‘Prepared his officers for battle.You remember, back in the Second Augusta, whenever we were about to go into a fight, the legate would find a few words for us, make a toast, and we’d all head back to our men raring to go? How did he do that?’

Cato recalled their former commander, the stocky frame, the thinning hair crowning the strong-featured face. The steady, deep voice with which Vespasian could equally charm and lambast his men. It was hard to define what made the legate the kind of man you’d fight to the death for. Maybe it was the fact that you believed that he, in turn, would fight to the death for you. Whatever the quality of leadership was, Cato concluded, it was clear that some men possessed it and many more did not. Macro was one of the former; he just had a different style from Vespasian’s.

Cato smiled. ‘I can’t answer that.’

‘Great. Thanks,’ Macro responded sourly.

‘Don’t fret, sir. You’ll do well enough. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.’

Macro looked at him with a surprised expression. ‘You mean that, don’t you?’

‘Of course, sir. And when these men get to know you better, they’d do just the same. Now that we’ve a battle on our hands they’ll see the quality of their new prefect soon enough. Maybe that’s what Vespasian had.’

‘What?’

‘The benefit of an example.We followed him because we’d seen him in battle. He’d proved himself to us. Once a commander’s done that, I’d say that was the point where he won his men over.This is your chance to do the same with the Second Illyrian.’

Macro stroked his chin thoughtfully, then refilled Cato’s cup and his own before raising the latter in a toast. ‘To those who lead from the front.’

Cato nodded. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

Cato was roused from his sleep in the last hour before dawn. An auxiliary was gently shaking his shoulder. ‘Sir, the prefect wants you.’

Cato blinked, yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘Right, where is he?’

‘On the main gatehouse, sir.’

‘Very well, my compliments to the prefect. Tell him I’m coming.’