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families clustered about their hearth-fires, but few seemed to be eating.
    A tall gateway loomed ahead of the legate and his escort, and two Atrebatan warriors with spears stepped out of the shadows at the sound of approaching footsteps. They lowered the broad leaf-shaped tips of their spears until they could recognise the legate in the gloom. Then they stepped aside and one of the sentries pointed towards the large rectangular building on the far side of the enclosure. As the Romans crossed the open space Vespasian looked round keenly and noted the stables, small thatched storage sheds and a couple of long, low timber-framed buildings within which the loud, raucous voices of men could be heard. This was how Atrebatan royalty lived then - a far cry from the palaces of kings in the distant eastern lands of the Empire. Another standard of civilisation altogether, Vespasian reflected, and one which Rome might just as well not have bothered with. It would take a very long time to raise these Britons up to the level where they could comfortably take their place alongside the more developed of the Empire’s subjects.
    On either side of the entrance to Verica’s great hall, torches wavered gently in the darkness. By their light Vespasian was surprised to see that the building had been completed since his last visit to Calleva. Clearly the king of the Atrebatans had aspirations towards a higher standard of living. Not surprising, Vespasian considered, given that so many of the island’s nobles had enjoyed years of exile in the comfortable accommodation afforded by Rome.
    A figure stepped out of the imposing entrance hall, a youth in his early twenties, Vespasian guessed. He had light brown hair tied back and was broad-shouldered and tall - taller than Vespasian by a few inches. He wore a short tunic over his check-weave leggings and soft leather boots, a compromise of native and Roman attire.
    The man grasped Vespasian’s arm with an easy familiar smile.
    ‘Greetings, Legate.’ He spoke in faintly accented Latin.
    ‘Do I know you? I don’t recall . . .’
    ‘We haven’t met formally, sir. My name’s Tincommius. I was with my uncle’s entourage when he rode out to greet you . . . when your legion arrived here at the beginning of spring?’
    ‘I see,’ Vespasian nodded, not recalling the man at all. ‘Your uncle?’
    ‘Verica,’ Tincommius smiled modestly. ‘Our king.’
    Vespasian looked at him again, giving the man a more serious appraisal. ‘Your Latin’s pretty fluent.’
    ‘I spent much of my youth in Gaul, sir. I fell out with my father when he swore allegiance to the Catuvellaunians. So I went and joined my uncle in exile . . . Anyway, if you would care to leave your bodyguards here, I can take you through to see the king.’
    Vespasian ordered his men to wait for him, and followed Tincommius through the tall oak doors. Inside there was an imposing open space, with a high vaulted thatch roof held up by huge timber beams. Tincommius noted that Vespasian was impressed.
    ‘The king remembers his time in exile with a degree of fondness for Roman architecture. This was completed only a month ago.’
    ‘It’s certainly fit accommodation for a king,’ Vespasian replied politely as he followed Tincommius into the hall. Tincommius had turned right and bowed respectfully, and Vespasian followed his lead. Verica was sitting alone on a dais. To one side stood a small table covered with dishes bearing a variety of luxury foods. To the other side, on the floor, rested an elegant iron brazier, from which a small bundle of logs hissed and cracked on red-hot embers. Verica beckoned to them, and with the sharp echoing footsteps of his nailed boots Vespasian approached the king of the Atrebatans. Though Verica was nearly seventy, underneath the wrinkled skin and long grey hair his eyes sparkled brightly. He was tall and lean, and still had the air of command that must have made him an imposing figure at the height of his