The two men left the room and closed the door behind them. Centurion Sinius stared thoughtfully at the door for a moment and then opened the document chest and took out the waxed tablet he had been examining. He picked up a stylus and made a few notes then replaced it in the chest. He rose from his desk and left headquarters to give some instructions to one of his followers.

CHAPTER SIX

Macro held up the plain white toga and shook his head. ‘This is no good for a soldier. We’re supposed to wear this over the left shoulder and arm, right?’

On the other side of the section room Cato nodded.

‘It’s madness,’ Macro continued. ‘You can’t swing a sword properly with this on. You’d trip over it and do yourself an injury long before you could take down an opponent.’

He bundled the toga up, tossed it on to his bed and sat down with a disgusted expression before glancing over the rest of the kit they had been issued from the camp’s stores. The toga was the formal uniform for the Guard when on duty in the city. A sop to those inhabitants of Rome who still clung to the values of the old Republic when the presence of armed men on the streets was held to be a threat to their liberty. For a similar reason, Claudius had taken to wearing an unadorned toga on many ceremonial occasions, without even the narrow purple stripe of a junior magistrate. The display of humility played well with the mob and the more easily impressed members of the senate. As far as Macro was concerned, the toga was wholly impracticable for those soldiers who were supposed to be guarding the imperial palace.

‘What about the German bodyguards?’ Macro looked at Cato. ‘Do they have to wear this?’

‘No. But then they’re barbarians, from Batavia, I believe. It would offend public sensibilities for them to be seen in togas.’

‘Bollocks,’ Macro mumbled. His gaze returned to the rest of the issued items. In addition to functional armour, there was a brass cuirass, an attic helmet with a decorated crown and slim cheek-guards that served little practical use, and almost no neck guard. Then there were the off-white tunics and light-brown cloaks that would readily pick up the dirt and grime of Rome’s streets and require constant cleaning. At least the short sword, oval shield and heavy javelin looked like proper soldier’s kit. Cato had already folded his toga, tunics and cloak and placed them neatly on the shelf above his bed. With a sigh, Macro began to follow suit.

‘What was all that about the failing spirits of the lads in Britannia?’ he asked.