At the insistence of tribune Quintillus, the two centurions were riding just ahead of King Verica’s household slaves and the wagons bearing all the supplies and luxuries for the hunt. In front of them were the lesser nobles of the tribe, dressed in loose tunics and brightly coloured leggings. Even though it was early morning, the men had already dipped their drinking horns and were talking and laughing loudly, quite oblivious to the eyes staring at them from thin hungry faces each side of the track. At the head of the hunting party rode King Verica, his closest friends and advisors, and a small band of his bodyguards; armed and ready to deal with any threat. They watched the people lining the track closely, sword hands resting near the top of their scabbards. But there was no move towards the king. Some of the crowd cheered weakly. Most watched in silence until the supply carts rumbled past them, some filled with haunches of cured meat, stoppered jugs of wine and beer, baskets filled with bread and fruit.

A low moan of despair slowly rose into a collective keening whine. Then a voice was raised in anger. Cato turned back to look, and saw a man holding up a grubby infant, eyes bulging from its skeletal head. The man was shouting, but the raw emotion straining his voice made it difficult for Cato to understand the words. Not that he had to. The dull lethargic look in the baby’s eyes and the man’s terrible anguish were clear enough. Others took up the angry cry and the crowd slowly shuffled towards the food wagons.

The stewards who were driving the vehicles rose from their benches, shouting and waving the townspeople back. But their warnings were ignored as every eye hungrily focused on the contents of the wagons. Before the first hand could reach inside there was the loud crack of a whip and a scream of pain. Cato saw a man clutching his face, and blood streamed through his fingers. The crowd paused, silent for an instant, as if they were all having a sharp intake of breath. Then they closed on the wagons, and the stewards laid about them with their whips, shouting curses at the starving crowd.

‘Stop them!’ Cato heard Quintillus shout.

The tribune was galloping back past the party of nobles, sword drawn. Behind him thundered the king’s bodyguard, scattering people away from the track.

‘Macro!’ Cato called out. ‘Help me!’

The younger centurion wheeled his horse and urged it towards the nearest wagon as he shouted in Celtic. ‘Back, you fools! Get back!’

Faces turned towards him, filled with anger and then fear as they tried to push themselves away from the flaring nostrils and gleaming bulk of Cato’s horse. Cato drove his mount on, forcing it between the crowd and the wagon. ‘Get back! Back, I said! Now!’