The main hall in the headquarters building was filled with all the officers who could be spared from their duties. Every other centurion, decurion, optio and standard bearer of the Second Illyrian cohort was present. The senior officers occupied the chairs and benches in the centre of the floor, while the rest crowded along the sides of the room. The men spoke in muted tones and from the doorway Cato noted their anxious expressions. Barely an hour had passed since he and Macro had presented the imperial authority to Scrofa and removed him from command. Since then all sorts of rumours had swept round the fort as the officers were summoned to headquarters. Cato smiled. They would find out exactly what had happened soon enough. The question was, would they accept it? Scrofa and Postumus had been conducted to a cell in the basement of the building and placed under a reliable section of men selected by Centurion Parmenion. They were not going to be allowed to make any case against the new commander, and they were not going to be given access to any of the officers or men of the cohort. Macro had been quite firm about that when he had given Parmenion his orders.

‘What’s the mood like?’ Macro asked quietly from behind him. Cato turned and saw his friend a few paces down the corridor, out of sight of any of the men in the hall. Macro held the imperial authority in his hand, rolled up, and was tapping it against his thigh.

Cato raised his hand to cover his mouth and muttered back, ‘Curious rather than disgruntled. I doubt there will be any effective opposition to the takeover.’

‘Right.’ Macro shrugged his shoulders and drew a deep breath. ‘Better get it over with. You can announce me.’

Cato stepped inside the room and stood to attention as he called out, ‘Commanding officer present!’

At once every tongue was stilled and nail-soled boots scraped over the flagstones as the officers rose to their feet and stood with their backs as straight as javelin shafts. When all was still and silent Macro strode into the hall and marched to the raised dais at the end of the hall from where the cohort’s commander habitually addressed his men. He noted the surprised expressions in some of the faces looking towards him and fought the urge to smile, and thus betray the nervousness which had seized him. The dryness in his mouth and the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach were new sensations to him, and Macro was shocked to realise that he was afraid. This was worse than facing a horde of barbarians armed to the teeth and screaming for his blood. He had grown used to commanding a century of legionaries, or a scratch force of native levies, but these men, these officers, were hardened professionals like himself and Cato, and they would know the standard to judge him by.