‘What you smiling at? Think I’m funny, do you?’ Macro grinned. ‘Is that it? Well, let’s see how fucking funny you think I am then!’

He brought up his vine cane and slashed it against the man’s left arm.

‘LEFT ARM!’

The man yelped in agony, but before he could do anything else Macro whacked the cane against the man’s other side.

‘RIGHT ARM! . . . Now, let’s see if we’ve learned anything . . . Left arm!’

The native quickly shot his left arm into the air.

‘Right arm!’

Down came one arm, up shot the other.

‘Bravo, mate! We’ll make a soldier of you yet. Carry on, Centurion Cato.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Once the volunteers could form up to Macro’s satisfaction then came the time to assess their fitness. Section by section the Atrebatans led off into a steady run around the perimeter of the depot. Cato and Macro were posted diagonally opposite each other and urged each section on as it rounded the angle and started down the next length. In a short space of time the sections had merged into a stream of men, puffing and panting their way round the depot. As Macro had expected, the warriors clustered to the front, along with the fittest of the others and quickly began to move ahead of the rest.

‘It’s not a race!’ Macro roared, cupping a hand to his mouth, ‘Cato! Tell ‘em I want to see how long they can keep it up. Slow ‘em down.’

All morning he drove them on. After a while the first men began to drop out: the weakest and those too old to keep up. They were immediately escorted to the depot gates and shown out. Most took their rejection in good enough spirits. Some were evidently ashamed and snapped surly comments over their shoulders as they disappeared through the depot gates. The rest forced themselves to keep going, round and round, many with grim expressions of determination.

At midday Macro sauntered across the depot to join Cato at the parade ground.

‘I think that’s enough. We’ll give this lot some food and rest and have a look at the next batch. Let me know how many we’ve got left as soon as you can.’

As the volunteers reached him, Cato waved them down and ticked the numbers off on a slate before directing them over to the headquarters building where some of the garrison were handing out flatbread and cups of watered wine. As the last man staggered away Cato made his report.

‘Eighty-four remaining.’

‘Any of Tincommius’ warriors fall out?’

‘Not one.’

‘Impressive. Wonder how they’ll do in full equipment? Let’s have a look at the next lot.’