Macro watched Tincommius closely. The man seemed sincere enough. But you could never really tell with these Britons, Macro reflected as he downed another horn of ale.

'As long as I can remember the Atrebatans have been fighting other tribes,' Tincommius continued. 'Always the Durotrigans, and lately the Catuvellaunians, who so cruelly threw you out, sire.'

Verica frowned at the tactless mention of his eviction from the throne by Caratacus and his tribe.

'I never knew any different. War was our way, the way of all the Celtic tribes of this island. It's why we live in these poor huts, why we can never have our own empire. We have no common purpose, so we must bind ourselves to one who has… the Emperor.'

'Although Caratacus hasn't been doing too badly on that score!' Macro chipped in, with a faint slur to his voice. Cato did a quick calculation and realised with alarm that Macro was already into his fourth horn of beer – on top of all the wine he had been drinking that afternoon. Macro nodded at Tincommius. 'I mean, look how many tribes he's managed to line up against us so far. If we don't kill the bastard quickly, who knows what trouble he's going to cause our general?'

'Quite!' The merchant gave an oily smile. 'But we wouldn't want to give any credence to the idea that the enemy has any realistic chance of defying the legions, would we, Centurion? What does the other Roman officer think, I wonder?'

Cato, who had been looking down in embarrassment while Macro spoke, raised his head to see that everyone was looking at him expectantly. He swallowed nervously, and made himself pause a moment to avoid blurting out anything that might make him look foolish. 'I speak with little authority on the matter. I've been serving with the Eagles for less than two years.'

The merchant's eyebrows rose. 'And already a centurion?'

'A good one!' Macro nodded, and might have continued to say more, but Cato quickly continued.

'In that time I've fought the Germans as well as the Catuvellaunians, the Trinovantans and the Durotrigans. They're all fine warriors, as are the Atrebatans. But none of them can hold their own against the legions. When a nation takes up arms against Rome there can only ever be one result. The outcome may be delayed by the odd setback, or by an enemy who resorts to the kind of hit-and-run tactics Caratacus seems to be employing against us now. But the legions will always be on the advance, grinding down every enemy strongpoint under their heels. In the end, even Caratacus will not be able to keep the field. There will be no one left to supply him with new men, new equipment and, above all, food and shelter.'

Cato paused to allow Tincommius to translate his words to those with little or no Latin. Artax snorted with contempt and shook his head.

'I mean no disrespect to the tribes of these lands,' Cato continued. 'In fact, I have come to admire them, in many ways.' A vision of the gory trophies his men had taken after the ambush flashed through his mind. 'There are many great warriors amongst them, and that's their weakness. An army comprised of a multitude of such men has little value unless it is moulded into a single entity with unity of purpose, unity of action and subordinate to one will. That's why the legions will beat Caratacus. That's why they will destroy everyone that opposes them until Caratacus submits. By now he should know that he cannot win. He should know that he can only prolong the suffering of the tribes by continuing to resist, and it makes me grieve.'

'Grieve?' interrupted Verica. 'You grieve for your enemy?'

Cato nodded. 'Yes, my lord. I desire peace above all else. A peace in which both Rome and the Celtic people can profit. Peace will come one way or another, but always on Rome's terms. The longer some other tribes persist in refusing what you and the Atrebatans have come to accept, the longer the suffering on all sides will continue. It's pointless to resist. No, it's worse than pointless. It's immoral to cause suffering to continue when you know you can't prevail.'

There was a short silence after Cato's words had been translated. Then Artax spoke quietly.

'I wonder if it's immoral for us to be to be forced into such a position in the first place. Why has Rome come to these shores? What need has she of our poor hovels, when she has great cities, and immeasurable wealth of her own. Why does Rome seek to take what little we have?' Artax glared at him.

'You may have little now, but join the Empire and you will have more in the future.' Cato replied.

Artax laughed bitterly. 'I doubt that Rome is here for our benefit.'

Cato smiled. 'You're right, for now. But in the end you might live to see this land a better place, thanks to Rome.'

Tincommius frowned. 'But I still don't understand why Rome would want to come here if there was no profit in it.'

'Politics!' said Macro. 'Bloody politics. Gives the nobs a chance to grab themselves a little glory. They get a nice write-up in the history books, while us rankers get ourselves killed. That's the way it is.'

'So it's all about making Emperor Claudius look good?'

'Of course.' Macro looked shocked at the naivety of the British prince. 'Besides,' he continued, wagging his finger, 'what makes you think it's any different over here? That's what all war is about – making some bastard or other look good. Now, where's the bloody beer gone? Slave! Come here!'

While Macro waited for his horn to be filled up Cato quickly changed the subject.

'My lord, when do we get to see this mysterious entertainment you've arranged for us?'

'Patience, Centurion! First we must eat.' Verica nodded towards some of the noblemen's wives talking loudly at one of the nearest feasting tables. 'I doubt some of the more sensitive stomachs would care to continue eating when they see what I have in store for them.'

When the last platters had been taken away by the kitchen slaves, Cadminius called for the guests to rise while the long trestle tables were pushed to the sides of the hall by the kitchen slaves. Verica retired to his high throne with a commanding view down the length of the hall, and those at the head table joined the rest of the packed throng sitting and standing at the cleared tables. More jugs of beer emerged from the kitchen and were distributed amongst the crowd, already loudly drunk, and the smoky rafters echoed to their shouts. The Celts kept to themselves and the foreigners formed a small, conspicuous group close to Verica's throne. Only Tincommius remained with them. Artax and the other high nobles had joined their warrior friends and were competing amongst themselves to see who could drink the most ale in one go. A handful of those with weaker stomachs had already passed out, while others were puking against the stone walls of the hall.

'Your king certainly knows how to throw a party,' Macro smiled approvingly as he looked round the crowd. 'Can't bloody wait for the main event.'

'Won't have to,' Tincommius replied. 'Look there.'

The main doors were swung open and some of the bodyguards manoeuvred a covered wagon into the centre of the hall. The noise from the crowd took on an excited tone as everyone strained to get a good view of the wagon. The wheels ground on the flagstones as something lurched under the cover and Cato heard a deep grunt above the hubbub of the guests. The bodyguards heaved the wagon into position just short of the dead centre of the hall. The covers were drawn back and the guests gave gasps of surprise and delight at the sight of two cages. In the larger was a huge boar, wild with fright and rage. In the smaller cage were three long-limbed hunting dogs, with deep chests and grey wiry hair, which rose stiffly along their backs as they growled at the boar.

'This should be good!' Macro beamed, and drained his cup. 'Haven't seen a decent animal fight since Camulodunum.'