‘Oh yes! There were still some of ‘em around when I joined up. Poor sods. If the Germans had known the Rhine legions were made up of old men barely strong enough to lift a sword, they’d have swept through Gaul like crap through a goose.’

‘Colourful.’

‘No. Just truthful. It’d have been us soldiers buried up to our necks in shit, while those bloody politicians in Rome tried to pin the blame on each other. Bastards.’

‘Still, it’s different now,’ countered Cato. ‘Those who have served their time seem to be getting the discharge, with a full gratuity. The Emperor seems to be honouring that well enough.’

‘Sure. Old Claudius seems to be an honest type, but he ain’t going to last for ever.’ Macro shook his head sadly. ‘The better ones never do. Bound to get some little shit like Caligula, or worse, like Vitellius next, knowing our luck.’

Cato shook his head with a wry smile. ‘Vitellius? Oh, come on! Even scum like him get found out in the end. Vitellius becoming Emperor? No. It isn’t possible.’

‘You don’t think so?’ Macro looked serious. ‘I’d bet good money on it.’

‘Then you’d lose it.’

‘I know his type: no ambition is ever too high.’ Macro pointed towards the front of the column. ‘Like our friend Quintillus there.’

Cato’s eyes followed the direction Macro was indicating, and saw that the king’s companions were riding in a loose column, in twos and threes. Amongst them, Cato could just make out the scarlet cloak of the tribune. A man was riding close by the side of Quintillus; a broad-shouldered man with dark hair braided into pigtails, and Cato wondered what Artax was doing in such deep conversation with the tribune.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Three

At dusk they camped beside a small pebbly stream that chuckled along the edge of the forest where the next day’s hunting would take place. The sun hung low in the sky, massive against the western horizon as it washed the underside of the few thin clouds in orange and red. Long dark shadows stretched across the grass growing along the stream, which was short, eaten down by sheep from a nearby farm that had evaded the attentions of the Durotrigans. The farm, a low huddle of thatched round huts surrounded by a flimsy stockade, stood half a mile away on the other side of the stream. A small fire glinted from within the opening of the largest hut and a thin trail of smoke gradually dispersed above the thatched roofs.