‘Died in an accident, apparently. Got drunk, fell off his horse and caved his skull in.’

‘Tragic,’ Cato muttered.

‘Yes, I suppose so. Now, sir, if I may . . .?’

Tincommius quickly frisked them both and then stood aside respectfully as they passed into King Verica’s great hall. The cool evening air outside instantly gave way to a warm, clammy atmosphere. A large brazier fire burned at each end, providing a wavering orange glow throughout the hall, throwing strange shadows against the walls that made it seem as if all the guests were taking part in some slow, sinuous dance. Long trestle tables had been set up on three sides, lined with benches. Only Verica was permitted any trappings of splendour, and sat on an ornately carved wooden throne at the head of the hall, close to one of the fires. To either side of him the bodyguard stood armed and watchful.

‘Our boy Verica doesn’t seem to be taking any risks.’ Macro had to raise his voice above the noisy chatter and loud drunken laughter of the native guests.

‘Can’t blame him,’ Cato answered. ‘He’s old and nervous and wants to die peacefully in his bed, I imagine.’

Macro, who was looking around for something to drink, was not listening. ‘Oh shit!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘There’s only that crap beer again. Bloody barbarians.’

Cato was suddenly aware of a looming presence at his shoulder and turned quickly. A huge warrior with flowing blond hair and a broad face regarded the two Romans curiously. He had narrow eyes that glinted in slits of reflected firelight.

‘Can I help you?’

‘You Romans?’ The accent was thick, but comprehensible. ‘Romans who lead the king’s men?’

‘That’s us,’ Macro beamed. ‘Centurions Lucius Cornelius Macro and Quintus Licinius Cato, at your service.’

The Briton frowned. ‘Lucelius . . .’

‘Never mind, old son. Let’s keep it simple - Macro and Cato will do for now.’

‘Ah! Those are the names I need. Come.’ Without waiting for any reply to the abrupt summons the Briton turned and strode off towards the throne at the end of the hall where his king was seated, drinking goblet in hand, surveying the scene as he chewed on a leg of roast lamb. At the sight of Cato and Macro he tossed it to one side and sat up smiling. A brace of huge hunting dogs pounced on the half-eaten leg and wrestled for its possession.

‘There you are!’ Verica called out to the approaching soldiers. ‘My guests of honour.’

‘My lord.’ Cato bowed his head. ‘You praise us too much.’