The Briton was armed with a longer, heavier sword than the tribune, but seemed to have come off worse so far in this bout. A livid red streak extended across one shoulder and blood oozed from the shallow cut. He was breathing heavily and could not keep his sword still. He suddenly gasped a deep breath and rushed the tribune with a roar. Quintillus feinted, ducked under the Briton’s rising blade, then neatly tapped it to one side and smashed the pommel against the side of the man’s head. The Briton grunted and crashed to the ground. There was a murmur of approval from the bodyguards sitting in the shade and one or two jeers for their fallen comrade. Quintillus casually flicked his sword into the ground and leaned over to help the man back on to his feet.

‘There you are. No harm done. Thanks for the exercise.’

The Briton looked at the tribune uncomprehendingly and shook his dazed head.

‘I’d sit down for a while if I were you. Catch your breath, and that sort of thing.’

As the two centurions emerged from the entrance to the hall, Quintillus looked up with a frown that was instantly replaced with a genial smile.

‘Ah! Wondered where you’d got to!’ He straightened up, letting go of the Briton, who sagged back on to the ground.

‘Came as soon as we could, sir,’ replied Macro, saluting.

‘Yes, well, fair enough. But next time, put a little more effort into it, eh?’

‘We’ll do our best, sir.’

‘Quite.’ Quintillus flashed a quick smile. ‘Now then, to business. I gather you’ve been invited to the hunt by King Verica.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, that raises an interesting question of protocol, doesn’t it?’

‘Does it, sir?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Quintillus’ eyebrows rose in surprise at the centurion’s ignorance. ‘You see, I’ve been invited as well.’

‘I wouldn’t imagine that Verica would have left you out, sir.’

The tribune’s look of surprise switched to one of annoyance. ‘Of course not! The thing is, it really won’t do for me to be mixing with the other ranks. It lacks a certain dignity wouldn’t you agree? I am, after all, a procurator acting in the Emperor’s name.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied patiently. ‘I do recall.’

Quintillus nodded. ‘Excellent! Then I imagine you’ll be wanting to get off and make your apologies to King Verica.’

‘Apologies?’

There was an embarrassed pause, until Quintillus laughed and slapped Macro on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Centurion! Don’t be so thick! Go and tell the old boy you can’t go.’

‘Can’t go?’

‘Just make up some excuse. Duties, or something. Isn’t that what you centurions do all the time, duties?’

Cato sensed his friend stiffen with indignation and anger, and decided to intervene before Macro’s prickly pride dropped him in any trouble.