The royal enclosure was brightly illuminated by torches blazing around its perimeter. Every noble, every warrior held in any regard, and the most respectable of the foreign traders and merchants, had been summoned to Verica’s feast. As Cato glanced round at the loose throng of people making their way across the compound to the great hall he felt more than a little shabby. He and Macro were wearing their best tunics and, neat as they were, the dull material could not compare with the exotic weaves of the local Celts, or the fine cloth adorning the merchants and their wives. The only concession to luxury permitted by the centurions’ military wardrobe were the torcs Macro wore on his wrist and around his neck. The latter was a fine example. So it should be, having once been the possession of Togodubnus, brother of Caratacus. Macro had killed him almost a year earlier, in single combat, and the torc was already drawing admiring glances from Verica’s other guests. For his part, Cato possessed only a single set of medallions and he tried to console himself with the thought that the character of a man was worth more than anything he might buy to display his worth.

‘Going to be quite a night,’ said Macro. ‘Seems like half the population of Calleva must be here.’

‘Just the well-heeled half, I think.’

‘And us.’ Macro winked at him. ‘Don’t worry, lad, I’ve never yet met a centurion who hasn’t done well out of a campaign. That’s the main reason Rome goes to war - to keep the legions grabbing enough booty to stay happy.’

‘And distracted from any political ambitions.’

‘If you say so. But personally I don’t give a shit about politics. That’s the traditional hobby of your aristocrats, not the likes of us footsloggers. All I want is enough loot to retire to a nice little estate in Campania, and have plenty left over to spend my twilight years in a permanent drunken stupor.’

‘Good luck, then.’

‘Thanks. Just hope I can get a little practice in tonight.’

They were greeted at the entrance to the great hall by Tincommius. The Atrebatan prince had discarded his army-issue tunic and wore a finely patterned native tunic over his leggings and boots. He smiled a greeting and waved the Roman guests inside.

‘You joining us for a drink?’ asked Macro.

‘Maybe later, sir. I’m on guard duty right now.’

‘What? No night off with the rest of us to celebrate?’

‘All right,’ Tincommius laughed. ‘Once everyone’s here. Until then, I’m afraid I’m going to have to search you for weapons.’

‘Search us?’

‘Everyone, sir. Sorry, but Cadminius was very firm about that.’

‘Cadminius?’ Cato raised an eyebrow. ‘Who’s he? I’m not familiar with the name.’

‘He’s the captain of the bodyguard. Verica appointed him while we were away.’

‘What happened to the last one?’