‘Nice idea,’ Hortensius agreed. ‘It might discourage their mates, but we can’t do it. I’ve got orders concerning these lads. All Druids who fall into our hands are to be taken back for questioning. The legate needs ‘em in good condition if he’s thinking of trading them for that Roman family the Druids have got. Sorry, but there it is.’

Diomedes moved closer to the centurion. Hortensius raised his eyebrows in surprise but did not flinch or recoil at the fierce expression on the face now inches from his own.

‘Let me kill them,’ Diomedes said quietly through clenched teeth. ‘I can’t bear to live while those monsters still draw breath. They must die, Centurion. I must do it.’

‘No. Now be a good fellow and calm down.’

Cato watched as Diomedes glared into the centurion’s face, lips trembling as he tried to control his rage and frustration. Hortensius, by contrast, calmly returned the look with no hint of any emotion in his expression.

‘I hope you won’t live to regret your decision, Centurion.’

‘I’m sure I won’t.’

Diomedes’s lips shifted into a thin smile. ‘An ambiguous choice of words. Let’s hope the gods are not tempted by your carelessness.’

‘The gods will do as they please.’ Centurion Hortensius shrugged, then turned to Cato. ‘Get back to your century. Tell Macro to get his men ready to march as soon as possible.’

‘After breakfast, sir?’

Hortensius stabbed a finger into Cato’s chest. ‘Did I say anything about fucking breakfast? Well, did I?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Right. Never interrupt an officer before he’s finished giving orders,’ Hortensius spoke in the low menacing tones of a drill instructor, and continued to stab his finger to emphasise his point. ‘Do it again and I’ll have your fucking balls for paperweights. Got that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Now then, I want the cohort formed up outside the gate as soon as the sun has fully risen.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Cato saluted, turned and trotted away. He glanced back once, and saw Hortensius having one last quiet word with Diomedes.

‘There you are, Optio!’ Figulus grinned as he stood up. By his feet a thin trail of smoke curled gently into the chill morning air. ‘Fire’s going nicely. Weren’t easy though.’

‘Leave it,’ Cato snapped. ‘We’re on the move.’

‘But what about breakfast?’

For an instant Cato was sorely tempted to subject Figulus to the same roasting he had just had from Hortensius. But that would have been churlish, and against the odds the legionary had managed to get a fire started.

‘Sorry, Figulus. No breakfast. Put the fire out and get ready to move.’

‘Put the fire out?’ Figulus’s expression took on the kind of pained expression usually associated with the death of a cherished family pet. ‘Put out my fire?’