Cato looked at the man for a while, and Artax stared back, lips fixed in a thin line. The centurion was not sure that he cared to have a man he had so publicly humiliated serve alongside him. There was bound to be resentment simmering in the proud and arrogant Briton’s breast. For now, however, it would be good politics to permit Verica’s kinsman to remain in the cohort. In any case, if he had been moved to volunteer then maybe there was another side to him. Perhaps he nursed a desire to redeem himself and win back his pride. Maybe, Cato reflected. But it was best to be wary of him, for a while at least.

In the afternoons Macro took over the training and taught the recruits the fundamentals of mass manoeuvre. As ever, it was a slow business getting unaccustomed feet to march in step, but even the Britons could march, halt, wheel and change facing with minimal confusion within a week.

The training day ended with a quick march round and round the outside of Calleva, until dusk. Then the men were led back into the depot and, by sections, issued their rations to take away to cook. The hardest part of the strict routine for the natives to bear was the early end to their evening. As the trumpet sounded the second watch, the instructors strode up and down the lines of tents, screaming at the men to get inside and get to sleep, upsetting cooking pots over any fires that were not extinguished quickly enough. There was none of the drinking and raucous telling of tall tales and crude anecdotes that was so much a part of the Celtic way of life. Men undergoing a harsh training regime needed rest, and Macro refused to give way when Tincommius represented the views of a number of his warriors who had complained bitterly to him.

‘No!’ Macro said firmly. ‘We go soft on them now and discipline goes down the shithole. It’s hard, but no harder than is necessary. If they’re complaining about being sent to sleep early then they’re obviously not tired enough. Tomorrow I’ll end the training with a run round Calleva instead of a march. That should do the trick.’

It did, but there was still an underlying resentment evident in the men’s faces as Cato did his rounds each morning. Something was lacking. There was a vague sense of looseness, of incohesion, in the two cohorts. He raised the matter with Macro and Tincommius as they met in Macro’s quarters one night after the first week of training.

‘We’re not doing this quite right.’

‘What do you mean?’ grumbled Macro. ‘We’re doing fine.’

‘We were told to train two cohorts, and we’ve done it as best as we can. But they need something else.’

‘What then?’