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‘Come on!’ yelled Lollius. ‘I bet you hit your horse twice as hard.’

Cassius’s next blow hit the man on the arm.

‘Draw blood at least,’ snapped Venator.

Cassius unleashed a final blow across the man’s head. The Celt cried out.

‘Better, better,’ said Venator.

Cassius lowered the crop to his side. He couldn’t bear to look at the man.

‘Finished already?’ Venator asked as Cassius moved past Estan.

‘It’s enough, sir.’

Venator bent over in front of the first Celt. ‘Let’s have an apology to the officer then.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the auxiliary.

This time Cassius made sure he put enough into the attack to keep it quick. He hit the second man hard three times; once across the head, twice across the shoulder. At the third blow, the Celt fell on to his side with a whimper. The centurion righted him by pulling him up by his hair. Cassius felt a thick bile rising up his throat. He coughed to clear it. The centurion laughed.

‘I do believe he’s going green.’

Lollius chuckled, as did a couple of the legionaries.

Venator held up a finger, quietening them all in an instant. He peered down at the auxiliary.

‘Well, that’s a quarter of what I’d give him but I suppose it will have to do.’ He slapped the Celt across the nose and pointed to Cassius. ‘Your turn.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Good. You can take these two to the stockade now. Leave this fellow with us.’

The centurion ordered his men to get the prisoners on their feet, then the seven of them walked away along the avenue.

‘Now, Corbulo,’ said Venator. ‘You are not to stop until we get an apology from this one too.’

From what he’d seen of Estan, Cassius dreaded to think what might be required to get him to cooperate.

‘Sir, please. I’m not sure what purpose this serves.’

Venator frowned. ‘You should be thanking me for this, Corbulo. You have caused us considerable inconvenience today.’

Cassius bowed. ‘I do thank you, sir, I do.’

‘I know you’re not a real army officer but I think you need to face some harsh realities. The field is no place for half-measures. This man tried to kill you. What did you think we would do?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘We will get that apology. There are other methods we can use. Isn’t that right, Quartermaster?’

‘Tried and tested methods, sir,’ said Lollius, tapping a thumb against the hilt of his dagger.

‘You seem to prefer talking to doing, Corbulo,’ continued Venator. ‘Why don’t you try to persuade him?’

Cassius could still not quite believe how the prefect had been considered and urbane one moment, thuggish and cruel the next. He took a breath, and locked eyes with Estan.

‘Just say it, man. Save yourself the pain. Just apologise.’

‘Not to you, Skinny. Never.’

Lollius laughed; Venator too.

Cassius lashed the Celt across the head, catching him just above his ear. Estan shut his eyes for a moment but then looked up and smiled. Cassius raised his arm high, and brought the crop down hard on his neck. He kept hitting him there, until Estan turned his head away; then Cassius shifted to his left, and swung the crop up into his face. The Celt’s head snapped up, and Cassius unleashed a flurry of blows down on him, not caring where he struck him, as long as every ounce of his strength went into each blow. Only when Estan grunted with pain did he stop.

Cassius stood there, sweating, trying to think through the rhythmic pounding in his head. He was gripping the crop so hard that his fingernails were biting into his palm.

Estan’s face and neck were heavily marked. The skin had opened up in several places. He was no longer smiling.

‘Not bad, not bad,’ said Venator. He looked down at Estan. ‘Well, ready to speak yet?’

Estan spat on to Cassius’s tunic.

Venator tutted. ‘Tough son of a bitch, isn’t he? Now I know why we never managed to conquer Caledonia.’

He nodded to Lollius; and the quartermaster drove a knee into Estan’s back, sending him head first into the mud. Then he put the same knee between the Celt’s shoulder blades, pinning him. He reached down and tried to grip Estan’s manacled left forearm but the Celt was struggling.

‘Help him there, Corbulo,’ ordered Venator. ‘Stand on his arm.’

‘What?’

‘Address me correctly, damn you. You heard me: stand on his arm.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cassius stammered.

Lollius had drawn his dagger.

‘Keep him still!’ ordered the quartermaster.

Venator pushed Cassius towards them. Lollius bent Estan’s arm towards him, so that the Celt’s hand was in reach. Cassius placed his boot on the forearm.

‘Stand on it!’ Lollius yelled.

Cassius pressed down harder. Mud oozed out from beneath Estan’s arm. He was still struggling.

Venator tutted again, then came forward and planted his foot on Estan’s other arm.

‘Do hurry up, Lollius.’ He then called out to his servant: ‘Amandio, get some more wine on, my tribunes will be here soon.’

Estan’s face was flat against the mud, twisted towards Cassius.

Lollius gripped the Celt’s wrist with his spare hand.

‘Just say it,’ Cassius told Estan. ‘Just say it.’

‘Which finger, sir?’ the quartermaster asked.

‘Who cares? Just hurry up.’

Say sorry. Just say sorry.

Lollius pushed down so that the Celt’s fingers splayed out in the mud. He placed the edge of the blade against the little finger. Estan was still trying to pull his hand free. Lollius dug in his knee. ‘Hold still, damn you.’

He put the blade against the finger again.

Cassius squeezed his eyes shut.

Say it, say it, say it.

Lollius began to slice through the finger just below the knuckle.

‘I’m sorry!’ cried Estan. ‘I’m sorry!’

Lollius stopped cutting. Cassius removed his boot. Lollius looked down at the finger. ‘Only just into the bone. You might just keep it, Celt.’

The quartermaster stood up.

The first thing Estan did was to grip the mutilated finger with his other hand to hold it in place. Then he dragged himself to his knees, half his face covered in mud.

Cassius reached into his belt and took out the handkerchief Simo insisted on giving him every morning. He handed it to Estan, who took it and wrapped it around his finger.

‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ said Venator. ‘Back to the stockade with him, Quartermaster. And apologies for taking up so much of your evening.’

‘Sir.’

Lollius hauled Estan to his feet by his tunic, then directed him on to the avenue and to the left. The Celt hobbled away, slowed by the shackles. Lollius followed, still taunting him.

Venator fixed Cassius with an imperious stare. ‘Leave the crop just inside the tent. Amandio will clean it later.’

Cassius did so. When he returned outside, Venator nodded at the departing Celt.

‘A lesson for you there, Corbulo. You’ll not last long in the Service if you’ve no stomach for the rough stuff. How do you think your friend Abascantius gets answers when he needs them? Lollius and I are but novices in the dark arts of coercion compared to him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Think on it. You’re dismissed.’

Venator went inside. Cassius stood there for a moment, listening to the low hiss of the oil lamps, staring down at the hollows and lines where Estan had struggled in the mud. He walked to the avenue, turned right and started back for the tent.

What a day it had been. A terrible, violent day. And he knew it wouldn’t be the memory of those Celts trying to throttle him that would stay with him. It would be the sight of himself — as if observed through another’s eyes — whipping a kneeling, manacled prisoner until he bled.