‘Of course. And do you think for a moment I’d be mad enough to turn on Rome and give this up?’

They both laughed, then Verica shook his head.

‘Seriously, Tribune, there’s much to gain from our alliance with Rome. Even if that were not so, I’d rather take my chances with Rome than throw my hand in with that bastard Caratacus. I’d be dead in a matter of days, and some anti-Roman fanatic would be sitting here in my place.’

‘And such a man would be easy to find from amongst the Atrebatans?’ Quintillus probed.

Verica looked at him for a moment, all trace of amusement gone from his expression. ‘There are some who might think our tribe is on the wrong side, yes.’

‘Some? Many?’

‘Enough to cause me concern.’

‘What concerns you concerns Rome, my lord.’

‘Oh, I’m sure it does.’

‘Do you know who these men are?’

‘I know of some,’ Verica admitted. ‘I suspect many more. As for the rest, who knows?’

‘Then why not take care of them, my lord?’

‘Take care of them? What kind of a euphemism is that? Say what you mean, Tribune. We must be clear about what we say. Euphemisms are for cowards and only ever lead to later misunderstanding and recrimination. You want me to kill my people?’

Quintillus nodded. ‘For you own safety, and as an example to others.’

‘I assume the good Centurion Macro has told you that I’ve already tried that approach, and it’s failed.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t remove enough of your enemies?’

‘Perhaps I “removed” more than enough. Perhaps I should never have removed any of them. That’s what Cadminius thinks, though he dare not say it.’

At the end of the table the captain of the king’s bodyguard lowered his gaze. Quintillus ignored the man and leaned closer to King Verica.

‘That would have looked like weakness, my lord. It would have encouraged others to speak out against you. In the end tolerance always leads to weakness. Weakness leads to defeat.’

‘It’s all so easy to you, isn’t it, Roman?’ Verica shook his head. ‘All so black and white. One solution fits all situations. Rule with an iron fist.’

‘It works for us, my lord.’

‘Us? How old are you, Tribune?’

‘Twenty-four, sire. Next month.’

‘Twenty-four . . .’ The Atrebatan looked him in the eyes for a moment, and shook his head. ‘Calleva is not Rome, Quintillus. My situation is more finely balanced. I kill too many of my enemies and I provoke a rebellion from those who resent oppression. I kill too few and I provoke a rebellion from those who abuse my tolerance. You see my problem? Now, I ask you, how many should I kill to achieve the desired effect, without provoking a rebellion?’