Crispinus had managed to keep his voice under control as he reprimanded the officers, and had the sense to encourage and assure them that they would do better next time, while making sure that he added a dose of fear. There was no sense in terrifying or bullying, since he needed them to make the most of what little time was left before the emperor arrived. They were still subdued when they were dismissed, for all the world like a class of naughty schoolboys. Ferox had watched them go, having sat at the back and in silence for the rest of the meeting. Now it was his turn.

‘I’ve made up my mind!’ Crispinus shouted. ‘Tomorrow morning, and good riddance to you!’

Ferox said nothing, simply standing at attention and staring at a fixed point on the wall, just an inch or two above the legatus’ head. Crispinus was not a tall man, while the centurion was over six foot and broad with it, so the senior officer did not attempt to step close and stare into his eyes. Born a prince of the Silures, the wolf people of the south west of Britannia, when they at long last submitted to Rome, Ferox had been sent to Gaul and then Rome itself to be educated before being made a citizen and commissioned as a centurion. His tribe cherished silence and held a man worthless who spoke when there was nothing worth saying, while army life had long accustomed him to letting harangues from senior officers flow past without really listening. This was a pretty good one, though, punctuated now and then as the legatus slammed the table with his cane. They were alone, but Ferox had no doubt the noise was carrying well beyond the hut. The guards ought to catch most of what their commanding officer was saying, as would passers-by in the crowded camp built by the legion for the duration of these training exercises.

‘Yes, I’ve made up my mind.’ Crispinus was almost shouting each word. ‘The guards will take you away and you will be beheaded at dawn tomorrow. Jupiter knows it’s long overdue. You have plagued this army and this empire for thirty years, Flavius Ferox, and it’s time to put an end to it, do you hear me?’

‘Sir.’ Ferox’s face remained impassive, his tone flat.

Crispinus slammed the cane down again. It was a similar shape to the ones carried by centurions, but shorter and thicker, and made from a dark hardwood rather than vine. The sides were richly carved and it had become the fashion in recent years for carpenters in each legion to present one to a new commander. Enough had done this to make it seem an insult if one was not crafted, so that a new tradition had been created.

The table shook when the legatus struck again. ‘Minerva’s tits, man! Having Hannibal at the gates must have been less terrifying than having you in the service of Rome. How many times have you been there when the army suffered a disaster? Three?’