Macro looked up irritably, fingers automatically tying his straps as they had almost every morning for the best part of sixteen years. He shook his head. ‘I keep telling you, it’s not necessary to call me “sir” all the time - only in front of the men, and in formal situations. From now on, it’s “Macro” to you. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cato responded immediately, winced and smacked his forehead. ‘Sorry. It’s all a bit hard to adjust to. I still haven’t got used to the idea of being a centurion. Must be the youngest one in the army.’

‘In the whole bloody Empire, I should think.’

For a moment Macro regretted the remark, and recognised in himself a trace of bitterness. Much as he had been genuinely delighted when Cato had won his promotion, the older man had soon got over his enthusiasm and every so often let slip some remark about a centurion’s need for experience. Or he would offer a few words of advice about how a centurion should conduct himself. It was all a bit rich, Macro chided himself, given that he had been promoted to the centurionate barely a year and a half before Cato himself. Granted he had already served sixteen years with the Eagles, and was a well-respected veteran with a generally good conduct record, but he was almost as new to the rank as his young friend.

As he watched Macro tie his boots Cato was uneasy about his promotion. He could not help believing it had come too soon for him, and felt shamed when he compared himself to Macro, a consummate soldier, if ever there was one. Cato already dreaded the moment when he would have recovered enough to be appointed to the command of his own century. It took very little imagination to anticipate how men far older and more experienced than he would respond to having an eighteen-year-old placed in command of them. Sure, they would see the medals on his harness and know that their centurion was a man of some valour, and that he had won the eye of Vespasian. They might note the scars he bore on his left arm, further proof of Cato’s courage in battle, but none of that changed the fact that he had only just reached manhood, and was younger than some of the sons of the men serving in his century. That would rankle, and Cato knew they would watch him closely, and be utterly unforgiving of any mistakes that he made. Not for the first time he wondered if there was any way he could quietly request being returned to his previous rank, and slip back into the comfortable role of being Macro’s optio.

Macro finished fastening his boot straps, stood up and reached for his scarlet military cloak.

‘Come on, Cato! On your feet. Let’s go.’