'The traitors are to die. If they had been Durotrigans they might be spared with a less terrible end. There can be no easy death for those who turn on the tribe that gave life to them and demands loyalty unto death in return. Therefore, they will die like dogs, and their bodies will be cast into Calleva's midden for the carrion to feed on.'

'He can't be serious,' Cato whispered to Tincommius. 'Surely?'

'Not with my bloody prisoners!' Macro added indignantly.

Before they could raise any protest, a figure leaped from the crowd and ran into the space between the hunting dogs and the huddle of bound prisoners. Artax pointed to the prisoners and addressed his king and the guests in a deep, commanding voice.

'What's he saying?' asked Macro.

Cato could understand some of the words, but Artax's passion had been inflamed. That, and far too much beer, made the torrent of words hard to follow. Cato grasped Tincommius' arm and nodded at Artax.

'He knows those men,' Tincommius explained. 'One is his half-brother. Another is his wife's cousin. He wants them spared. No member of our tribe should die like this.'

A grumble of assent accompanied Artax's words, but Verica pointed a trembling finger at the prisoners and replied in tones of indignant anger, 'They will die. They must serve as an example to all those who would side with the enemies of the Atrebatans and Rome. The lesson must be learned. All those who even think of betraying their king must learn of his terrible revenge.'

A loud chorus shouted in support of their king and an empty goblet sailed across the hall and struck one of the prisoners on the head. Artax was shaking his head as the king spoke, and then raised his voice in protest once again. Tincommius translated for the two Romans.

'He begs the king not to proceed with this, that such an atrocity will turn the people against him.'

Verica angrily shouted Artax down and gestured to Cadminius to remove the nobleman. Artax continued to shout his protests, even after the captain of the bodyguard had grasped his arm, wrenched Artax towards the entrance of the great hall and thrust him outside. Without any further delay Cadminius strode over to the huddle of prisoners, took the nearest man by the chain binding his wrists together, and dragged him into the centre of the hall. Left alone, the prisoner struggled desperately against his bonds and screamed for help. The dog handlers unleashed the hunting dogs and snapped their fingers to attract the animals' attention. The victim was pointed out, then there was a moment's awful silence, even from the prisoner, who watched the dogs, transfixed. Then the word of command was given and the dogs leaped on the helpless man. He screamed, shrill and terrified as the dogs mauled his face, struggling to reach his throat. Then the screams were muffled, and there was only a gurgling whimper. Then nothing. The man went limp. The dogs jerked the corpse around like a straw training dummy.

There were cheers from the crowd. But as Cato looked round it was clear that many of the guests were horrified by the spectacle, and they watched in silence.

'Shit…' muttered Macro. 'Shit… That's no way for a man to die.'

'Not even a traitor?' Tincommius said acidly.

The handlers pulled the dogs back from the body. It was no easy task now that their killer instincts had been roused. Two men dragged the body away as Cadminius selected his next victim and dragged the man out on to the blood-smeared flagstones where the first man had died. Cato looked towards Verica, hoping that the king might change his mind, even now. But the cold look of satisfaction on Verica's face was clear for all to see.

Cato nudged Macro as he stood up. 'I have to go. I can't watch this.'

Macro turned towards him and Cato was surprised to see that even this hardened veteran had seen more than he could stomach.

'Wait for me, lad.'

Macro heaved himself off the table, and struggled to find his legs under the influence of all the beer he had drunk that evening. 'Give me a hand here. Tincommius, we'll see you in the depot tomorrow.'

Without tearing his eyes away from the fate of the second man Tincommius nodded faintly.

Cato slipped Macro's arm over his shoulder and made his way towards the main entrance, keeping as far from the dogs as possible, while the beasts tore into another victim. Outside the hall Macro could take it no more. He wrenched himself free, staggered a few steps away from his friend and doubled over, vomiting. While Cato waited for Macro to finish, a steady stream of Atrebatan nobles left the great hall, struggling to hide their feelings of horror and disgust as, behind them, fresh screams split the night air.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

'When did this arrive, exactly?' General Plautius tossed the report on to the desk of his chief clerk. The man turned the scrolled parchment the right way up, and by the light of an oil lamp he ran his finger across the top until he found the index notation.

'Just a moment, please, sir,' the clerk said, rising from his chair.

The general nodded, and turned away to stare out through the tent flaps. The sky was overcast and even though the sun had only just set it was already quite dark. Dark and hot. The humid air was oppressively uncomfortable, and threatened a break in the good weather of the last few days. Much as a storm might clear the prickly discomfort in the atmosphere, the general dreaded the effect it would have on his transport vehicles. Of all the places he had fought in his career, this ghastly island had to be one of the worst as far as the weather went. Even though this land never knew the long savage cold of a German winter or the seething heat of the plains of Syria, it had a peculiar discomfort all of its own.

The problem with Britain was that the island was always more or less damp, the general decided. A few hours of rainfall left the ground slick with mud, and any attempt to move even a small force of men and vehicles across it soon churned up a glutinous bog, which sucked the army down and caked everything in filth. And this was on the good ground. Plautius had seen enough of the British marshes to know how impenetrable they could be to his forces. The natives, however, had made good use of their local knowledge and had sited a number of their forward camps on whatever firm ground existed in the vast spread of wetlands west of the upper reaches of the Tamesis. From these bases Caratacus was launching his raiding columns through the thin Roman screen of fortlets. They struck at the legions' supply convoys, destroyed the farms and settlements of those tribes allied to Rome and, when ambition caused the warlike Celtic blood to rush to their heads, they even took on the odd Roman patrol or minor fortification.

The invaders were dying the death of a thousand cuts, and Plautius had used up all his political capital with the Emperor; there would be few reinforcements from now on. And those troops that were sent to Britain would be accompanied by the inevitable terse and sarcastic request from Narcissus for a speedy defeat of Caratacus. The last such message had left the general in an icy rage, with its politely worded sting: 'My dear Aulus Plautius, if you are not using your army for the next few months would you mind awfully if I might borrow it awhile?'

The general ground his teeth in frustration at the easy manner in which those in the lofty marbled offices on the Palatine sent out their orders with no regard for the actual conditions in which their far-flung soldiers fought to defend or extend the Empire. Plautius tensed his shoulders and smacked his fist into the palm of the other hand.

A handful of clerks were still busy at desks placed along the side of the tent, and looked up as he gave vent to his frustration. Plautius glared at them.