‘That means you have not got a clue!’ The tribune’s sudden roar of laughter lacked the gentleness of the lady’s. ‘I fear sometimes we forget that the world does not follow the breeding habits of the upper class as avidly as we do. There are no doubt gladiators and actors more famous than half the Senate.

‘Well, my father was Marcus Atilius Serranus, legate of Legio VII Claudia pia fidelis, comes of the late and unlamented Caesar Domitian.’ He watched the centurion. ‘Ah, I see that you do remember. May I add that my uncle is Sextus Julius Frontinus, former legate of Britannia and close advisor to the deified – and much lamented – Nerva and friend of our princeps.’

‘Ah,’ Ferox said in recognition and because he could not think of anything else to say. His grandfather had surrendered to Frontinus, after the legate spent four years waging savage war against the Silures of the south-west. It was the culmination of decades of struggle and ‘We lost, but at least we didn’t make it easy for the bastards’ as the Lord of the Hills used to say. According to the terms of the capitulation, Ferox was one of several boys sent as hostages and to be part of the new order.

‘Titus Flavius Ferox.’ Crispinus stopped after he had said the name. He did not look much like his father, who was a bigger man, dull and unimaginative, although a better commander than many senators put in charge of a legion. Serranus had saved the life of Ferox and his men more than once.