Not everyone was so mild in their response. Crispinus gasped in surprise when the first fight broke out. Two of the chieftains stood up and bounded across the table towards each other. They screamed abuse, then threw punches, and only when one had a split lip and the other a swiftly blackening eye did other men pull them apart. The next argument went no further than yelling, but in the third blades were drawn and sparked as they clashed. One of the chiefs was a Hibernian, and he took a graze on the cheek and a deeper gash on his bare thigh, but then tipped his opponent off balance so that he fell into the fire in a flurry of sparks. The man rolled out, and then rolled again to quench his burning shirt. All the while the Hibernian held his sword aloft and screamed in victory.

Then the door of the hall was opened to let in a gust of wind so strong that the great fire rippled like a field of corn. Heads snapped round to see what was happening. The Hibernian went silent and walked back to his place.

A tall man strode across the rush floor towards the gap in the circle of tables. He was covered in a cloak made from a bearskin, his face shadowed by the animal’s mask. Ferox noticed that his feet were bare and dirty.

The man stopped and then flung his cloak down and stretched his arms high into the air. The skin of each arm was a network of long scars left by cuts from a sharp knife, cuts that he had surely given to himself. He was naked apart from a heavy gold torc and a grubby loincloth of the sort worn by slaves labouring to tend the furnaces in a bath-house. All of his body was covered in blue tattoos, images of animals and horned gods mingling with curving patterns and shapes. Both his hair and moustache were washed with lime so that they stood out stiffly.

Ferox saw Vindex’s lips move and could guess the words he mouthed. ‘We’re humped.’

It was the priest who had led the ambush all those weeks ago. The one they called the Stallion.

XVIII

‘YOU ARE LATE,’ said the high king, one leg hooked casually over the arm of his chair. There was no emotion in his voice, and only the slightest hint of reproof as he waited a moment before adding, ‘But you are welcome as always. Sit, eat and drink with us.’

The priest did not bow or say anything in reply. He looked around at the faces behind the table until he fixed on the Romans. For a long time he stared at them. Ferox stared back, and hoped that neither of the others would do anything foolish. The priest rubbed his hands together and then spat on the floor and at last turned away and went to his place at the table.