There was a sudden scream in the crowd, sliding into a high-pitched wail of grief and those nearby turned to look for its source. A woman stood with her hand to her mouth, teeth clenched into the flesh above her thumb as she gazed wide-eyed at a head being held up to the crowd by one of Cato’s men. She wailed again, then lurched forward, snatching at the lank locks of hair, matted with dry blood. The warrior raised the head higher, out of her reach, and laughed. The woman shrieked, tearing at his arms, until the warrior cuffed her to the ground with his spare hand. From there she lapsed into sobbing that welled up from the pit of her stomach, and she shuddered as she clasped the hem of the warrior’s tunic and begged.

‘What’s that all about?’ asked Cato.

Like everyone else, Tincommius had been watching the confrontation. ‘Seems that the head belongs to her son. She wants it for burial.’

‘And its new owner wants it for a trophy?’ Cato shook his head sadly. ‘That’s tough.’

‘No,’ muttered Tincommius. ‘It’s dishonourable. Here, take this.’

He thrust the Wolf standard at Cato and pushed himself between the woman and the warrior still holding the severed head aloft. Dragging the man’s arm down, Tincommius spoke angrily, indicating the woman as he did so. The warrior shifted the head behind his back and responded with equal anger and indignity. At his words the people crowded around and shouted their support, although, Cato noted, a handful kept silent, implicitly on the side of Tincommius. The Atrebatan prince was in no mood to brook any disrespect to his rank, and suddenly smashed his fist into the warrior’s face. The people around them shrank away as the warrior staggered back. Tincommius instantly kicked him hard in the stomach to wind him and keep him down. As the man snatched for breath, open-mouthed and staring wildly at his attacker, Tincommius calmly eased his fingers from the stiff hair of the severed head and gently offered it to the woman. For a moment she was still, then with a pained grimace she reached out for all that was left to her of her son. Oblivious to her grief, most of the crowd howled in protest and angrily pressed forward round Tincommius.

‘STOP!’ Cato cried out, drawing his sword and raising the Wolf standard above his head to command attention. ‘SILENCE!’

The protests died away, and everyone looked towards Cato with hostile expressions, resentful of his intervention, yet nervous enough of the men of Rome to be wary of his wrath. Cato’s eyes swept over the crowd, daring them to defy him, then came to rest on the woman sitting on the ground, cradling the head in her lap as she stroked its cold cheek.