‘It’s not so bad, sir.’ Decimus raised his cup and drank again.

Macro looked at him sourly. ‘Never is so bad when you haven’t had to pay for a drop of it. I ought to take deductions from your pay for the wine you consume.’

‘Then you’d only go and have to drink more of this piss, sir.’ Decimus pretended to look hurt. ‘Really, you should be thanking me for helping you out with it.’

‘Really?’ Macro narrowed his eyes a moment, then turned to Cato. ‘What do you think?’

‘Eh?’ Cato looked up vacantly. ‘Sorry, what was that?’

‘The wine. Taste it and tell me what you think.’

Cato looked down into the Samian-ware cup and sniffed it. It was not unlike vinegar, but somehow suffused with a very ancient blend of goat’s cheese and sewage. Still, for Macro’s sake, he took a sip and as the foul liquid flowed across his tongue he winced. He set the cup down with a sharp rap. ‘That’s wine?’

‘According to our friend behind the counter. The sewer brewer. I’ve a mind to have a word with him.’

‘What good would it do? This is as good as it gets this far beyond the frontier.’

Macro looked shocked. ‘By the gods, I hope not. What in Hades’ name must they be drinking up at Bruccium?’

The comment stirred Cato’s thoughts and he turned to the decurion who had been drinking quietly, clearly preoccupied. Cato cleared his throat.

‘It’s Trebellius, isn’t it?’

The decurion looked round and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You don’t seem to be enjoying your little trip up into the mountains very much. At least the wine will keep your mind off it. Drink up.’

Trebellius dutifully took a sip, without any change of expression.

‘Seems like someone has a taste for it,’ said Macro.

Decimus chuckled. ‘Like I said, sir. Not so bad. You get used to such things in Britannia. The worst of everything. Weather, wine and even the women are as rough as you’ll find anywhere in the whole empire. It’s a wonder that Claudius and his advisers think there’s anything good to be had out of the bloody place. If you ask me, we should never have invaded and left the barbarians to themselves. If they want to live in mud huts, worship bloody Druids and fight each other all the time, then let ’em. If the Emperor had given Britannia a miss then I’d still have a good leg.’

Macro stared hard at him. ‘And did I ask you? No. You knew the score when you signed up. You go where you’re sent and don’t stop to ask questions. You kill who you’re told to kill and that’s it. If the buggers get you first then that’s the risk you take. Otherwise, you might as well be some shirt-lifting ponce who spends his life reading philosophy.’ Macro shot a quick glance at Cato. ‘Present company excepted.’

‘Thank you, Macro,’ Cato responded testily before turning his attention back to the decurion. ‘How long have you served with the Fourteenth?’