‘Don’t assume it’s everything.’ Ferox doubted that the people close enough to hear could understand Latin, but could not be sure and wished the tribune would not chatter. He sensed Crispinus’ nervousness and knew it must be difficult for him sitting there, unable to speak the language and follow what was happening. He remembered the first Roman dinner he had attended and how alien it all seemed. ‘We are seeing only what he is letting us see,’ he added after a moment.

The food started to arrive, beginning with a thick stew of beef and vegetable. Beer came with it, and more wine, and, after a dip in the noise as men ate with great enthusiasm, the hubbub of conversation grew louder. The big warrior next to Ferox spooned up his stew as if he had not seen food for a month, spilling the liquid as he shovelled it into his mouth. He called for a second bowl when a serving girl passed, and dealt with that as speedily. His moustache and beard dripped so he wiped his sleeve across them. ‘Good,’ he grunted to Ferox, but did not seem a man given to much talk.

Roasted venison came next, a generous cut for each of the guests. Ferox noticed that the high king ate little and spent most of his time watching and listening. Occasionally he laughed loudly at something someone said. Crispinus struggled manfully with the unfamiliar feast.

‘Wish I’d brought a fork to hold it steady while I cut.’ Ferox had told the tribune to bring a knife and spoon to help him eat.

‘Use your hand.’

Crispinus grimaced, but followed the advice. The big German simply tore the meat apart with his fingers, licking off the gravy once he had finished.

A bard stepped into the circle around the fire and began to sing unaccompanied. He was thin-faced and young, but with prematurely white hair and a livid dark blemish across his right cheek – marks that would surely have been seen as a curse if he had not possessed a rare talent with verse and song. He sang slowly, in the low nasal whine the peoples of the north loved so much. Most Silures had higher-pitched, sweeter voices, and Ferox wished that it was one of their bards who sang because the best of them had a beauty that helped a man’s soul to soar up to the heavens. Yet he had to admit that this man was good, and for a while the talk faded to nothing as everyone listened, and it was almost as if he conjured pictures in the flickering firelight.

Crispinus could not understand a word and swiftly tired of the monotonous tune. ‘How long do we have to put up with this?’