Cato sighed, and then quickly used the side of his boot to scrape a small mound of snow over the heap of smouldering twigs. With a spit of steam and a hiss the tiny lick of flame was extinguished.

‘There. Now get moving, soldier.’

Macro had only just awakened when Cato returned to the Sixth Century’s billet. He nodded in response to the orders, and then stretched his shoulders with a deep growl before he turned to bellow at his men.

‘Up, you idle bastards! On your feet! We’re moving out!’

A low chorus of groans and complaints rippled round the ruins.

‘What about breakfast?’ someone piped up.

‘Breakfast? Breakfast is for losers,’ Macro replied irritably. ‘Now move!’

As the men raised themselves and wearily pulled on their armour, Macro stamped around delivering encouraging kicks to those whose lack of haste was most obvious. Cato hurried back to his marching yoke. Once his mess tin and the rest of the field equipment was securely fastened to the yoke, Cato struggled into his chain mail vest and was fastening his sword belt when a man from one of the other centuries came running up.

‘Where’s Macro?’ the man panted.

‘Centurion Macro is over there.’ Cato pointed over the remains of a wall and the runner began to move.

‘Wait!’ Cato shouted. He was angry at the way some of the men of the other centuries were inclined to let their resentment of his youth override the respect due to his rank.

The man paused, then reluctantly turned round to face the optio and came to attention.

‘That’s better.’ Cato nodded. ‘You address me as Optio, or sir, next time you speak to me. Understand?’

‘Yes, Optio.’

‘Very well. You can carry on.’

The man disappeared round the end of the wall and Cato continued to put on his equipment. Moments later the runner reappeared, heading back towards the gate, and then came Macro, looking for his subordinate.

‘What’s the matter, sir?’

‘It’s that bloody fool Diomedes. He’s done a runner.’

Cato smiled at the apparent foolishness of the statement. Where would the Greek run to? More importantly, why would he flee the safety of the cohort?

‘That’s not all,’ Macro continued with a grim expression. ‘He knocked out one of the lads guarding the Druids, and then gutted them before he disappeared.’

When The Eagle Hunts

Chapter Fourteen

‘Hmmm. Not a pretty sight,’ Centurion Hortensius muttered. ‘Diomedes made a pretty thorough job of it.’

The robes of the Druids had been wrenched aside and each man savagely slashed from groin to ribcage. A tangle of glistening guts and viscera lay in a pool of blood by each man. With a convulsive heave, vomit rose up in Cato’s throat and he choked on the bitter taste of it. He turned away as Hortensius began to brief the other centurions.