The trooper did as he was ordered and Cato saw that the iron rings of his body armour gleamed dully from a fresh application of sand and hard rubbing with a leather cloth. Despite the wild appearance of his men, Quertus clearly insisted that their weapons and armour were well looked after. He ordered the man to sheath his sword and examined a random handful of others and noted with approval that they took good care of their kit. Then he turned his attention to their mounts. The horses were large and powerfully built, typical of the stocks bred for the army in Gaul and Hispania. They had shed most of their winter coats, but the flanks of the horses had not been groomed so as to leave them matted with mud which obscured the identifying brands on their rumps. But it was in keeping with the savage look of the cohort. Even so, the saddles and tackle were well maintained and the horses appeared well fed and alert.

Cato turned to Quertus. ‘They have been worked up to hard condition, I take it.’

‘Yes, sir. I had ’em exercised and drilled from the end of winter. They’re good and ready for battle. They’ve already had a fresh taste of it earlier this month.’

‘I see. That’s good. The men and mounts are in good shape, Centurion, despite their appearance. That may be a matter that requires attending to in due course.’

‘What does it matter what they look like, as long as they kill the enemy . . . sir?’

Cato raised his voice so that the surrounding men would hear him clearly. ‘It matters because I say so.’

Quertus frowned briefly. ‘Very well, sir.’

Cato was conscious of the need not to push his authority too quickly and turned to Macro. ‘And now the legionaries of your cohort.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded.

They paced past the gap between the two units and were joined by Centurion Severus as they began their inspection of the legionaries. Cato saw that the majority of them had drawn features and he sensed their wariness as he passed slowly along each rank. In contrast to the Thracians they were neatly turned out and their helmets were polished, shields well maintained and their weapons every bit as lethal as those of their mounted comrades. But they failed to conceal their nervousness.

‘You!’ Cato pointed a finger at a man who was leaning forward slightly, resting his weight on the rim of his shield. ‘Stand up straight.’ He stopped in front of the man and stared hard at him. ‘Name?’

‘Caius Balbus, sir.’

‘Is this how you present yourself on parade? Have you been drinking?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then why are you standing there like a pickled old fart?’