‘Sir, the thing is we’ve already accepted the invitation. If we back out now it’ll look terribly rude. These Celts take a dim view of the slightest discourtesy, sir.’

‘Nevertheless-’

‘And we cannot afford to offend the Atrebatans. Not right now, sir.’

‘Well . . .’ Tribune Quintillus stroked his chin and pondered the situation. ‘I suppose, for the sake of good diplomatic relations, we might overlook the usual arrangements on this occasion.’

‘I think that would be wise, sir.’

‘All right, then.’ The reluctance in the tone was effortlessly conveyed to his social inferiors. Cato risked a quick glance at Macro and saw the firm line of his clamped lips. Trinbune Quintillus pulled a silk cloth from the hem of his breeches and dabbed at his brow. ‘Have either of you hunted before? Socially, I mean.’

‘Socially?’ Macro frowned. ‘I’ve been hunting, sir. The army trained me to go hunting. To get rations.’

‘That’s nice. But hunting for food is a little different from hunting for sport,’ Quintillus explained. ‘There’s a certain question of form.’

‘A question of form, is there?’ Macro said quietly. ‘I see.’

‘Yes. Have you used a hunting spear?’

‘I’ve used a javelin once or twice, sir.’ Macro’s voice was laced with irony.

‘Right, that’s a good start. Let’s see you in action, then I can offer you a few pointers before we have a chance to make complete arses of ourselves on the hunt.’

Quintillus walked over to a rack of hunting spears, picked one out and tossed it to Macro. While Cato forced himself not to flinch Macro expertly fielded the weapon and then hefted it into a throwing grip. Fifty feet away stood some wicker targets shaped like men. Macro sighted along his free arm, drew back the hunting spear and hurled it towards the centre target. The spear shot across the training ground in a shallow arc and pierced the target at thigh level. Macro turned towards the tribune, trying not to smile.

‘Not at all bad, Centurion. How about you, Cato? Here take this one!’

Cato caught the spear clumsily in both hands.

‘Try not to look too cack-handed in front of the natives,’ hissed Macro.

‘Sorry.’

Cato readied the spear in his right hand, took his aim on the same target as Macro. With a last deep breath he drew his arm back to its fullest extent, then whipped it forward. The spear flew through the air, narrowly missing the chest of the target, and clattered on to the ground beyond. Tribune Quintillus tutted, the bodyguards laughed, and Cato’s cheeks burned.

‘Perhaps you’d care to show us the correct method, sir?’ said Macro.

‘Certainly!’

The tribune selected one of the spears, sighted the same target and hurled his weapon. With his powerful muscles the spear flew in an almost flat trajectory and struck the target in the region of the heart with a sharp thwack.

‘Shot!’ Cato exclaimed in admiration.