The king raised his eyes and scanned the faces around the table. His shame was mirrored in their expressions. He had fled for his life when Caratacus had marched on Calleva several years earlier. Fled in the night like a coward, and run to the Romans to throw himself on their mercy. They had seen that the old man might yet have a part to play in the Empire’s designs and had given him shelter and looked after him well. But such hospitality is not without its price. When the time came, the favour was called in and the Emperor’s chief secretary, Narcissus, made it quite clear to him that the price demanded by Rome for returning him to his throne was eternal obedience. Nothing short of that would do. And Verica had readily agreed, as he and Narcissus had both known he would. So when the legions landed in Britain, Verica marched with them. His kingdom had been returned to him at the point of a Roman sword and the many who had clung to their Catuvellaunian overlords ran into exile, or resisted and died.

Most of the men sitting round the table had been quick to see the futility of resisting the advance of the iron might of the legions. They had turned out to welcome Verica when four cohorts of legionaries escorted the former king through the gates of Calleva, up its winding streets, and into the royal enclosure. Only a year before they had been denouncing Verica as the weak and cowardly puppet of Rome. Now they had swallowed their pride and principles and were puppets themselves. And they knew it.

Verica leaned back in his chair and continued, ‘Those men we call traitors are acting out of personal conviction. They have an ideal - something, I might add, that is in short supply around this table tonight . . .’Verica dared any of them to look him in the eye and deny it. Artax alone met the challenging glint in his king’s eyes. Verica nodded his approval and continued. ‘Such men believe in a bond that unites the Celts across tribal boundaries. They believe in a greater loyalty than mere blind obedience to their king.’

Cadminius shook his head. ‘What greater loyalty could there be than that?’

‘Loyalty to one’s race, to one’s culture, to the bloodline from which we spring. Isn’t that a loyalty worth fighting for? Worth dying for?’ Verica concluded quietly. ‘Well . . .?’

There was a power to the old king’s rhetoric that touched the souls of some of the men round the table. A few were even bold enough to nod their agreement. But Tincommius was staring at his uncle with a calculating expression.

‘What are you suggesting then, sire?’