Unlike Bedriacus, Artax took his beating without a murmur. His lips were clamped shut and his eyes bulged with the effort of resisting the waves of pain. He never once shifted his gaze from Macro and breathed in sharp explosive snorts through his flared nostrils. At the end, he rose stiffly to his feet, angrily shaking off the helping hands of the two medics. He glared once at Cato, then back at Macro. The veteran returned his gaze with cold, expressionless eyes. Artax turned away and walked unsteadily towards the hospital block.

‘Punishment is over!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Return to training duties!’

The two cohorts were dismissed by centuries and marched off by their Roman instructors, back to the endless regime of drilling and weapons training. Cato watched them closely, his keen senses aware of a subtle change in their mood; a kind of quiet automation of bearing where before there had been a contained flow of energy.

Macro regarded Artax’s retreating back for a moment, then muttered quietly, ‘He’s tough, that one. Lad’s got balls of solid bronze.’

‘That’s as maybe,’ Cato replied evenly, ‘but I’m not sure how far I can trust him. Especially after he’s taken that beating.’

‘Right!’ Tincommius nodded.

The critical tone of the last words was not lost on Macro and he rounded on Cato and Tincommius with a thin smile. ‘You two experts think I shouldn’t have punished him?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Experts?’

‘Sorry. Thought for the moment that you lads must be experts in the art of discipline and the ways of soldiering. I mean, I’ve only been serving with the Eagles, for what, sixteen years? Course, that don’t count for much beside your breadth of experience . . .’

Macro paused to let Cato make the most of his embarrassment. It would do the young centurion good to be cut down to size. Macro was honest enough to accept that Cato was a far more intelligent being than himself, destined for great things if he survived long enough. Nevertheless, there were times when experience carried more weight than any amount of education, and a wise man should know that much at least.

Macro smiled. ‘Artax’ll be fine, trust me. I know the type: strong enough that you can’t break ‘em, and proud enough that they’ll want to prove you wrong.’

‘He’s not some type, sir,’ protested Tincommius. ‘Artax is a royal prince, not some common soldier.’

‘While he serves under me he’s a common soldier. He takes his strokes with the rest of the men.’

‘And what if he decides to quit? You lose Artax, and you’ll lose a quarter, maybe even half, of the men.’

Macro stopped smiling. ‘If he runs, I’ll treat him the same as any other deserter, and even you know the punishment for that one, Cato.’

‘Stoning . . .’