‘It’s not much to look at, but I can assure you it still hurts to be on the wrong end of it! Now, stand still!’ He turned towards a small group of legionaries leaning against the corner of the nearest barrack block. ‘Figulus! Get your instructors over here!’

The legionaries trotted over and drew their training weapons, enough for five pairs of combatants each. Figulus, a huge man from Narbonensis, had been chosen by Cato to act as his optio.

‘Keep it basic for today,’ Cato reminded them. ‘Block, parry, thrust and advance for now.’

The legionaries set off for their assigned sections and distributed the weapons. As Figulus and other instructors introduced their trainees to the correct postures, Tincommius accompanied Cato as the centurion moved round each group and helped with translation where needed. The trainees were pushed into line and mimicked the actions of the legionaries as faithfully as they could. As with all training, the morning was punctuated with cries of anger and frustration from the instructors as they cajoled and kicked their charges. Cato, mindful of Macro’s advice of the previous night, forced himself not to intervene, but hoped that his presence might at least cause his instructors not to be gratuitously rough.

A sudden shriek of pain drew Cato and Tincommius over to one group. The legionary instructor was standing over a figure on the ground, and whacked him on the back even as the centurion thrust his way through the line of Atrebatans for a closer look.

‘What the fuck is the matter with you?’ roared the instructor. ‘How much more bloody simple can I make it for you, you stupid prick! It’s block, parry, thrust and advance! Don’t make it up as you go along!’

‘What’s going on here?’

The instructor snapped to attention. ‘This twat’s trying to take the piss, sir. Making out he can’t remember four simple bloody steps.’

‘I see,’ Cato nodded, looking down at the figure crouched on the ground. The man slowly turned his head and grinned up at the centurion.

‘Oh, no! Not you again. What’s your name?’ Cato asked in Celtic.

‘Bedriacus.’

‘Bedriacus, eh? You call me “sir”.’

The man grinned again, displaying a jagged set of teeth. He nodded and pointed a finger at himself. ‘Bedriacus, sir! Bedriacus, sir!’

‘Yes, thank you. I think we’ve established that,’ Cato smiled back, before turning to Tincommius. ‘Know anything about him?’

‘Oh yes. He’s a hunter. Lost his family in a Durotrigan raid. He was injured, half dead when he was discovered.’

‘Half-witted more like,’ muttered the instructor.

‘That’s enough!’ Cato snapped. He nudged Tincommius. ‘I’m not sure he’s up to it.’

‘He’s good. Especially with a blade. Saw him turn over a couple of our warriors yesterday.’

‘Strength isn’t everything.’

‘No, no, it’s not. But this man wants vengeance. Deserves it.’