The king, spying the fattened sheep, had decided that he wanted to dine on roast mutton. The best specimen had been slaughtered by his kitchen steward, and the body had been opened up and spitted, ready for roasting over the fire being prepared by some of the household slaves. When the flames died down the kitchen slaves raked the embers over and began to roast the carcass. Fat oozed from the meat and dripped down on to the glowing heart of the fire where it exploded in short-lived flares of smoky orange flame.

Macro’s nose twitched. ‘Smell that! You ever smelled anything so good?’

‘It’s just your stomach speaking,’ said Cato.

‘Sure it is, but go on, take a sniff.’

Cato had never particularly liked the smell of roasting meat. The resulting meal was fine, but the smell reminded him of funeral pyres.

‘Mmmm,’ Macro continued his reverie with half-closed eyes. ‘I can almost taste it.’

There was so much smoke now that their eyes began to water. Without saying a word the two of them got up and moved away to a spot by the stream. The water looked clear and Cato cupped a handful to his lips and guzzled it down, cool and refreshing after the hot day’s ride. A day in which he had had plenty of time to think.

‘Macro, what are we going to do about Bedriacus’ murder?’

‘What can we do? Bloody tribune’s gone and released the only suspect. Bet that Artax is laughing at us.’

Macro looked over his shoulder at the nobles, sleeping off their ride before the evening meal. Only a few were awake, Artax and Tincommius amongst them, talking in quiet tones as they sipped beer from gilded drinking horns. Verica, on the cusp of dotage, needed a nap and was propped up against a lamb’s hide bolster, mouth hanging open as he snored. Around him squatted his bodyguards, very much awake and with their weapons within reach.

Macro shifted his gaze back to Artax as Cato continued quietly, ‘Question is, why did he let Bedriacus die the way he did?’

‘A good stab in the chest is generally a sensible way to proceed.’ Macro yawned. ‘He could have tried your method, of course, and talked poor Bedriacus to death.’

Cato ignored the bait. ‘Talking is very much the issue.’

Macro sighed. ‘Somehow I knew you’d come up with something like that. Go on then, tell me what talking has got to do with it.’

‘It’s just this. Bedriacus wanted to warn us about something. He was stabbed by someone who wanted to prevent him passing on the warning. And the most likely suspect is Artax.’

‘Yes. So?’

‘So why didn’t Artax finish him off when Tincommius went to find us?’

‘I don’t know.’ Macro shrugged. ‘Maybe the surgeon turned up too quickly.’