‘One of the decurions found some bodies over there, sir. Looks like the owner of the villa and his family, and their overseers. Their throats have been cut.’

Marcus saw the shaken expression on the tribune’s face as Caesar turned to him.

‘That’s too bad.’

Quintus nodded and hesitated a moment before he spoke again. ‘Should I give orders for a funeral or burial, sir?’

‘There’s no time for that. Once Festus gets the information I need we’ll be moving out.’

‘What if the rebel won’t speak, sir?’ asked Marcus. ‘What if he doesn’t know anything useful?’

‘He’ll know something. And trust me, he will speak. Festus has never let me down in that regard.’

Before Marcus could respond there was a long, piercing shriek from behind the shed, and then another, followed by a terrified gabbling and pleading before a fresh scream sent a shiver down Marcus’s spine.

While the torturing continued, Caesar sent some men to search the buildings for food and wine. When they returned, together with some stools, he and his officers sat down and tucked into the makeshift meal. While Caesar attempted to lighten the mood by talking about the approaching campaign in Gaul, Marcus stood a short distance away and looked on with a growing sense of disgust. He could not block out the pies of the rebel. In the end, he paced away, standing close to the burning building where the roar of flames almost covered up the sounds of torment.

At length the rebel fell silent and a moment later Festus emerged, wiping the blood from his dagger with a strip of cloth cut from the rebel’s cloak. As he saw him, Marcus turned away from the fire to rejoin Caesar and his officers.

‘Well?’ Caesar demanded. ‘What did you get out of the wretch?’

‘He didn’t know, or wouldn’t say, where Brixus has his camp, sir. He was part of a separate band that Brixus had ordered to raid this villa.’

‘Damn! Is that all?’

‘No, sir.’ Festus sheathed his dagger. ‘There’s more. After this raid, Polonius and the others will join Brixus in a gathering of his bands. They are massing to attack the town of Sedunum, at the end of the next valley. Brixus and two thousand of his men will attack at dawn tomorrow.’

Caesar’s lips parted in a cold smile. ‘How far is it to the town?’

One of his tribunes coughed. ‘No more than ten miles, sir.’

Caesar turned to the officer. ‘And how do you know this?’

‘I have an uncle there, sir. I’ve visited Sedunum several times.’

‘Excellent. How does the land he around the town?’

The tribune collected his thoughts. ‘It is at the end of the valley, with mountains on three sides, and a river crosses in front of the town. If Brixus plans to attack at dawn, he will probably be concealed in the trees on this side of the river, facing the town.’

‘Then we have them!’ Caesar punched a fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘As long as we act at once. We can’t take them with the cavalry alone. I need the infantry. They will have to march through the night if we are to corner Brixus against the river.’ He turned to Quintus. ‘Ride back to the column. Leave one cohort to guard the baggage train. The rest are to drop their packs and march on Sedunum. I’ll be waiting a few miles short of the town. Once the infantry have come, we’ll attack Brixus and his rabble in their camp. It will all be over before the day even begins.’

‘You mean to attack under cover of darkness, sir?’ asked Quintus.

‘That is the best way to surprise your enemy,’ Caesar replied sharply. ‘Do you question my orders?’

‘Of course not, sir. But is one cohort sufficient to protect the baggage train?’

‘Protect it from what? You heard Festus. The rebels are gathering ahead of us.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Quintus paused. ‘It’s just that all our supplies, the tents and the packs of the rest of the column will be with the baggage train. If anything happens to it the men will be with-out food or shelter.’

‘The baggage train will surely catch up with us by the end of the day,’ Caesar responded. ‘I have made up my mind. Now give the orders.’

Marcus felt a nagging doubt at the back of his mind. There was something wrong about this. It was all too neat. He took a step forward, between the officers, so that he was clearly visible to Caesar.

‘Sir, the tribune is right. It would be dangerous to put the baggage train at risk. Besides, why would Brixus let himself be caught in a trap?’

‘He doesn’t know it’s a trap,’ Caesar snapped. ‘Besides, he’s just a slave. A brigand. All he’s interested in is looting and revenge. He’s become too confident. Success has made him arrogant and now he is going to pay the price.’

‘But, sir — ’

‘Enough, Marcus! You are only a boy. Still your tongue. Do you dare to defy my will in this?’

‘The boy is right, sir,’ Quintus interrupted. ‘We cannot risk leaving our men without shelter and food if anything happens to the baggage train.’

Caesar’s expression hardened. ‘Since you are so concerned about it, Tribune, then you will take command of the baggage. There will be no place for you in tomorrow’s battle. No share of the victory. I will not have men who fear for their safety at my side in a fight.’ His gaze shifted to Marcus. ‘Nor boys who share such fear. Both of you will return to the column at once. And when you have passed on my orders, stay there.’

Quintus opened his mouth to protest, then clamped his jaw shut and bowed his head before turning towards the horses held ready by one of the troopers. Marcus stood his ground, burning with shame at the accusation of cowardice that Caesar had thrown at him.

‘What are you waiting for, boy?’ Caesar waved his hand. ‘Get out of my sight.’

Marcus nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin line. He glanced towards Festus who gave the slightest of shrugs, then turned to stride stiffly through the snow to catch up with Quintus, his heart filled with a sense of foreboding.

Tribune Quintus watched the rear of the infantry column marching off into the gloom with an anxious expression. Around him the men of the rearguard were busy picking up the marching yokes of their comrades and heaping them on to the supply carts and wagons. Even the wagon of Decimus had been pressed into service and his men were grumbling as they helped the legionaries. Marcus had raised the hood of his cloak the moment they joined the baggage train and did his best to keep out of sight of Decimus as he followed the tribune.

Quintus was no more than five or six years older than himself, Marcus estimated. His cheeks sported only a faint blur of stubble and he looked no different from the youths hanging around the street corners of Rome. Only he was now in charge of five hundred soldiers and another two hundred mule drivers of the baggage train. As Marcus watched, Quintus raised his thumb to his mouth and chewed on the nail.

A fresh flurry of snow had blown down from the mountain peaks. Very quickly, the swirling flakes swallowed up the departing column, filling the air with a mournful moan and faint swish as the wind disturbed the tops of the laden fir trees on either side of the track.

‘You were right to warn him,’ Marcus said quietly.

Quintus turned and frowned at him. ‘I don’t need some ex-slave to tell me that.’

Marcus controlled his anger. ‘I apologize if you think I am speaking out of turn. I just thought you should know.’

Quintus glared at him in silence for a moment. ‘Just who in Hades do you think you are? You’re just a boy. I know you’ve trained as a gladiator and even won a fight or two, but that doesn’t make you an expert in anything. Why on earth Caesar keeps you close to his side is beyond me.’

‘I’m not at his side now,’ Marcus pointed out.

‘But he still listened to you, and holds you in some kind of regard. Just like his niece. Anyone would think you were Portia s little brother from the way she goes on about you.’ he said bitterly.