‘Very well.’ Cato drew himself up and marched down towards the lines of waiting men. Quertus stood with the colour party of his cohort, beneath the black crow on his standard. He waited until the prefect had passed by before falling into step beside Macro as they followed the garrison commander along the front line of soldiers. Cato’s experienced eyes took in every detail of the men before him. The troopers of the Thracian cohort would have broken the heart of any legionary centurion responsible for drilling these men. The black cloaks that they wore were spattered with mud and streaked with grime and no attempt had been made to repair any fraying edges or small tears. Their hair was wild and unkempt and most of them sported tattoos on their faces. Although Cato had seen some of these men the day before, the impact of viewing an entire cohort was unnerving from a professional point of view. He had been in the army long enough to have certain expectations about the appearance of soldiers, as well as their performance, and to recognise the link between the two. But the barbaric sight that the cohort presented was itself unnerving, and he could well understand the effect this might have on an enemy who had grown used to the spit and polish of the Roman army. Quertus and his men appearing out of the mists that wreathed the mountainous landscape would strike terror into the hearts of their victims.

He stopped in front of a tall, gaunt man. ‘Show me your sword.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man leaned his spear against his shoulder and drew the long blade from its scabbard. The spatha came out freely and the man flashed it up to the vertical for Cato to see it clearly. The metal gleamed and there was no sign of the pitting and specks of rust of a poorly maintained weapon. Cato raised his hand and tested the edge with his fingers and found it to be well honed and as sharp as could be expected. He nodded.

‘That’s fine. Now open your cloak.’