At the sight of Macro and Cato the children ran over to the two centurions who had defeated the Durotrigans and crowded round them, babbling away in their singsong Celtic.

'All right! All right!' Macro grinned as he raised his hands. 'See? I've got nothing for you. Nothing!'

Cato's grim expression had deterred all but the most thick-skinned of the children and he glared at the others who finally got the point and turned their attention to Macro.

'Why so glum? Hey, Cato!'

Cato looked round. 'Glum?'

'You look like someone who just lost a bloody fight, not won it! Come on, lad. Join the celebrations.'

'I will, later.'

'Later? What's wrong with now?'

'Sir.' Cato nodded down at the children.

One of the urchins, more daring than the others, was fiddling with the fastening of one of the silver medallions on Macro's harness.

'Why, you little bastard!' Macro cuffed the boy heavily on the ear. 'What the bloody hell do you think you're up to, sunshine? All of you! You've had your fun, now piss off!'

He swept them away with broad strokes of his arm, sending several sprawling on the street with a shrill chorus of shrieks and screams. The others kept out of the centurion's reach and giggled as he made a wild face at them. 'Grrrrr! Get out of here before the big bad Roman eats you all for his supper.'

When the children continued to dog his footsteps Macro's tiredness soon won out over his good spirits, and he turned and drew his sword. At the sight of the glinting blade the Atrebatan children fled screaming into the narrow alleys between the huts.

'That's better.' Macro nodded with satisfaction. 'Though they don't give up easily, that lot.'

'Blame it on the parents,' Cato smiled humourlessly. 'The speed the general's campaign is going, I shouldn't be surprised if those children are old enough to fight the Durotrigans before we're through. Or fight us.'

Macro stopped and looked at his junior centurion. 'You really are in a shitty mood, aren't you?'

Cato shrugged. 'Only thinking. That's all. Just ignore me.'

'Thinking?' Macro raised his eyebrows, then shook his head sadly. 'Like all things, there's a time and a place for that, my boy. We should be celebrating, like our lads. You, particularly.'

Cato raised his eyebrows. 'Me?'

'You've proved the quacks wrong. A few weeks ago they were all for giving you a medical discharge. If only they could have seen you in action! So let's celebrate. In fact, the moment we've seen these wagons safely inside the depot, you and me are going to have a drink. My treat.'

Cato tried not to show his alarm at the prospect of one of Macro's drinking binges. Unlike his friend, who enjoyed a cast-iron constitution, and quickly recovered from any amount of drink, wine and beer went straight to Cato's head, and he suffered the appalling consequences for days. Much as he was relieved to prove the surgeon wrong, there were other matters that required his attention.

'Sir, we must make a report to the legate, and the general, at once. Then we have to join Verica tonight.'

'Screw Verica. Let's get drunk.'

'We can't do that,' Cato continued patiently. 'We dare not cause any offence. Vespasian's orders were very firm about that.'

'Bloody orders.'

Cato nodded sympathetically, and then tried to change the subject. 'And we need to think about how the men performed at the river crossing.'

'What's there to think about? We kicked the stuffing out of the Durotrigans.'

'This time, maybe. When we next face them we might not have the advantage of surprise.'

'The lads did well enough,' protested Macro. 'Got stuck into the enemy like pros. Well, maybe not professionals – they'll never match up to the legions.'

'Quite. That's what worries me. They're overconfident. That can be a very dangerous thing. They need more training.'

'Of course they do!' Macro slapped him on the shoulder. 'And we're just the men to give them it. Why, we'll drill 'em into the ground, make them curse the day they were born. In the end they'll be as good as any auxiliaries serving with the Eagles. Mark my words!'

'I hope so.' Cato forced himself to smile.

'That's the spirit! Now let's get back to the depot and see if we can find a jar or two of wine.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

As soon as he left the celebrating crowd King Verica returned to the royal enclosure and summoned his council of advisors and the most trusted members of his family. He waited until the last of the kitchen slaves had left the chamber before he spoke. His audience was seated at a long table, watching their king with keen expectation. Each man had a drinking goblet, and several pitchers of wine had been left for them to share. Although Verica wanted sober heads to consider the situation, this was balanced with a need for each to speak his mind as honestly as possible, and wine, consumed in quantity, was generally a sound way to loosen tongues.

Besides his wise council, made up of the most ancient and respected of the Atrebatan nobles, the younger blades of nobility were represented by Tincommius, Artax and the captain of the royal bodyguard, Cadminius. Verica needed to sound out the broadest range of opinion in those upon whose loyalty his rule of the Atrebatans depended. The youngsters were looking excited and not a little awed to have been consulted in this manner.

After the latch on the door clanked down there was a moment of silence before Verica began. He knew the value of silence as a means of focusing attention. He cleared his throat and began.

'Before we get to the substance of this meeting I want you to swear an oath that whatever is said here this afternoon goes no further than these walls. Swear it now!'

His guests slid their hands down to their dagger hilts and made the vow in a collective low mumble. One or two looked slightly offended by the instruction.

'Very well, let's begin. By now you all know about the Atrebatan prisoners taken by our men at the ambush. Most of you were there to welcome the cohorts home. You may have witnessed the unfortunate scene when that woman discovered her son's head amongst the war trophies.'

Cadminius grinned at the memory, and a cruel sense of mirth at the woman's grim discovery caused some of the others to chuckle. Verica's face remained expressionless, except the eyes, which involuntarily widened with mild shock and a little anger at the laughter. When the laughter had died away he leaned forward slightly.

'Gentlemen, there's nothing in the situation that should amuse you. When our own people are killing each other there's no room for rejoicing.'

'But, sire,' protested an old warrior, 'the man betrayed us. All those men betrayed us. They deserved their fate, and that woman should never have shamed herself grieving for a son who turned on his own people, turned against his own king.'

There was a mumble of approval for these words, but Verica quickly raised his hand to quiet them.

'I agree, Mendacus. But what of the people out there? The people of Calleva, and our lands beyond the walls of the town? How many of them agree with us? Surely not all. How could that be when so many of them are now fighting with Caratacus? Fighting against us, as well as our Roman allies. Answer me that!'

'Such men are fools, sire,' Mendacus replied. 'Hot heads. The kind of impressionable young men who are easily talked into anything…'

'Fools?' Verica shook his head sadly. 'Not fools. Not that, at least. It's no easy thing to turn your back on your people. I should know.'

The king raised his eyes and scanned the faces around the table. His shame was mirrored in their expressions. He had fled for his life when Caratacus had marched on Calleva several years earlier. Fled in the night like a coward, and run to the Romans to throw himself on their mercy. They had seen that the old man might yet have a part to play in the Empire's designs and had given him shelter and looked after him well. But such hospitality is not without its price. When the time came, the favour was called in and the Emperor's chief secretary, Narcissus, made it quite clear to him that the price demanded by Rome for returning him to his throne was eternal obedience. Nothing short of that would do. And Verica had readily agreed, as he and Narcissus had both known he would. So when the legions landed in Britain, Verica marched with them. His kingdom had been returned to him at the point of a Roman sword and the many who had clung to their Catuvellaunian overlords ran into exile, or resisted and died.