‘How long would it have taken to add another, lethal wound? Or smother him? He must have had time. He had to take the risk and kill Bedriacus. He couldn’t afford to let him speak to us.’

‘Maybe. But if that’s the case, then why didn’t he finish Bedriacus off while he had the chance?’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Cato shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘It might be that he was just passing by, as Tincommius said.’

Cato turned and looked straight into Macro’s eyes. ‘Do you really believe that?’

‘No. He did it, all right. Just look at the shifty sod. Would you trust him with your sister?’

Artax was still talking with Tincommius, hunched forward as they conversed in tones so low that they were inaudible from where the centurions were sitting.

Before Cato could reply, a horn sounded across the small campsite, calling everyone to the evening meal. The two centurions rose up from the side of the stream and strolled across the grass to where the Atrebatan nobles were slowly waking from their slumbers. To one side lay Tribune Quintillus, on his back, one foot crossed over the other as he stared towards the setting sun. At the second sounding of the horn the tribune sat up and saw Macro and Cato approaching. With a discreet nod of his head he directed them away from where he was sitting and they altered course towards the area where the lesser nobles squatted.

‘Hobnobbing with the rich and powerful, as usual,’ Macro complained quietly. ‘Don’t know why he bothers. I doubt they have much in common.’

‘Some of them speak Latin - not brilliantly, but enough to get by. They can translate for the rest.’

‘That’s only half the problem!’ Macro laughed. ‘What the hell are they going to speak about? The latest fashion in Rome? Or what well-bred Trinovantian matrons are wearing this season? I don’t think so.’

‘I don’t think he’ll have much of a problem,’ said Cato. ‘Social class is a pretty universal language. The sons of the aristocracy are a clubbable bunch, they’ll have no problem communicating.’