‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ Tribune Quintillus exploded as he marched into Cato’s office. ‘Why was I called away from my training?’ Then he noticed the body on the floor. Cato had arranged his cloak so that it covered Bedriacus’ face. Only his bare feet stuck out from the heavy material. ‘Who is that joker?’

‘Joker, sir?’ Cato followed the direction of the tribune’s glance. ‘That’s one of my men. My standard bearer, Bedriacus.’

‘Dead?’

Macro nodded. ‘Well spotted, sir. Glad to see the army is still pursuing its policy of recruiting the brightest and the best.’

Quintillus ignored the comment, and turned to Cato. ‘How?’

‘Stabbed, sir.’

‘Accident?’

‘No.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Quintillus nodded thoughtfully, and then decided what must have happened. ‘Some kind of local grudge thing no doubt. Give the Celts long enough and they’d all kill each other. Save us the job. Do we have the culprit?’

‘No, sir,’ replied Macro.

‘Why not?’

Macro gave Cato a look of exasperation as Quintillus continued without pausing for any kind of response, ‘If you haven’t caught the killer, then why send for me? Why waste my time? I can’t do your job for you, you know. Well?’

‘We haven’t positively identified the killer yet,’ Cato said apologetically. ‘But the matter is more complicated, sir.’

‘Complicated?’ Quintillus smiled. ‘What could possibly be complicated about some native brawl?’

‘It’s not a brawl, sir. Or at least it doesn’t seem like one. Tincommius found him in the corridor.’

‘Tincommius?’ The tribune frowned, before he placed the name, and his face brightened. ‘One of those clowns that hang around King Verica? What on earth was he doing in here?’

‘He’s serving with the two cohorts we raised,’ Cato explained. ‘So are a great many of the nobles, as it happens.’

‘They’ve done us proud, sir,’ Macro added. ‘They’re good men.’

‘Yes, well, quite.’ Quintillus turned on Cato. ‘What’s Tincommius got to do with this killing?’

‘As I said, sir, he found Bedriacus on his way to find me.’

‘Who was on his way to find you?’

‘Bedriacus!’ Macro snapped.

Cato shot him a warning look. ‘Yes, sir, Bedriacus. He was trying to tell me about something he’d overheard. Something about a plot against King Verica.’

‘A plot?’ Quintillus laughed. ‘What is this? Some cheap matinée performance at Pompey’s theatre?’

Cato fought to control his exasperation as he replied. ‘Never having had the opportunity to attend Pompey’s theatre I wouldn’t know about that, sir.’

‘You haven’t missed anything. But it sounds like someone is trying to make up for your lack of education. Or pulling your leg.’

‘Pulling his leg!’ Macro shot a finger at the body. ‘That’s a dead man there, sir. Pretty harsh practical joke, wouldn’t you say?’