtain hanging across the inside. A guard stood to one side of the entrance, his sword drawn with the point resting on the ground between his feet. The tribune’s companion nodded to the guard, who stepped aside, and then rapped on the wooden doorframe. A voice answered and then the Briton pushed the leather curtain to one side, stepped through the door and beckoned the tribune to follow him into the chamber.

The king’s private quarters were crudely appointed by Roman standards and Quintillus had immediately to suppress an undiplomatic betrayal of his distaste and condescension. The daubed walls were hung with animal skins and lined with chests to store the king’s possessions. Close by the entrance was a large table with several chairs arranged around it. At the far end of the chamber was a large bed covered with yet more skins. Verica stood beside the bed, pulling a long tunic over the sagging wrinkled flesh of his skinny body. A light shrill of laughter drew the tribune’s attention more closely to the bed, and he saw the face of a young woman, not much more than a girl, above the covers. Verica said something to her and clicked his finger towards the door. At once the girl threw back the covers, jumped to her feet, grabbed a tatty cloak from the end of the bed and ran towards the new arrivals. Quintillus stepped aside to let her pass and cast an approving look over her lithe body.

‘Would you like her?’ asked Verica, walking stiffly towards him. ‘After we’ve talked, I mean. She’s good.’

‘Most kind of you, but I fear I shall be too busy to enjoy her. Besides I prefer them slightly older - they have more experience. ‘

‘Experience?’ Verica frowned. ‘I grow more sick of experience every day. At my age one craves the life one had before experience soiled it . . . Sorry,’ Verica smiled and raised a hand. ‘I’ve become a bit too preoccupied by questions of age lately. Please sit down, Tribune, here at the table. I’ve sent for some wine. I know how my Roman friends prefer wine to our beer.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’