Macro shook off this line of thought and concentrated on the tribune sitting opposite him. Macro decided that Quintillus was typical of his kind in most respects. Young. Not so young as Cato, but young enough to lack experience where it counted. Cato, despite his years, was tough, intelligent, and as deadly in battle as almost any soldier Macro had ever known. By contrast Quintillus looked soft. There was no fat on his tall elegant frame, but the skin had that well-scrubbed smoothness that spoke of a pampered upbringing. His dark hair was neatly cropped, with oiled ringlets along the fringe. The tribune’s uniform was likewise adorned with expensive little touches that spoke of his family’s rank and richness in a knowing but understated manner. Quintillus spoke with calm assurance, and emphasised his words with low-key theatrical flourishes of the hand that he had been trained to use by some fancy tutor of rhetoric. With such grace, good looks and a generous fortune behind him, no doubt Quintillus was very successful with women. Macro disliked him instinctively.

‘There is, unfortunately, an aspect of the report that I would like to discuss further.’ Quintillus smiled once again, drawing a scroll from a leather satchel at his feet.

Macro looked at his report with a sinking feeling. ‘Oh?’

The tribune unrolled the report from the bottom and skim-read the conclusion.

‘You mention, in passing, that elements amongst the Atrebatans are not quite as keen as their king on the tribe’s alliance with Rome.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro tried to recall the exact phrasing he had used in his report. He hated being put on the spot like this, called to respond to words he had written several days previously, by a senior officer who had the advantage of having the entire report at his disposal. It was unfair, but there wasn’t much that was fair in the legions.

‘What do you mean, precisely?’ Quintillus asked.

‘There’s nothing much to it, sir. A few malcontents grumbling about Rome’s long-term plans for the Atrebatans, but nothing the king can’t handle.’

Cato shot his friend a quick look of surprise, and quickly composed his expression as the tribune looked up from the report.

‘Yes, that’s pretty much what you say here. But I understand that the king’s way of handling these, er, malcontents is perhaps a little more dogged - if you’ll pardon the pun - than you imply. I mean to say, feeding one’s critics to the hounds is a little extreme . . .’

‘How’d you find out about that?’

The tribune shrugged. ‘That’s not important. Right now what is important is for you to tell me what the true situation is here in Calleva.’

‘They weren’t critics, sir. They were traitors and got what was coming to them. Bit harsh, perhaps, but these people are barbarians, after all. Verica’s dealt with the problem.’