At the head of the Boar Cohort, Macro proudly marched along the track. Despite his reservations about the calibre of these natives, they had performed creditably enough. Most of them had been farmers a few weeks before, used to wielding nothing more deadly than a hoe. But now they had been blooded, their spirits were high, and they might yet win his grudging approval. The Durotrigan raiders had been completely crushed; only a handful had escaped by swimming down-river as night fell. Fifty prisoners had been taken, once the Roman officers had managed to restore control over their men and stop them competing for head trophies. The Atrebatans had been particularly merciless to the handful of former warriors of their own tribe discovered amongst the enemy, and few of these had been spared.

The Atrebatan renegades could not stomach what they saw as Verica’s craven alliance with Rome. So they had deserted their tribe and fled to the ranks of Caratacus, fast swelling with all those who still kept faith with the past glories of the Celtic peoples. The surviving captives stumbled along between the cohorts in two lines, tethered together around their necks, with their arms bound behind their backs. While Macro hoped to sell them to the dealers waiting in Calleva, he was realistic enough to know that the Atrebatans would almost certainly want to make a bloody sport of them to slake their thirst for revenge. Such a waste, Macro sighed, when able-bodied slaves were fetching high prices in the markets of Gaul. Perhaps Verica might be persuaded to throw the injured and weak to the mob and save the best stock for a more profitable fate.

Macro turned back towards Tincommius. The young nobleman looked solemn as he held the gleaming boar standard as high as he could.

‘Quite a reception.’ Macro nodded towards the crowd at the gate.

‘That lot would cheer anything . . .’

Macro could not help smiling at the youngster’s cynicism. ‘Go and ask Cato if he wants to join us. We might as well enjoy this together.’

Tincommius fell out of line and trotted back down the rippling column of red shields, ignoring the cheerful jibes and comments from the men as he passed. When he reached the junior centurion at the head of the Wolf Cohort Tincommius nodded a greeting to Bedriacus and fell in beside the Roman.

‘Centurion Macro wonders if you’d like to join him when we reach the gates.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ Tincommius raised his eyebrows.

‘Thank him, but I think it’d look better if I marched in with my cohort.’

‘He thinks you deserve the acclaim just as much as he does.’

‘As do all these men.’ Cato thought it only natural that Macro would want to relish his moment of triumph. Natural, but bad politics. ‘My respects to Centurion Macro, but I’ll march into Calleva at the head of my own men.’

Tincommius shrugged. ‘Very well, sir. As you wish.’