‘Who said we’d give them any choice in the matter?’ Quintillus said coldly. ‘While they’ve the good sense to do our bidding then they can have their king. But the moment they pose any threat to our interests I will be forced to act. The Second Legion will be recalled to Calleva to enforce my orders. These natives, and their lands, will come under direct Roman rule; the kingdom of the Atrebatans will cease to be.’

‘No,’ muttered Macro. ‘They’d die first.’

‘Nonsense! Don’t be so melodramatic, Centurion. They’ll do whatever it takes to survive, like everyone who has no real power to change events. They must already have a pretty good idea of the cost of defying Rome.’ The fire of ruthless ambition glinted in the tribune’s eyes. ‘For those who don’t know, I’ll teach them.’

‘If it comes to that,’ said Cato.

‘Yes.’ The tribune nodded. ‘If it comes to that.’

Cato’s mind was reeling from the boldness of the blow that the tribune was willing to strike. He could readily imagine how the proud and prickly Artax would react. Tincommius as well. Even the lowly Bedriacus might well resent the arbitrary imposition of direct Roman rule. Over the last few months Cato felt he had come to know something of these people. As he had picked up some of their language he had learned about their culture and had even come to respect them in many ways. These Britons had an integrity that was quite lacking in those races that had lived for many years in the shadow of the Eagles. In Gaul, Cato had seen the extent to which the land had been turned into a rough facsimile of the vast estates that covered Italy. Generations of natives had lost their ancestral territories and now worked the same fields in exchange for a pittance. Where the estates were worked by chain gangs, the descendants of the once-proud tribes who had nearly bested Caesar himself were now forced to find work in the small industries that had sprouted up around the new Roman cities stamped across Gaul.

Whatever the strategic exigencies of the current situation, Cato felt that the Atrebatans deserved better than this. Good men had shed their blood to defend the supply routes of the legions. He had seen them die. To be sure, they had also been defending themselves from their warlike neighbours, but what had truly impressed him was the mutual respect and, dare he admit it, affection that had forged a bond between the warriors of the Atrebatans and their instructors from the Second Legion. Particularly Figulus, who was familiar with their tongue and, once out of uniform, looked every inch a Celt.