The sun dipped down below the top of the wall and threw the prisoners into shadow. This was the time their guards entered the byre and gave them a basket of scraps. The men slowly stirred in anticipation of the chance to try to stave off the aching agony of their hunger. Cato found himself licking his lips and watching the gate that opened into the byre. They were kept waiting a little longer than usual and for a moment Cato feared that there would be no food this evening. Then there was the gentle clink from the chain that fastened the door and it was shoved open. A pale shaft of light stretched across the stinking heap of ordure in the byre, then a shadow passed over it and Cato looked up to see a large warrior looming over them, glaring round at the grimy creatures chained to each other.

‘Which of you has the highest rank?’

Even if the accent was thick the Latin was good enough to understand, and Cato made to raise his arm. At once Figulus restrained him with a warning shake of the head and prepared to volunteer himself. But Cato spoke first.

‘Me!’

The warrior looked round at Cato and raised his eyebrows. ‘You? I asked for your commander, not your goat-herder. Now which of you is it?’

Cato flushed angrily and cleared his throat to reply as clearly as possible.’I am Centurion Quintus Licinius Cato, commanding the Sixth Century, Third Cohort of the Second Legion Augusta. I hold the senior rank here!’

The warrior could not help smiling at the umbrage he had provoked. He looked Cato up and down and laughed, before he continued in his own tongue.

‘I had no idea the men of your legions were led by little boys. Why, you look barely old enough to shave.’

‘Maybe,’ Cato replied in Celtic. ‘But I’m old enough to know you Britons are full of shit. How else could I have cut so many of you down?’

The warrior’s smile faded and he fixed the young centurion with a cold glare. ‘I’d watch your tongue, boy. While you still have one. You’re the one who’s up to his neck in shit, not me. You’d do well to remember that.’

Cato shrugged. ‘What did you want me for anyway?’

The warrior bent down, undid the shackle around Cato’s ankle and slipped the collar off the centurion’s leg. Then he hauled Cato roughly to his feet and snarled into his face, ‘Someone wants to see you, Roman.’

Cato wanted to recoil from the bared teeth and wide eyes of the barbarian, and he knew that the man wanted him to flinch, to show some sign of fear. Cato was equally aware that his men were watching him closely; in fear, yes, but also to see if he could face up to the enemy.