The dark-haired woman stirred again, leaning her body back to rest more on her side than over him. He could feel her breasts brushing against his skin. She smelled very faintly of flowers, a hint of a perfume which could only have come from the lands far to the east of the empire. Fortunata had worn something similar, but the former slave had daubed it on, perhaps revelling in the sheer cost, whereas this woman had no more than a drop of two on her. How a bottle of Indian scent had come to the north was a mystery.

Ferox was tempted to lie there in peace and enjoy so comfortable a bed and such beautiful company. Yet there must be a reason why she was here. The obvious seemed unlikely, but his clouded mind and throbbing forehead did not offer better explanation. Moving his hand with care, he slipped it under the furs piled over them and began to stroke the woman’s skin. It was smooth, her flesh soft and yielding.

The woman moaned, shifting a little. Ferox kissed her on the forehead, still running his fingers across her skin, and she stirred, turning to lie on her back. He kissed her on the lips, fighting the powerful urge to swing himself on top of her. His hand cupped one of her breasts. Her eyes opened, pale grey and flecked with spots of green. There was a flicker of surprise, then realisation and she kissed him back. It was no longer easy for him to think about anything apart from their closeness.

Then the woman pulled her mouth away and the arm that had rested over him instead pushed him back. Ferox lay on his side, head propped up on his left hand while the fingers of his right continued to stroke her. She did not stop him or move any further away.

‘Good morning, centurion,’ the woman said. At least that removed any last thought that he was here by chance.

‘Good morning,’ he replied, for what else was there to say? The woman spoke in the language of the tribes, although there was a strange brusqueness to her speech. If she did not know Latin then that might be the reason why he shared her bed rather than Crispinus.

‘I am called Galla.’ It was not a name he had ever heard before and did not sound local. Her eyes were big and intelligent, the lashes on her eyelids long and dark like her hair. ‘I am the king’s and I am sent by him.’

‘I am honoured,’ he said. ‘And I am also not the leader of our embassy – as you must surely know.’ His hand was still on her, exploring and caressing. Ferox was not sure whether this was more of a distraction to him or to Galla.