‘Or he’s getting over-confident and looking for a set-piece battle on favourable terms.’

Cato shrugged doubtfully. ‘There’s a further possibility.’

‘Which is?’ Macro queried with forced patience.

‘The show he put on was as much for his own followers as us. He’s fighting a long war. It’s going to stretch the resources and will of his own followers as much as our side. And whereas our soldiers have discipline, the tribesmen need to be inspired to fight. I wonder how far Caratacus can depend on them. As long as he presents them with victories they will stand by him. If we grind them down then he’s going to be forced to fight a battle while he still has enough men prepared to follow his standard.’

‘Then let’s hope that’s what happens. I don’t fancy spending the next few years chasing shadows through mountains and forests.’

‘Quite.’ Cato reflected for a moment. ‘At least one of our officers appears to have the right idea. That centurion Quertus has made his mark on Caratacus. Sounds like a good man to have around when I take command of the Thracians.’

Macro scratched his chin. ‘Quertus might not be so pleased about it. He’s making a name for himself, and then you fetch up. Could be a difficult situation.’

‘Not if he’s half the officer you are, Macro.’ Cato stretched his shoulders and yawned. ‘Better get some rest.’

They retrieved their saddlebags from the stable and made their way across to their quarters. Inside the small barrack block a single oil lamp provided just enough light to see. The tribunes had already settled down on their bedrolls, wrapped in their thick military cloaks. A handful were still awake as Macro and Cato picked their way over to the far corner and laid out their thin rolls of coarse cloth stuffed with horsehair.

‘I’m telling you,’ Decianus was muttering to his companions. ‘This campaign is going to be a disaster. These people are savages. No better than wild animals . . .’

There was a pause before another tribune replied, ‘I don’t want to end up like Marcellus.’

‘We should leave the bastards to their mountains,’ Decianus continued. ‘Build a line of forts and hem them in. That would be best.’

Macro eased himself down on to his bedroll and cleared his throat. ‘Tribune, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get to sleep. It ain’t easy if you’re going to sit there all night scaring the women.’

In the gloom, Cato could just make out the tribune opening his mouth to respond, then thinking better of it. Instead he lay down and pulled his cloak up to his chin and fell silent. Macro tutted gently and then shuffled into a comfortable position and a moment later began to snore lightly. Cato knew that there would only be a brief opportunity to get to sleep before Macro began snoring in earnest. He had taught himself a trick on their journey from Rome to clear his mind and drift off. He imagined building a small villa in the Alban Hills close to Rome. Room by room. Before he got as far as the triclinium he was asleep. However, if he ever came to that part, then he knew that a troubled night lay ahead . . . A long day in the saddle and the nervous strain of the assembly took their toll and Cato was asleep even before he had completed the atrium, and thankfully, long before Macro’s deep rumbling filled the room, disturbing the slumber of the more anxious of the tribunes huddled along the far wall.