Cato tapped the end of his crutch against the instep of his boot. ‘I rather think this one’s going to present a bit of a challenge to the decurion. He’s a hard case, right enough. We’ll have to take him on with us. Tie him down over one of the mules and try questioning him again once we reach Bruccium. I’m sure Quertus has an interrogator in the garrison.’

The Silurian looked up sharply and for an instant Cato saw the look of fear in his expression before the prisoner clenched his jaw and glared back at him.

‘You see that, Macro?’

‘What?’

‘How he reacted when I mentioned Quertus’s name. Seems the centurion’s reputation amongst the local tribes is as infamous as we’ve been told.’

The door to the mess opened and Trebellius held it ajar as Decimus entered carrying a sturdy wooden tray bearing a jug, three plain Samian cups, a canteen and a small hunk of bread. He set the tray down on the table and poured wine into the cups and passed them to each of the officers.

‘Give him some water,’ Cato ordered. ‘And feed him the bread.’

Decimus nodded and approached the prisoner warily before he knelt at his side. He pulled the stopper from the waterskin and held it out for the prisoner to see. The Silurian hesitated a moment before nodding curtly and opening his lips so that the Roman could angle the nozzle into his mouth. He gulped greedily, spilling water down his front. Once he’d done, he drew back and waited for Decimus to press the bread into his hands. He strained to reach up to his mouth and tore a chunk off to chew. Cato let him eat a moment before he turned to Trebellius.

‘Ask him what his name is.’

‘His name?’ Macro frowned. ‘What do you need to know that for? You’re not planning on being his best mate.’

‘Macro, let me deal with this.’ Cato indicated to the decurion to translate his question. The Silurian viewed the prefect suspiciously for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons of giving his name, and then he made his decision and gave his answer.

‘Turrus, he says.’

‘I see.’ Cato nodded and then tapped his chest. ‘Prefect Cato. The surly one there is Centurion Macro.’

Given that Trebellius had been beating the prisoner for the last hour or so, Cato decided there was no profit to be had from introducing the decurion’s name. Instead he continued with his attempt to find a crack in the prisoner’s tough veneer. The man looked to be in his late twenties and Cato hazarded a guess.

‘Do you have a woman, Turrus? A family?’