Macro climbed down the ladder and reached up to untie the chinstrap of his helmet as he left the gatehouse. He tucked the helmet under one arm and removed the padded liner, giving the matted hair plastering his scalp a good scratch. The legionaries had been relieved during the morning and were lying or sitting on the slope of the rampart. Some were managing to sleep while others conversed in muted tones. There was only one group playing at dice, by the corner tower, where their noise would not disturb their resting comrades.

As he entered the courtyard of the headquarters block Macro exchanged a salute with the sentry. Even with every man required to defend the walls, it was still necessary to ensure that the garrison’s pay chest was kept under guard. Inside the commander’s quarters Macro set his helmet down on a table and called for Decimus.

There was no reply, no sound of footsteps, and Macro frowned. Cato’s servant had been ordered to return here after the fight with Quertus.

‘Decimus! Damn you, man. Where are you?’ Macro’s shouts carried clearly through the building. With an irritable growl Macro glanced into the prefect’s office, found no sign of life, and decided to make for the kitchen to see what food might be had for a hurried meal. As he entered the room with its heavy scent of woodsmoke, Macro was aware of a shadow in the far corner and turned for a better look.

‘Fuck me . . .’ he whispered, standing still.

A body was hanging from a length of chain with two links looped over a meat hook in one of the beams. The man’s face was puffed up, his eyes bulged and a purple tongue poked out of his mouth. It was a moment before Macro recognised him and he shook his head in pity. ‘Decimus. You stupid bastard.’