Macro nodded. ‘I wouldn’t think twice about doing that to a Roman, let alone some Celt with grand ideas about himself.’

Tincommius looked appalled by the prospect of such a dishonourable death for his kinsman. ‘You can’t treat a royal prince like some petty criminal!’

‘I told you, while Artax serves in my bloody army, he’s a soldier. Nothing more.’

‘Your army?’ Tincommius raised an eyebrow. ‘Funny, I thought the cohorts served Verica.’

‘And Verica serves Rome!’ Macro snapped back. ‘Which makes you, and these people of yours, subject to my command, and you will call me “sir” when you address me from now on.’

Tincommius’ jaw dropped at being talked to in this manner. Cato noticed the young nobleman’s hand tighten round the handle of his dagger and quickly intervened.

‘What the centurion means is that all allies of Rome find it best to work within the traditions of the Roman army. It keeps things simple, and makes for a more harmonious spirit of cooperation between the legions and their allied comrades.’

Tincommius and Macro were both staring at him now, frowning.

‘I know what I meant to say,’ Macro said coldly, ‘but fuck knows what you’re on about. What are you trying to say, Cato?’

‘Just trying to reassure Tincommius that our interests are the same. And that we’re proud to lead such fine warriors in the service of King Verica, and Rome. That’s all.’

‘That’s not how it sounded to me . . . sir,’ said Tincommius. ‘Sounded more like we were your servants, slaves even.’

‘Slaves!’ Macro barked out a laugh of frustration. ‘What have bloody slaves got to do with it? I’m talking about discipline, that’s all. I’m not singling out your lads for a hard time. There’s no difference between the way I treat ‘em and the way I’d treat our own boys. Ain’t that true, Cato?’

‘Oh, that’s true all right.’

‘There! See?’

Tincommius shrugged. ‘I don’t like to see my people treated like animals, sir.’

‘They only fight like animals,’ laughed Macro. ‘And they’re bloody good at it!’

‘You sound as if you were proud of us, Centurion.’

‘Proud? Of course I’m fucking proud. They carved those Durotrigans up a treat. Lack a bit of finish, mind you. But once Cato and I have trained them up, you’ll have the deadliest bunch of Celts in the land.’

Tincommius nodded his approval.

‘Happy now?’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry I questioned you, sir.’

‘I’ll let it pass, this time. Now you’d better join the instructors. Born fighters you Britons may be, but you’re piss poor at languages. Now bugger off.’

Once Tincommius had left them Macro turned on Cato, stabbing a finger into his chest. ‘Don’t you ever contradict me in front of him again!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t call me sir.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And don’t apologise all the bloody time!’