‘Indeed, sire. I still have a drop.’ Vespasian forced himself to smile. Only a meagre supply of this superior vintage remained in his private stores, and he resented having to share it. But his orders from General Plautius had been explicit: every effort was to be made to remain on the best terms with the allies Rome had won amongst the tribes of this island. The success or failure of the invasion was finely balanced due to Rome’s parsimony in allocating troops to the task. Plautius dared not advance without being sure that his flanks were guarded by tribes loyal to Rome. So every man in his army, regardless of rank, was to behave with the greatest courtesy to those tribes allied to Rome, or suffer the wrath of the general. That included supplying Falernian to those who judged drink purely by its capacity to inebriate.

‘I assume you already know Centurion Publius Pollius Albinus?’ Verica waved a hand at the officer striding towards them. The centurion snapped a salute at the legate and stood to attention at the king’s shoulder.

‘Centurion.’ Vespasian nodded a greeting, before turning back to his guest.

‘Albinus is one of our best. I trust he has been giving you good service.’

‘Can’t complain.’

Vespasian glanced at Albinus, but the centurion’s expression didn’t flicker at the less than fulsome praise, justifying the general’s selection of him for a duty that required a high degree of diplomatic tact and tolerance.

‘How’s the training of your men coming on, sire?’

‘Well enough.’ Verica shrugged, clearly not terribly concerned by Rome’s efforts to provide his regime with a stable backbone. ‘I’m too old to take much interest in military matters. But I dare say Centurion Albinus is doing a good job. With the quality of manpower provided by the Atrebates you shouldn’t have too much trouble producing an effective body of men to enforce my will. Eh, Centurion?’

‘Can’t complain, sire.’

Vespasian shot him a warning glance, but the centurion stared straight ahead, expressionless.

‘Yes, well, I think we might retire to the warmer comforts of my tents. If you’d follow me.’

Seated around a bronze brazier, a fresh log crackling on the glowing embers, Vespasian and his two guests sipped wine from silver goblets and soaked up the warmth. Around them, clumps of mud soiled the fine patterns of the woven rugs scattered across the wooden floor panels, and Vespasian inwardly cursed the need to be so utterly faithful to his commander’s orders concerning hospitality towards the natives.

‘How is General Plautius?’ asked Verica, leaning closer to the brazier.

‘He’s fine, sire. He sends his warm regards and trusts that you are in good health.’