‘You have to be careful who you speak around these days,’ he said. ‘Particularly the Praetorians. They have the misguided impression that his imperial majesty owes them an eternal debt. What is the world coming to when the guards think they hold sway over the most powerful man in the world?’

Macro bit his tongue. He’d heard that after Caligula had been assassinated, Claudius had been discovered hiding in the imperial palace by members of the Praetorian Guard. Desperate for stability, the Praetorians had promptly acclaimed as Emperor a fifty-year old man with practically no experience of government and who, if the rumours were to be believed, didn’t even want the job. Without the backing of the Praetorians, there might have been another face stamped on every coin in the Empire. No wonder the freedman felt so threatened by their presence, thought Macro.

The freedman said, ‘My name is Servius Ulpius Murena. I report to the imperial adviser, Marcus Antonius Pallas. I presume you’re familiar with the name?’

‘Sorry, but no,’ Macro replied with a shrug. ‘It’s been a while since I’ve been around polite society. I’ve spent the last few years chopping down Germans.’

Murena grunted. ‘I’m aware of your background, officer. As a matter of fact, that’s why you’re here. Pallas is a secretary to his imperial majesty. He helps the Emperor administer Rome and her provinces. As do I. Tell me, how many Germans do you think you’ve killed during your time at the Rhine?’

Macro shrugged. ‘Depends.’

‘On what?’ Murena said, cocking his head at the officer.

‘Your average German takes a number of cuts before he drops,’ Macro said. ‘Sometimes you’ll give one a good few stabs and he’ll still be charging at you and foaming at the mouth. You don’t actually see them shuffle off to the Underworld. They drag themselves off to die somewhere nice and quiet. But they die all the same. We have a saying in the Second: Swords can’t tell the difference between Germans and Greeks.’

‘I see.’ The freedman shifted awkwardly on his feet, clearly unsettled by the violent turn the conversation had taken. ‘And what precisely does that mean?’

‘A stab’s a stab,’ said Macro. ‘Give a man a good twist in the guts and he’s done for, whether he’s a whacking great barbarian or a skinny little toga-lifter.’

Murena wrung his hands as he turned away from Macro towards the gardens and the pair of Praetorian guards hovering under the arched walkway. ‘What a pity the great Capito did not heed such sagacious advice.’

‘Sagacious?’

‘Yes, almost synonymous with judicious.’ Seeing the quizzical look on Macro’s face, the freedman rolled his eyes. ‘Never mind,’ he went on. ‘My point is, you have lots of experience of slaying the barbaric enemies of Rome.’

‘More than most, I’d say,’ Macro said, puffing out his chest.