‘On your feet, you!’ Cadminius swung his boot into the prone figure lying in the dim corner of the hall, furthest from the guarded entrance of the royal quarters. Night had fallen and a few torches hissed in the wall brackets. Tincommius shuffled away from him before Cadminius could land another blow, and the captain of the royal bodyguard quickly grabbed the length of rope tied around the prisoner’s neck and gave it a jerk.

‘Shit!’ Tincommius choked, raising his bound hands to his throat. ‘That hurt.’

‘Shame you won’t live to get used to it,’ grinned Cadminius. ‘Now, on your feet. King wants a word with you. Perhaps your last word, eh?’

The Atrebatan prince was led by the rope like a dog, cringing before the hatred in the eyes of everyone he passed down the centre of the hall. A wounded man with a ragged dressing covering most of his head propped himself up on an elbow and tried to spit at him as Tincommius went by, but he was too weak and the spittle ended up on his breast. Tincommius stopped and sneered.

‘You’re pathetic! Have the Romans made you so weak that that’s the best you can do?’

Cadminius stopped as the prince started speaking, but now he gave the rope a harsh tug. ‘Come on, my beauty, let’s not get spiteful.’

As Tincommius gasped at the rope snapping tight around his neck, the men in the hall gave a ragged cheer and shouted insults at the traitor. He swallowed nervously and coughed to clear his throat, but his voice came out only as a croak.

‘Laugh now . . . while you still can . . . you slaves!’

When Cadminius reached the entrance to Verica’s quarters he hauled the prisoner inside. Verica was propped up in his bed, but his skin still looked drained of colour and he gestured feebly to the captain of his bodyguard to have Tincommius brought closer. Beside the bed, on stools, sat Vespasian and Tribune Quintillus. A stocky centurion stood close by, powerfully built, with a hard and cruel expression on his face. Verica tried to lift his head, but couldn’t find the strength, and rolled it to the side, looking down his cheeks at his treacherous kinsman as the latter was forced to his knees at the foot of the bed.

‘Bring him nearer,’ Verica said softly, and Cadminius nudged his captive along with his knee.

For a moment no one spoke, and the only sound was the faint wheezing of the king, and the occasional cries of the wounded in the hall.

‘Why, Tincommius?’ Verica shook his head. ‘Why betray us?’

Tincommius was ready with his answer and snapped straight back. ‘I betrayed you, Uncle, because you betrayed our people.’

‘No, young man . . . I saved them. Saved them from slaughter.’

‘So they could be the slaves of your friends here?’ Tincommius chuckled bitterly. ‘That’s some salvation. I’d rather die on my feet than-’