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picked him out to replace his previous servant who had died in the fort at Bruccium. Despite his lack of experience as a servant, the man had a clean record and his decurion vouched for his honesty and his command of Latin. He would do for the present, Cato decided, but once the campaign season was over he intended to buy himself a good-quality slave from the market in Londinium to take on the necessary duties and allow Thraxis to return to his squadron.
    Cato pointed to his breastplate. ‘I’ll be saving that for ceremonial use only. Get down to the camp-followers’ market and find some lacquer. I want it cleaned up, painted and polished so that it gleams like new.’
    ‘Yes, Prefect.’
    ‘And while you’re there, is there anything we need for my personal stores?’
    Thraxis lowered his gaze and thought briefly. ‘Wine and cheese, Prefect. The stock is running low.’ He flashed a glance in Macro’s direction. ‘Due to recent consumption.’
    ‘Is there enough coin in my mess kitty?’ asked Cato.
    ‘Yes, Prefect. Though it will require fresh funds by the end of the month.’
    ‘Very well, see if you can buy some decent wine this time. The last two jars tasted like piss.’
    ‘Really?’ Macro looked up. ‘I didn’t notice.’
    Cato sighed, and continued addressing his servant. ‘Good wine, understand?’
    ‘Yes, Prefect. A wine merchant joined the camp yesterday. He has fresh stock. I’ll try him.’
    ‘You do that. Dismissed.’
    His servant bowed smartly and left the tent. Macro waited until he was out of earshot and then scratched his cheek. ‘Not sure what to make of that one.’
    ‘Thraxis? He’s working out well. Good soldier too.’
    ‘That’s just it. Don’t sound like no auxiliary soldier to me. More like one of those smart-arsed Greeks.’
    ‘I think you’re referring to philosophers.’
    Macro shrugged. ‘I think my description does ’em more justice. Anyway, you know what I mean.’
    Cato sighed. ‘It takes all kinds, Macro.’
    ‘Not in the army, lad. Our business is killing people. It’s not a talking shop. And speaking of talking . . .’ Macro fished into his haversack and brought out a large waxed tablet. He opened it and glanced over the notes he had scratched into the waxed surface before he automatically adjusted his composure to a more businesslike manner. His voice altered subtly, Cato noted. Gone was the easy tone of a comrade as Macro became the senior centurion of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth Legion.
    ‘Daily report for yesterday, sir. Strength returns. First Century: sixty-two fit, eight sick, one detached to headquarters duty.’
    ‘And what would that be?’
    ‘Interrogation, sir. Legionary Pullonius’s skills are required for questioning the latest batch of prisoners.’
    ‘Very well. Carry on.’
    Macro glanced at his notes again. ‘Second Century: fifty-eight fit, ten sick. Surgeon says he doesn’t think one of them will live out the day.’
    Cato nodded as he did some quick mental arithmetic. Macro’s cohort had suffered heavy losses at the fort and rather than field six sparsely manned centuries, Cato had ordered that the survivors be formed into two units with a more acceptable level of manpower so that they could operate as effective tactical units. The same was true of his own cohort, the Second Thracian Cavalry. There were just enough troopers left to fill the saddles of three squadrons, barely ninety men in all. So his command, the escort of the baggage train and camp followers, amounted to two hundred and ten men. If Caratacus managed to slip a raiding force in between General Ostorius’s main column and the rearguard they could play havoc before a sufficient force could be marshalled to drive them off again. And if that calamity did come about, it was certain that the general would hold Cato to account, despite the lack of men available to him. Such were the iniquities of an officer’s life, Cato reflected with weary