Cato nodded, and as everyone began to down their ale he forced himself to begin, fighting off the impulse to gag at the heavily flavoured brew, and clamping his teeth shut to strain the clutter of sediment and other solids at the bottom of the horn. He wiped the flotsam clear of his lips with the back of his hand and set the nearly empty vessel back down on the table.

Verica nodded approvingly and signalled to one of his servants to refill the drinking horns before looking meaningfully at Macro, who was busy tearing off a piece of crackling with his teeth.

‘Sir,’ muttered Tincommius.

‘What? What is it?’

‘You’re supposed to return the gesture.’

‘What? Gesture?’

‘Make a toast.’

‘Oh!’ Macro spat the crackling out and raised his drinking horn. Everyone was looking at him expectantly and suddenly Macro couldn’t think of anything suitable to say. He glanced beseechingly towards Cato but his friend seemed to watching Artax closely and did not notice his appeal for help. Macro quickly licked his lips, coughed and then began with a stammer, ‘R-right then. To King Verica . . . his noble cohorts and . . . his interesting tribe.’

As Tincommius translated, the native guests frowned at the strange and awkward choice of words. Macro flushed with embarrassment, little used to such social ceremonies. He tried to continue in a more appropriate vein.

‘Long may the Atrebatans remain faithful allies of Rome. May they profit from the speedy defeat of the barbarian tribes of this island.’

Macro raised his cup and beamed at the other guests. With the exception of Verica, they looked uncomfortable. Artax pointedly sipped from his horn before setting it down and glaring at the meat on his Samian ware platter.

As the other guests looked away Cato whispered, ‘That might have been phrased better.’

‘Well then, you do it next time.’

The Greek merchant delicately placed his drinking horn to one side and started a quiet conversation with his neighbour, neatly drawing the man’s attention away from the tense silence on the head table. Verica was eating some dainty pastries and waved a finger to attract Macro’s attention.

‘Interesting toast, Centurion.’

‘My lord, I did not mean to offend. To be honest, I’ve never been called on to do this kind of thing before - at least not in front of a king. I just meant to celebrate our alliance, and look forward to the future . . . that’s all.’

‘Of course,’ Verica replied smoothly. ‘No offence was taken. At least not by me, although I can’t speak for some of the hotter heads in my family.’ He nodded towards Artax with a laugh. ‘And young Tincommius there - his father was no friend of Rome while I was in exile. Took a while for Tincommius to see that his father was wrong. Now look at him.’