The first dog to reach its prey jumped for the boar’s neck, jaws open, ready to clamp shut on the boar’s throat and tear it out. But the boar struck first, swatting the hunting dog to one side with its snout as if it weighed no more than a sack of feathers. The dog crashed to the stone floor with a sickening thump and a pained yelp. The crowd cried out: a strangely dissonant chorus of groans from those who had backed the dogs, and cheers from those who had bet on the boar. The other dogs, true to the intelligence of their breed, swerved aside and took up positions either side of the boar, feinting with sudden darting movements and snaps of their great jaws. Slowly shifting round, the boar kept its tusks lowered, ready to deal slashing blows at any dog that came within reach.

‘No two dogs alive are ever going to kill that beast,’ Macro yelled above the roar of the crowd. Cato nodded his agreement; the first dog was still struggling to get back on to its feet.

‘Don’t be too sure, sir,’ Tincommius shouted back. ‘Have you ever seen this breed before?’

Macro shook his head.

‘They come from across the sea.’

‘Gaul?’

‘No. The other way. I think you Romans call it Hibernia.’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Macro bluffed.

‘From what they say, it’s so inhospitable that I doubt even a Roman would consider invading it. They breed good hunting dogs, though. Like those three. That boar’s in for the fight of its life.’

‘Care to take a wager?’

‘What’s the stake?’

‘Wine. I’d kill for something to take away the taste of this beer.’

‘You haven’t had a problem with it so far.’

Macro slapped a friendly arm around the young Celt’s shoulder as he grabbed the nearest jug of beer. ‘Soldiers will drink anything to get shit-faced. Anything, old son. Even this crap. Cheers!’

‘An amphora of wine on the dogs then, sir,’ said Tincommius, as he casually shrugged off the centurion’s arm.

‘Done.’ Macro raised the jug to his lips and guzzled a deep draught, brown drips spilling from each side of his mouth.