Caligula had been the worst, Cato recalled. The mad Emperor’s whims had exhaustively tested the boundaries of the possible and nearly driven Cato’s placid father to despair. Like the time Caligula had decided he rather fancied a stroll across the bay at Misenum. There was no hope of reasoning with him. After all, the man was a god and when a god wished a thing done, it was done. And so thousands of engineers constructed a pontoon bridge between Baiae and Puteoli on the backs of commandeered shipping and fishing boats. While Caligula and his entourage paraded back and forth across the bridge thousands of starving fishermen and ruined merchants looked on, and were encouraged to cheer the Emperor, at the point of a Praetorian sword. Cato had seen all this, and now the practical implications of Verica’s decision to go hunting did not surprise him.

Macro was still gazing around with a disapproving frown. ‘I thought it’d just be a matter of picking up some spears and running down a few of the feral buggers in the forest. Not all this. Where’s the bloody tribune got to?’

They had been summoned from the depot late in the afternoon and had dismissed the two cohorts from training before heading through the hot stinking streets to find Tribune Quintillus. Both centurions were uncomfortable in their thick tunics and Cato shivered as he felt sweat trickle down from his armpits under the prickly wool.

‘Can you see him?’ asked Macro, craning his neck round. Being several inches shorter than Cato, his field of vision was limited by the lofty Celts surrounding them. What Macro lacked in height he made up for in the solid muscle of his broad frame. Right now, Cato sensed, he was irritable enough to want to throw some of that bulk around.

‘No.’

‘Then ask someone, idiot.’

For an instant Cato glared back at his comrade, and only just managed to bite back on the desire to tell Macro that he should have made a greater effort to learn the native tongue.

‘All right.’ Cato looked round and caught the eye of a royal bodyguard, lounging against one of the wagon wheels, thumbs tucked into the cord that held checked breeches around his hairy stomach. Cato beckoned to the man, but the Briton merely flickered a smile back, and continued to stare languidly at the slaves toiling around him. With a low curse Cato pushed his way over to the bodyguard.

‘Hey! You!’

The bodyguard looked round at the approaching Romans with an irritated expression.

‘You seen the tribune?’

Cato knew that his accent was clear enough, but the man stared at him blankly.

‘The tribune. The Roman who arrived four days ago. Is he here?’

‘Sa!’ The bodyguard nodded, once.

‘Where?’

The Briton tipped his head towards the great hall. ‘Inside?’

‘Na! Training.’

Cato turned to Macro. ‘He’s here. Behind the hall.’