‘Depends if we catch them in time,’ Cato replied in Celtic. ‘Let’s hope so.’

Cato noticed the warrior smile after his last remark, and realised that the man was spoiling for a fight. Cato shared the desire to lay into the enemy. Then, after a moment’s reflection, it occurred to him that his reasons were more selfish and had everything to do with proving a point to the smug tribune whose remarks had cut him to the soul.

As soon as the last buckle of his harness had been fastened Cato snatched up his felt helmet liner, jammed it down over the top of his head and pulled on his centurion’s helmet, hurriedly tying the leather thongs at the end of each cheek guard.

‘Right! Down you go,’ he ordered the warrior. ‘Back to your century.’

Cato spared a quick look towards the depot and was gratified by the sight of the Boars, in column, marching towards the gate, Macro at their head. Then the young centurion clambered down the ladders to the foot of the gate and trotted to the front of the Wolf cohort.

‘Figulus! Figulus! To me!’

The young Gaul came running down the column towards him, face flushed with excitement.

‘Get ‘em moving,’ ordered Cato, staring towards the distant columns of smoke, already dissipating now that the fury of the blaze had passed its peak. ‘I want them outside and ready to march. I’ll catch you up as soon as I’ve spoken with Centurion Macro and the tribune.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Figulus saluted and ran towards the front of the small column. He called the men to attention, and gave the order to advance. The natives were well accustomed to the standard commands and at his word, broke into a rhythmic tramp, through the gate and down the track towards the distant columns of smoke. Cato watched them march by for a moment, then, once the rear rank of the last century had passed him, he made his way back to the open gate. There was a pounding of hoofs and then Quintillus and Tincommius galloped down the street leading from the royal enclosure. They were armed and ready to fight, and slewed their ponies to a halt as they caught sight of Cato.

‘What’s happening?’ barked Quintillus. ‘Report!’

‘Smoke, sir!’ Cato replied, indicating the direction. ‘Looks like they’ve attacked another supply column.’

The tribune glanced down the track towards the Wolf Cohort. ‘Where’s Macro?’

‘He’s bringing up the other cohort from the depot, sir.’

‘Good!’ Quintillus rubbed his hands together. ‘We might catch ‘em loaded down. Let’s get moving!’

‘Sir, don’t you think we might want to send scouts out first?’

‘We’re wasting time!’ Tincommius said excitedly. ‘We must attack at once.’

Quintillus nodded. ‘It’s clear enough what’s happening, Centurion. And there’s no time to waste.’