Balbus grimaced and forced himself to straighten up, gritting his teeth. Severus stepped closer to Cato and spoke quietly. ‘The man is sick, sir. Most of them are. Sick, or weak. Hardly surprising when they’re on half-rations most of the time. Even less, when supplies grow short between the raids on enemy villages.’

Cato took a deep breath as he considered the situation. Another of the challenges he faced in dealing with Quertus. But perhaps this would be easier to resolve. It made no sense for Quertus and his cohort to ride out and leave the fort in the hands of men in poor condition to defend Bruccium. But then, the Thracian had probably calculated that the Silures would not dare to enter the valley guarded by the grisly trophies of the savage warriors who had thrust their way into the heart of the tribe’s lands and built themselves an almost impregnable fort there.

‘How many men are too sick to attend parade?’ Cato asked.

Severus quickly consulted his wax tablet. ‘Fifteen men from the First Century and twelve from the Second.’

‘And none from the other centuries.’

‘There are no other centuries, sir. I merged what was left of the cohort into two centuries ten days ago. The sick are on the rolls of the merged units. There should be ten or so more of ’em but I gave the order that every man who could still stand was to take part in the parade.’

Cato gestured towards Balbus. ‘This one is having difficulty even standing. Get him off the parade ground and into the infirmary. He’s to rest and be fed until his strength has returned. Same for the rest of them.’

Severus glanced towards Quertus who was standing with his officers, laughing and talking together informally. ‘The standing orders are that legionaries are to be given no more than the specified ration, sir.’

‘Then I’m specifying a new ration for them,’ Cato responded irritably. ‘We can’t have men too weak to hold the walls of the fort.’

‘Then can I have your order in writing, sir? I’ll need to present my authority to draw extra rations to the quartermaster. He’s one of the Thracians.’

‘Fuck,’ Macro muttered. ‘This is getting too bloody much to bear. Those auxiliary bastards need to be put in their place, sir.’

Cato was silent for a moment, then he nodded. ‘I’ll deal with it, as soon as the parade is over. Centurion Severus!’

‘Sir?’

‘Send Balbus to the infirmary. Him and anyone else too weak to take their place in the battle line. Centurion Macro, you may dismiss your cohort.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro saluted and turned to the men and drew a deep breath. ‘Second Cohort, Fourteenth Legion, dismissed!’