‘You know, Cato, old son, I really wouldn’t make a habit of pissing off tribunes. Likely as not he’ll make legate one day, and what if he happens to be in command of any legion you might be serving with? What then, eh?’

Cato shrugged. ‘I’ll deal with that when the time comes. But if pricks like that are ever trusted with command of a legion then we might as well hand the Empire over to the barbarians right now.’

Macro laughed. ‘Don’t take it to heart! He just sees you as something in the way of him grabbing the glory that’s his due. It’s nothing personal.’

‘Oh?’ Cato muttered. ‘Well, it’s personal now. Personal to me.’

‘Bollocks!’ Macro reached over and slapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘Forget it. He’s out of your reach. You can’t afford to have him as an enemy. Pick on someone that fits your purse. Better still, just forget the whole thing.’

Cato glanced at him. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

The royal hunting party left Calleva and its troubled population behind them. The capital of the Atrebatans soon disappeared behind a hill as the column of riders, wagons and servants on foot followed the rutted track through the rolling landscape, with its scattered farms interspersed with small clumps of unfelled woods and slender coppices. Despite the fears over the raids that Caratacus and his Durotrigan allies were conducting deep into Atrebatan lands, some of the farms were still being worked. Occasional fields of barley and wheat rippled yellow and gold in the light breeze that wafted fluffy white clouds across a deep blue sky.

Cato’s sullen mood was gradually assuaged once Calleva was far behind them. Tribune Quintillus was lost amid the cluster of men crowding about the king, and Cato soon forgot him as he let his eyes dwell on the fertile British landscape. True, it wasn’t as dramatic, or cultured and cultivated as the countryside around Rome, but it had a gentle unspoiled beauty of its own and he savoured the sweet scents it offered up to him.

‘It’ll be a nice spot to retire in,’ mused Macro, correctly reading his companion’s expression. ‘Once we’ve given the enemy a good kicking.’

‘How long have you got to serve?’ Cato asked, with a tinge of anxiety as he anticipated life in the Second Legion without Macro at his side.

‘Eleven years, assuming the Emperor honours the end-of-service rituals.’

‘You think he won’t?’

‘I don’t know. After the Varus disaster they kept some time-served veterans on until they could barely walk, or eat. Some of those boys had to put Germanicus’ hand on their bare gums before he realised they’d had enough of the army.’

‘Really?’