Cato didn’t reply but spurred his horse into a trot and with a reluctant sigh Macro and Decimus followed suit. The servant edged his pony towards Macro and muttered, ‘Excuse my asking, sir, but is the prefect often like this? You know, miserable?’

‘Oh no!’ Macro chuckled. ‘Only when he’s in a good mood.’

The child watched them for a moment longer before the smile disappeared and he turned his mind back to the simple straw figures clutched in his tiny fists. With a light growl he charged them towards each other and mashed them together.

As they made their way past the vicus, Macro gave it the once-over, a professional soldier’s assessment of the kinds of pleasures the makeshift settlement might provide, and made a mental note to pay a visit at the first opportunity. Two legionaries stood guard at the ramp leading across the ditch to the fortress gates. Cato had put on his armour that morning, after Decimus had given the breastplate a quick polish, and the gleaming metal and the red ribbon tied round his midriff indicated his rank and the sentries instantly snapped to attention. Behind them, the optio in command of the watch hastily called out the rest of the section who fell in either side of the gateway as Cato walked his horse across the ramp and returned the optio’s salute.

‘Is Legate Quintatus in camp?’

‘Yes, sir. Should be at headquarters.’ He hesitated briefly before he asked, ‘Your authorisation, sir?’

Cato reached into his saddlebag and brought out the small waxed slate bearing the governor’s seal and detailing his name, rank and purpose of travel. The optio examined it quickly before handing it back.

‘Very good, sir. You may pass.’

They rode under the gate and entered the fortress with its neatly ordered timber barracks stretching out either side of the broad avenue that led to the cluster of large buildings that formed the headquarters, senior officers’ accommodation and stores of the Fourteenth Legion. Off-duty soldiers sat outside their section rooms cleaning their armour or playing dice. Others were kitting up ready for the change of watch, or heading out on patrol. Some of the barracks were empty, their former occupants already detached from the legion to garrison the advance outposts. The light plink of hammers sounded from the armoury and a detail of men on fatigues headed towards the latrines carrying buckets, brushes and shovels. Macro smiled at the surroundings that were as familiar to him as any home.

‘Quintatus likes things nice and ordered.’

‘A spit and polish merchant,’ Decimus added sourly.

‘Which is half of what the army is all about. Can’t go out and kill barbarians in the name of Rome unless you look the part.’