Cato nodded with understanding. The desire for revenge was as powerful a motive as anything else in life, and the centurion had seen enough of the bloody work of the Durotrigans and their druids to be sympathetic to their victims.

‘Fair enough. We’ll take him, if he can be trained. Instructor!’

‘Sir!’

‘You can carry on, Marius.’

Cato was suddenly aware of a commotion over by the main gates of the depot and turned round for a better look. A group of horsemen had been admitted and were trotting over towards the parade ground. They were tribesmen, but Cato recognised only one face.

‘Verica. What’s he doing here?’

‘Come to see how the training’s getting on,’ replied Tincommius.

Cato gave him a cold look. ‘Well, thanks for the warning.’

‘Sorry. He mentioned something about it last night. Just remembered.’

‘Right . . .’ Cato punched Tincommius on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’

They left the instruction groups and walked over to meet the king of the Atrebatans and his retinue. Verica reined in and slowly dismounted before he waved a greeting to his kinsman and Cato. Tincommius looked at his uncle with apparent concern.

‘It’s all right, boy. Just feeling a bit stiff. Happens at my age,’ the king smiled. ‘Now then, Centurion Cato, how is my army coming along? . . . What on earth are they doing with all of those sticks? Where are their weapons?’

Cato had anticipated this moment and had his answer ready. ‘They’re in training, my lord. They’ll be issued with the real thing as soon as they’re ready for it.’

‘Oh?’ The old man’s disappointment was clear. ‘And when will that be?’

‘Soon enough, my lord. Your subjects learn very quickly.’

‘May we watch them for a while?’

‘Of course, my lord. We’d be honoured. If you’d care to follow me . . .?’

Verica beckoned to his retinue and they obediently dismounted and walked slowly behind their king.

Cato leaned towards Tincommius and whispered, ‘Whatever you do, steer him clear of that group with Bedriacus in it.’

‘Right.’

Verica slowly made his way round the parade ground, watching the drill movements with apparent interest, occasionally stopping to comment on some detail or to ask Cato a question. As they returned to the first group, one of Verica’s followers, a dark-haired man with a bare chest under his riding cloak, seized a training sword from the hands of one of the men. The instructor was about to protest when he caught sight of Cato gently shaking his head. The dark-haired man looked over the stave with a contemptuous expression and laughed.

‘Who’s that?’ Cato whispered to Tincommius.

‘Artax. Another one of the king’s nephews.’

‘Big family then?’

‘If you only knew,’ sighed Tincommius as Artax rounded on Cato.

‘Why are our warriors being made to play with toys when they should be training to kill our enemies?’