They had reached the heart of the Praetorian camp and Cato and Macro saw for the first time the colonnaded front and pillared entrance to the headquarters. Macro let out a low whistle.

‘Bloody hell, looks more like a temple than a military building.’

They passed through the gateway, looking up to marvel at the carvings on the ceiling that arched overhead. Inside the entrance was a large open space, a hundred feet on either side, Cato estimated, which was lined by another colonnade. Directly opposite the gates was another entrance, this time to the headquarters offices which formed the far side of the square. A handful of clerks, wrapped in cloaks, scurried about their duties and a section of guardsmen stood watch outside the offices. The Praetorian explained his order to the optio in charge of the section and then lowered his shield and unbuckled his sword and dagger belts and left them with the other weapons surrendered by visitors on a table inside the entrance.

The optio nodded to Cato and Macro. ‘Leave your yokes and kitbags here. Any weapons on you?’

Cato pointed to the kitbags. ‘In there.’

‘In there, sir,’ the optio snapped.

Cato stiffened. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘I don’t know what discipline is like in the legions, but the Praetorians are sticklers for it,’ the optio continued, as Macro hurriedly stood to attention beside Cato. The optio curled his upper lip as he looked over their worn cloaks and tunics. ‘Same goes for your kit. Prefect Geta likes his men well turned out. You two look like tramps. Don’t show your faces here again unless you are neat and clean. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Macro and Cato chorused.

‘Right, lad, get these two in front of Centurion Sinius.’ He smiled coldly. ‘I dare say that the centurion will be equally unimpressed by you. Go.’