As the two men seated themselves at the table a slave boy arrived with a pair of Samian cups and a jug. He poured a dark red stream into each cup. As soon as the task was complete the boy scurried from the room. Verica nodded his head towards a chair at the far end of the table and the Briton who had escorted the tribune joined his king and the Roman.

‘Cadminius is captain of the royal bodyguard,’ explained Verica. ‘I keep him close to me. Whatever you have to say to me can be trusted to him also.’

‘I see.’

‘Now then, Tribune Quintillus, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’

Quintillus deplored the man’s bluntness. But one had to make allowances for the Celt’s lack of social grace and diplomatic finesse. After all, the man had been raised amid barbaric squalor and had only spent a few brief years as a guest of Rome. Even so, Quintillus forced himself to smile.

‘I appreciate your directness, my lord.’

‘I have little time for formalities, Tribune. I have too little time for anything these days.’

Except indulging his appetite for young flesh, Quintillus reflected, then made himself smile again. ‘My general sends his warmest greetings to King Verica, most close of Rome’s friends.’

Verica laughed. ‘It’s an odd world where a tribe as insignificant as the Atrebatans can assume any degree of importance in the eyes of a power as great as Rome.’

‘Nevertheless, you and your people are important to the Emperor, and my general, as you must know.’

‘Surely. Any man who stands with another at his back is inclined to wonder if that man is a friend or enemy. That is the measure of our importance, is it not?’

Quintillus laughed. ‘You describe both our situations in an admirably succinct way. And that brings us to the purpose of my visit.’

‘Aulus Plautius wants to know how far he can depend on me.’

‘Oh, no, my lord!’ Quintillus protested. ‘The general has no doubts at all about your loyalty to Rome. None at all.’

‘How very reassuring.’

Verica raised his cup and drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing backwards and forwards in his scrawny throat as the base of the cup rose higher and higher. Then, with red drops dribbling down the white hair of his beard, Verica drained the cup and set it down with a sharp tap on the table.

‘Good stuff! Try it, Tribune.’

Quintillus raised his cup to his lips, found the scent to his liking and took a sip. The sweet liquid was resonant with flavour and had a pleasing warming sensation as it passed down his throat. This was no cheap wine. He could not place it exactly, but could guess at its cost.

‘Very nice. A legacy of your days as Rome’s guest?’