‘Boy’s got a pine cone up his arse,’ Macro whispered before Tincommius came within earshot. The Briton pulled the reins and drew his horse up beside the two Romans. Macro smiled at him.

‘Cheer up, old son. Just as long as it doesn’t really piss down we should be in for a good hunt. That forest is teeming with boar, if Artax is to be believed.’

‘Artax . . . Oh, I’m sure he’s right.’

Macro and Cato exchanged looks, before Macro continued in a hearty tone, ‘I take it you aren’t best pleased with Verica’s choice of successor?’

Tincommius turned towards them, cold resentment on his face. ‘No. Are you?’

‘Provided he does good by Rome, he’ll do well enough for me.’

‘And you, Cato - what do you think?’

‘I don’t know. I just hope Verica lives for a while yet. Just to keep things settled.’

‘Settled?’ Tincommius laughed softly. ‘Is that what you call it? Nothing’s settled. Not while we’re waiting for the old man to die. Everyone’s thinking about what happens next. Do you really think Artax can hold the kingdom together?’

Cato watched him closely as he replied. ‘Do you think someone else could do a better job?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You for instance?’

‘Me?’ Tincommius looked startled.

‘Why not? You’re closely related to Verica. You have some influence with the court. You might persuade the king’s council to choose you instead of Artax.’

‘Cato,’ Macro growled, ‘best keep our noses out of it. All right?’

‘Just thinking.’

‘No. Thinking’s what you say to yourself up here.’ Macro tapped his head. ‘What you’re doing is shit-stirring. We keep out of tribal politics.’

‘We might not be able to for much longer. We have to think ahead. Tincommius has to think ahead. For all our sakes.’

Tincommius nodded slowly, but Macro shook his head.

‘Leave it out. We’re soldiers, not diplomats. Our job is to protect Calleva and prepare the Wolves and the Boars for battle. That’s it, Cato. We leave the other stuff to cunts like Quintillus.’

Cato raised his hand in surrender. Just then the horn sounded again and there was a jostling of horses as the hunting party formed a loose column behind King Verica. Macro’s horse was squeezed forward and for a brief moment Cato found himself pressed close alongside Tincommius. Their eyes met.

‘Think about what I said,’ Cato said softly.

Tincommius nodded and turned his gaze away, fixing his eye on the stooped figure at the front of the column. Then he clicked his tongue and urged his mount forward.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’ Macro whispered. ‘You trying to plant ideas in his head?’

‘I don’t trust Artax,’ said Cato.