She nodded, and the barman picked up two mugs, and made for a battered bronze cauldron resting on a blackened grate over faintly glowing embers. Steam curled up from inside and, even where he stood, Cato could smell the scent of spices above the beer and the underlying sour smells of humanity. Cato, tall and thin, looked down on his Iceni companion as she eagerly watched the Gaul dip a ladle into the cauldron to stir the mixture. Cato frowned. He knew he should make some attempt at small talk, but he had never been good at it, always fearing that whatever he said sounded either insincere or merely stupid. Besides, his heart was not in it. Not that Nessa was unattractive in looks — her personality he could only guess at — it was just that he still grieved for Lavinia.

The passion he had felt for Lavinia ran through his veins like fire, even after she had betrayed him and run to the bed of that bastard Vitellius. Before Cato could teach himself to despise her, Vitellius had drawn Lavinia into a plot to kill the Emperor and cold-bloodedly murdered her to cover his tracks. An image of the dark tresses of Lavinia’s hair settling into the blood spreading from her cut throat filled Cato’s mind and he felt sick. He longed for her more than ever.

All his spare passion was devoted to cultivating a burning hatred for Tribune Vitellius so great that no revenge could be too terrible to contemplate. But Vitellius had returned to Rome with the Emperor, having emerged a hero from his botched assassination attempt. As soon as it was clear that the Emperor’s bodyguards would save their master, Vitellius had fallen upon the assassin and killed him. Now the Emperor regarded the tribune as his saviour for whom no reward or honour could be sufficient expression of his gratitude. Staring into the middle distance, Cato’s expression hardened into a thin-lipped bitterness that startled his companion.

‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’

‘Eh? Sorry. I was thinking.’

‘I don’t think I want to know.’

‘It was nothing to do with you.’

‘I should hope not. Look, here comes the wine.’

The Gaul returned to the counter with two steaming mugs, whose rich aroma excited even Cato’s taste buds. The Gaul took the coin Cato handed him and turned back towards his rinsing tub.

‘Hey!’ Cato called out. ‘What about my change?’

‘No change,’ muttered the Gaul over his shoulder. “That’s the price. Wine’s in short supply, thanks to the storms.’

‘Even so…’

‘You don’t like my prices? Then fuck off and find somewhere else to drink.’