‘The prefect summoned Quertus and, so I heard, warned him not to do it again. If he did then he would be reported to the legate for disciplinary charges. So Quertus took to killing his victims on the spot, but word of that got back to the prefect, who announced that he would accompany Quertus on patrol from then on.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Macro. ‘That’s the patrol the prefect didn’t return from.’

Severus nodded. ‘The official version is that they charged into a village and the prefect was killed in the fighting when he fell from his horse. That was the first of the villages to be burned to the ground and every living thing in it put to the sword, in revenge for the death of the prefect, Quertus said. That became the pattern afterwards. Village after village, farm after farm. Until the only living people in the valley were here at Bruccium. Then, earlier this year, he started work on the surrounding valleys. Of course, he lost men in the process, but then he offered the legionaries a chance to join the Thracians. By that time food was running short, and since the legionaries were left behind to protect the fort, Quertus said that they did not need as much food as the auxiliaries. Then the reason was that they did not deserve it, since they took no risk. A man can only go so far on an empty stomach, and our lads went to him willingly. The only conditions were that they obeyed his will completely, and that they take on the appearance of the Thracians. That’s what happened to Stellanus and Fermatus.’

Macro’s eyes widened. ‘They’re Roman officers?’

‘They were. And a third of the Thracian cohort used to be legionaries. There was one other requirement before men could count themselves as followers of Quertus.’ Severus poured them both a cup of wine and then looked down into the dark liquid in his cup. ‘Quertus told them they had to take the head of one of their enemies and drink his blood.’

Macro stared at him. ‘You are fucking joking . . .’

‘I wish I was. By all the gods, I wish I was joking. But it’s true.’

Despite the horrors he had seen in the campaigns he had fought across the years, Macro felt his guts clench tight, and cold, with fear.

‘It can’t be true.’

‘You’ll see for yourself, soon enough. You, and the new prefect. He won’t last long, though.’

Macro stared across the table. ‘Is Cato in danger?’

‘Of course he is. If he tries to take any action against Quertus then he’s as good as dead.’

‘But he’s the bloody prefect!’ Macro protested. ‘Appointed to the command by the Emperor himself. What he says goes. The moment Quertus tries anything on, Cato will have him disciplined. Or arrested.’

‘Really? And who will do that?’