The depot was filled with excited chatter as the Atrebatans examined their equipment. All morning Macro and Cato had sat with the quartermaster at his desk in the headquarters building, carefully noting the identification stamps on the equipment leaving stores to be issued to the natives. Silva had achieved his rank by virtue of an orderly mind, and by documenting everything; in another life he would have been an equally competent lawyer. Each of the Atrebatans was provided with sword, scabbard, belt, boots, tunic, helmet and shield from the vast stores of equipment in the depot. There was no spare armour, and the shields were the oval auxiliary issue, not the rectangular variant used by the legions. They would have been given javelins, but some bungling clerk at Rutupiae had not sent the fixing pins along with the iron heads and the wooden shafts.

‘Wait till I find the twat responsible for this!’ Macro growled. ‘I swear I’ll nail his balls to the floor the moment I find those pins.’

Cato winced in empathy.

‘Nothing to do with me.’ Silva shrugged with all the confidence of one who knew he could prove it. ‘Must be a clerical error at army headquarters. The pins are probably in the depot somewhere, shipped under the wrong label. I’ll have some of my lot hunt them down.’

Macro nodded his satisfaction. ‘Still, I suppose we can cut the javelin training out for the moment, concentrate on the basics. Are those standards ready?’

Cato nodded.

‘What did you use?’

‘Tincommius got hold of some wood carvings, from gable ends.’

‘Gable ends? Whose?’

‘He said Verica wouldn’t miss them.’

‘Oh, great.’

‘Anyway, we’ve got the head of a wolf and head of a boar. Well, pig actually. I fixed a couple of tent pegs in for tusks, and had the heads gilded. They look fine. I mounted them on a couple of spare vexillation standards and painted I and II Atrebatans on the leather drops.’

Macro eyed him coldly. ‘You used vexillation standards?’

‘I was in a hurry.’

‘But they’ve been touched by the Emperor’s own hand.’ Macro was scandalised. ‘Shit! If word of this gets back . . .’

‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’

Macro struggled to control his temper. ‘Cato, I swear, if you weren’t still recovering from that bloody wound, I’d kick your fucking head in . . . Come on,’ he continued in a resigned tone, ‘let’s go and see them.’

Cato locked the paperwork away in a chest and followed his superior outside on to the parade ground. The scene was chaotic, with the instructors hurrying round their charges to tighten straps, show which was the correct side to wear the sword and generally ignoring those who were trying to complain about their boots.

Macro gave them a brief moment to complete the arming, and then drew in a deep breath.

‘FORM UP!’