Ferox happened to glance at the high king just as Tincommius gave orders to some of his servants. They returned bearing a roast boar and carried it into the circle of tables before laying it in front of the royal chair. Silence returned, broken only by the crackling of fresh logs put on to the fire.

‘Who is worthy of the first cut?’ Tincommius did not raise his voice or shout and yet it carried along the tables.

The Hibernian who had flung his opponent into the fire was the first to stand. His neighbour and fellow countryman joined him a moment later. Three others got to their feet. Tincommius pointed to the first Hibernian and one of the others and the pair sprang across the table into the open space by the fire. Servants hastily moved out of the way to clear space for them.

‘Are they going to fight?’ Crispinus was frowning and his speech was a little slurred.

‘Yes. For the right to receive the first portion – the champion’s portion.’

The chiefs drew their swords and waited while their attendants walked around to the gap between the tables and came to them, handing over their shields. They bowed and left the circle to the challengers.

‘Sweet Mother Isis,’ the tribune muttered. ‘It’s like something out of Homer. Is the fight to the death?’

‘Sometimes.’

The two men launched themselves at each other and there was the dull beat of blade on wooden shield. The Hibernian was good and fast, hacking his opponent’s shield to pieces in spite of his wounded leg.

‘Enough!’ Once again the high king did not shout, but the two men at once drew apart. Tincommius pointed at the Hibernian to show that he was the victor. The other chieftain bowed to him and to the king as the other guests roared approval and banged the table with the palms of their hands.

The other Hibernian took on one of the local men, a gaunt redhead, and the Hibernian lost, his right cheek gashed open so that it flapped, and blood mingled with spittle sprayed out whenever he tried to speak. Next the victorious redhead fought the last remaining challenger and this turned into a bitter and prolonged struggle. Each man’s shield was hacked to pieces, and soon they were landing blows on each other’s arms, heads and shoulders. Ferox wondered whether an old grudge was being settled for the king let the fight go on longer than he expected and the two fighters were gasping for breath as they slashed and cut. The priest showed little interest, and when Ferox managed to tear his eyes away from the struggle he noticed that the bard was beside the Stallion and that the two men were deep in conversation.