Vellocatus indicated the comfortably wide stools arranged to one side of the hearth and invited his guests to sit. Prasutagus thanked him and the four travellers gratefully eased their stiff and aching limbs down. While Prasutagus talked to the farmer, the others gazed contentedly into the flames and absorbed the warmth. The rich aroma of stewing meat rising from the cauldron made Macro feel desperately hungry and he licked his lips. The woman noticed and raised the ladle. She nodded towards him and said something.

‘What’s she saying?’ he asked Boudica.

‘How should I know? She’s Atrebatan. I’m Iceni.’

‘But you’re both Celts, surely?’

‘Just because we’re from the same island doesn’t mean we all speak the same language, you know.’

‘Really?’ Macro adopted a look of innocent surprise.

‘Really. Does everyone in the empire speak Latin?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘So how do you Romans make yourselves understood?’

‘We talk more loudly.’ Macro shrugged. ‘People usually get the gist of what you’re saying. If that fails, we lay into them.’

‘I don’t doubt it, but for the Lud’s sake don’t try that approach here.’ Boudica shook her head. ‘So much for the sagacity of the master race… As it happens, I know this dialect well enough. She’s offering you some food.’

‘Food! Well, why didn’t you say so?’ Macro nodded vigorously at the farmer’s wife. She laughed and reached into a large wicker basket by the hearth and lifted out some bowls which she set down on the hard earth floor. She ladled the steaming broth into the bowls and handed them round, guests first, as custom dictated. The wicker basket yielded up some small wooden spoons and moments later a hush fell over the hut as they all set to their meal.

The broth was scalding hot, and Cato had to blow over each spoonful before putting the spoon into his mouth. Looking more closely at the bowl he realised that it was Samian ware, the cheap crockery manufactured in Gaul and exported across most of the western empire. And beyond, it seemed.

‘Boudica, could you ask her where these bowls came from?’

The two women struggled to converse for a moment before the question was fully understood and an answer given.

‘She traded for them with a Greek merchant.’

‘Greek?’ Cato nudged Macro.

‘Eh?’

‘Sir, the woman says she got these bowls off a Greek merchant.’

‘I heard, so?’

‘Was the merchant’s name Diomedes?’

The woman nodded and smiled, then spoke quickly to Boudica in the singsong tones of the Celtic tongue.

‘She likes Diomedes. Says he’s a charmer. Always has a small gift for the women and a quick enough wit to pacify their menfolk afterwards.’

‘Beware Greeks bearing gifts,’ mumbled Macro. ‘That lot’ll jump anything that moves, male or female.’