Attempting to conceal his laughter, one of the Gauls coughed loudly. Quintus flushed with anger, but Fabricius did nothing. Nor did Agesandros. He looked at his father again, but Fabricius’ gaze was set. He would get no sympathy, and the Gaul no reprimand. Today of all days he had to earn the vilicus’ and the slaves’ respect. Again Quintus pondered. At last an idea popped into his mind.

‘Blackberries,’ he blurted. ‘They love blackberries.’ Higher up, in the clearings on the south-facing slopes, were sprawling bramble bushes, which fruited far earlier than those growing on slopes with a different orientation. Bears spent much of their life in search of food. It was as good a place to look as any.

Right on cue, the staccato sound of a woodpecker broke the silence. A moment later, the noise was repeated from a different location. His pulse racing, Quintus searched the trees, finally seeing not one, but two black woodpeckers. The elusive birds were sacred to Mars, the warrior god. Good omens. Turning on his heel, Quintus headed in an entirely different direction.

His smiling father was close behind, followed by Agesandros and the Gauls.

None was laughing now.

Not long after, Quintus’ prayers were answered in royal style. He’d checked several glades, with no luck. Finally, though, in the shade of a tall pine tree, he found a lump of fresh dung. Its shape, size and distinctive scent was unmistakable, and Quintus could have cheered at the sight. He stuck a finger into the dark brown mass. The centre had not grown completely cold, which meant that a bear had passed by in the recent past. There were also plenty of brambles nearby. Jerking his head at the tattooed man, Quintus pointed at the ground. The Gaul trotted up, and his two dogs instantly converged on the pile of evidence. Both began whining frantically, alternately sniffing the dung and the air. Quintus’ pulse quickened, and the Gaul gave him an enquiring look.