‘You expect the province to be settled that quickly?’ Boudica flared up. ‘Lud! When will you Romans learn? Caratacus leads only those tribes under the sway of the Catuvellauni. There are many other tribes, mostly too proud to let themselves be led into battle by another chief, and certainly too proud to meekly submit to Roman rule. Take our own tribe.’ Boudica gestured to herself and Nessa. ‘The Iceni. I know of no warrior who would dream of becoming a subject of your Emperor Claudius. Sure you’ve tried to woo our chiefs with promises of alliance and a share in the spoils of those tribes Rome defeats on the battlefield. But I warn you, the moment you try and become our master, Rome will pay a high price in the blood of its legions …’

Her voice had become quite shrill, and for a moment her eyes blazed defiantly across the table. Drinkers at neighbouring benches had turned to look, and conversation was briefly stilled. Then heads turned back and the volume slowly rose again. Boudica poured herself another mug of wine and drained it before continuing, more quietly. ‘That’s true of most of the other tribes as well. Believe me.’

Macro stared at her and nodded slowly as he took her hand again and held it gently in his own. ‘I’m sorry. I meant no slight on your people. Honestly. I’m not very good with words.’

Boudica’s lips lifted in a smile. ‘Never mind, you make up for it in other ways.’

Macro glanced round at Cato. ‘Do you think you could take this lass over to the bar for a while? My lady and I need to talk.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato, sensitive to the needs of the situation, quickly rose from the bench and held his arm out to Nessa. The young woman looked to her cousin and was given a faint nod.

‘All right then.’ Nessa grinned. ‘You be careful, Boudica, you know what these soldiers are like.’

‘Sa! I can look after myself!’

Cato did not doubt it. He had come to know Boudica quite well over the winter months and his sympathies were with his centurion. He led Nessa through the crowd of drinkers to the counter. The barman, an old Gaul judging by his accent, had eschewed the Roman fashions of the continent and wore a heavily patterned tunic, upon the shoulders of which rested his pigtails. He was rinsing mugs in a tub of dirty water and looked up when Cato rapped the counter with a coin. Wiping his hands on his apron, he shuffled over and raised his eyebrows.

‘Two mugs of heated wine,’ ordered Cato, before he considered Nessa. ‘That do?’