Cato ignored his friend and focused his attention on the prisoner. He felt a small thrill of satisfaction at the Silurian’s last comment. So, he was disenchanted with his leader. No doubt there were others like Turrus, many others, tribesmen who had answered the call to arms with full hearts, thinking that it would be a more glorious cause than the usual round of tribal feuds and minor conflicts. Caratacus knew how to inspire the hearts of warriors and the proud tribes of the mountains would have responded eagerly. But instead of marching to battle they had been dragged into a drawn-out war of attrition that had become more bitter with each passing month. Unlike the soldiers of the Roman army, the Silurians were farmers and herders. They would surely long to return to their families and the warmth of their hearths, rather than stalking the Romans through the icy winds and rain of the mountains. It was time to press home his advantage, Cato decided. He forced a smile as he spoke to Trebellius.

‘Ask him why he’s afraid of Centurion Quertus?’

The decurion seemed surprised by the question but shrugged and turned to the prisoner and translated. At once Turrus stopped chewing, then swallowed nervously and stared down at the ground.

‘That got his attention,’ said Macro. He made his way across the room and dug his boot into the man’s thigh. ‘Speak up.’

The tribesman drew his legs close to his body and hunched down, like a whipped dog, and he began to speak in a low, haunted voice.

‘He says Quertus is a devil. That he has burned many villages and slaughtered every living thing in his path. Right down to the last infant, dog and lamb. He is evil and cruel and he worships dark gods and makes blood sacrifices in their name. There is no black deed that he does not inflict upon the Silures. When he rides into battle, he wears the skins of the greatest of the warriors he has defeated. He drinks the blood of those he kills and eats their flesh. Those that follow him are slaves to his will, and follow his example. Wherever they go, they leave death and devastation in their wake. They are . . .’

Trebellius asked the man to repeat his final words and there was a brief exchange before he turned to the two officers. ‘The nearest Latin word for it is barbarians.’

‘Barbarians?’ Macro burst into laughter. ‘Barbarians! Our side? The cheeky fucking sod! Here, Trebellius, stand aside. I’ll show him fucking barbarians.’

‘That’s enough, Macro,’ Cato interrupted. ‘Leave him be.’