‘That might not go down too well with some of the men, sir. You saw how it was out there in the hall: the tribe is already beginning to break apart. We can’t afford to make the situation worse.’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Centurion. Your men are under your orders. They’ll do as you say. Or, is it that you fear you can’t control your men? That’s a real man’s job, and you’re not much more than a boy. I can understand that. How about you, Macro? Will your men obey orders?’

‘They will, sir, if they know what’s good for them.’

‘That’s the spirit!’ The tribune nodded in satisfaction. ‘Glad to know there’s one officer I can rely on.’

Cato stared at the tribune, fighting back his anger and wondering if he was being cruelly baited, or tested. He resolved to remain calm - as calm under this attack on his integrity as he tried to be in front of his men in the face of the enemy.

‘You can rely on me, and my cohort too, sir.’

The tribune stared at him for a moment. ‘I hope so, Cato. I hope so . . . But for now the situation is hypothetical. Verica still lives, and while he lives we must all endeavour to make sure that relations between Rome and the Atrebatans continue as they were before.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nodded. ‘And we must do our best to make sure the Atrebatans keep the peace amongst themselves.’

Tribune Quintillus smiled. ‘That goes without saying, Centurion.’

‘Bastard!’ Cato muttered as he and Macro walked back to the depot. The rising sun was still below the level of the roofs of the native huts lining the muddy track. The air was cool and damp, and by the thin light of this early hour Cato had seen how filthy he was and yearned for a good wash and a clean tunic. But the withering contempt of the tribune clung to him like a shadow and the young centurion knew that would be a lot harder to shift than a layer of dirt and grime.

‘Don’t carry on so!’ Macro laughed. ‘You’re whining like a jilted bride.’

‘You heard him. “That’s a real man’s job,” ‘ Cato mimicked. ‘Bastard. Arrogant patrician bastard. I could show him a thing or two.’

‘Of course you could,’ Macro said soothingly, and held his hands up as Cato shot him a withering look. ‘Sorry. Wrong tone. Anyway, look on the bright side.’

‘There is one?’

Macro ignored the bitter remark. ‘Verica’s still with us for the moment. And even if he drops off the twig we’ve got a man lined up to replace him. Tincommius wouldn’t be my number one choice but at least he’s not a traitor, like Artax. Things could be a lot worse.’

‘Which means they will be . . .’