'They're from our warrior caste. All weapon-trained from childhood. They can ride too.'

'Good. That's a start then. Tincommius?'

'Yes?'

Macro leaned close to him. 'Just a word about protocol. From now on, you're to call me "sir".'

The Atrebatan nobleman's eyebrows shot up in astonishment. To Macro's intense irritation Tincommius glanced questioningly over towards Cato.

'You look at me when I'm talking to you! Got that?'

'Yes.'

'Yes, what?' Macro said with a menacing edge to his voice. 'Yes, what?'

'Yes, sir.'

'That's better! Now don't forget.'

'Yes… sir.'

'Now, then. The rest of them – what experience have they got?'

'None, sir. Nearly all of them are farmers. Should be fit enough, but the nearest they've ever come to a fight is keeping foxes out of their chicken coops.'

'Well, let's see how fit they really are. We can only afford to take the best so we'd better start weeding out the rubbish. We'll use your warriors to form the rest of them up. Get 'em over here. Cato, you got the pegs?'

'Yes, sir.' Cato nudged a small sack with his boot.

'Then why aren't they already set out?'

'Sorry, sir. I'll see to it straight away.'

Macro nodded curtly and Cato snatched up the bag and strode off a short distance from the native volunteers. He stopped and rummaged inside before drawing out a numbered peg, which he thrust into the ground. Then Cato took ten paces and planted the next peg, and so on, until there were two lines of ten pegs each; enough for the first batch of two hundred men. Over the next few days the two centurions would recruit twelve centuries of eighty men, nine hundred and sixty in all, from the far greater number that had responded to Verica's call for volunteers. The mere promise of good rations had been enough to attract men from all over the kingdom.

'Tincommius!'

'Yes, sir.'

'Position one of your warriors by each of those pegs. Tell them they're going to be my section leaders. Once that's done, take nine out of the rest and line 'em up beside the first man. Understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Very good. Carry on.'

Macro stood patiently as Tincommius led the volunteers over to the pegs and Cato then pushed and shoved his charges into position. The sun had long since cleared the ramparts by the time everyone was in place, and Macro's highly polished helmet gleamed as he faced the Atrebatans to address them. To his right stood Tincommius, ready to relay the centurion's words. To Macro's left Cato stood stiffly to attention.

'First thing!' Macro bellowed, then paused to allow Tincommius to translate. 'Whenever I give the order "Form up", I want you all to go to exactly the same place you are standing now. Memorise it!… Second, right now you're a fucking mess. We need to dress these lines.'

Tincommius paused before translating. 'You want me to translate all of that, sir?'

'Of course I bloody do! Get on with it!'

'Right.' Evidently the linguistic education of Tincommius had been more refined than vernacular. He shouted out in Celtic and there was a roar of laughter from the volunteers.

'SHUT UP!' roared Macro. The volunteers fell silent without the need for translation. 'Now, then, each man raise his right arm horizontally, like me. Your hand should rest on the next man's shoulder. If it doesn't, then move yourself until it does.'

The natives started to shuffle around the moment Tincommius had finished translating and a soft babbling of Celtic broke out.

'IN SILENCE!'

With stilled tongues they continued positioning themselves, all save one poor soul, who caught Macro's eye almost at once.

'You there! You trying to make a fool of me? Right arm, I said, NOT YOUR BLOODY LEFT! Cato! Sort him out!'

The junior centurion trotted over to the object of Macro's rage. The native was short and thickset, with a dull bovine expression of incomprehension. Cato resisted the temptation to give him a friendly smile by way of greeting, and pushed the man's left arm down to his side. He tapped him on the right shoulder. 'This one!' Cato said in Celtic.

'Right arm… right arm. Got it? Right arm up!' Cato raised his hand to demonstrate and the native nodded like an idiot. Cato smiled and took a step back before trying again. 'Dress ranks!… No, the right arm, I said! Like everyone else!'

'What are you doing, Centurion Cato?' shouted Macro as he stormed over. 'Here! Get out of my way. There's only one way to teach dumb bastards like him.'

Macro stood in front of the tribesman, who was still grinning, more nervously now.

'What you smiling at? Think I'm funny, do you?' Macro grinned. 'Is that it? Well, let's see how fucking funny you think I am then!'

He brought up his vine cane and slashed it against the man's left arm.

'LEFT ARM!'

The man yelped in agony, but before he could do anything else Macro whacked the cane against the man's other side.

'RIGHT ARM!… Now, let's see if we've learned anything… Left arm!'

The native quickly shot his left arm into the air.

'Right arm!'

Down came one arm, up shot the other.

'Bravo, mate! We'll make a soldier of you yet. Carry on, Centurion Cato.'

'Yes, sir.'

Once the volunteers could form up to Macro's satisfaction then came the time to assess their fitness. Section by section the Atrebatans led off into a steady run around the perimeter of the depot. Cato and Macro were posted diagonally opposite each other and urged each section on as it rounded the angle and started down the next length. In a short space of time the sections had merged into a stream of men, puffing and panting their way round the depot. As Macro had expected, the warriors clustered to the front, along with the fittest of the others and quickly began to move ahead of the rest.

'It's not a race!' Macro roared, cupping a hand to his mouth, 'Cato! Tell 'em I want to see how long they can keep it up. Slow 'em down.'

All morning he drove them on. After a while the first men began to drop out: the weakest and those too old to keep up. They were immediately escorted to the depot gates and shown out. Most took their rejection in good enough spirits. Some were evidently ashamed and snapped surly comments over their shoulders as they disappeared through the depot gates. The rest forced themselves to keep going, round and round, many with grim expressions of determination.

At midday Macro sauntered across the depot to join Cato at the parade ground.

'I think that's enough. We'll give this lot some food and rest and have a look at the next batch. Let me know how many we've got left as soon as you can.'

As the volunteers reached him, Cato waved them down and ticked the numbers off on a slate before directing them over to the headquarters building where some of the garrison were handing out flatbread and cups of watered wine. As the last man staggered away Cato made his report.

'Eighty-four remaining.'

'Any of Tincommius' warriors fall out?'

'Not one.'

'Impressive. Wonder how they'll do in full equipment? Let's have a look at the next lot.'

And so the process went on for the next three days, until Macro had his two cohorts. At dusk on the third day, a cohort of the Second Legion arrived to escort the supply convoy back to the legion. Every wagon that Macro could lay his hands on had been made ready and fully loaded with supplies. Vespasian would be able to maintain his army in the field for a few more weeks, but the men in the depot now depended upon the safe arrival of the next convoy from Rutupiae, due in less than twenty days. Only a small escort could be spared to protect it when it set out on the last leg of its journey from the fortress on the Tamesis. Unless a covering force from Calleva could meet it on the way, there was a good chance that it would be detected by the scouts of the Durotrigans and ambushed. With a thousand extra mouths to feed from the supplies in the depot the two cohorts were going to have to earn their keep.