Once the last man had passed through the gates, Centurion Postumus ordered them closed and the locking bar replaced in its sockets. Macro indicated the survivors of the cavalry squadron, leading their exhausted mounts away from the gateway. ‘You had better organise some stabling and quarters for the men.’

‘Yes, sir. After I’ve shown you to the prefect.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In his quarters, sir.’

‘Right, I can find him. You see to these men, all right?’

‘Very well, sir,’ Postumus responded reluctantly. ‘I’ll join you as soon as they have been taken care of.’

Macro entered the prefect’s house, which was guarded by two well-turned-out men in full equipment. Even though they stood under a sun shelter, they were sweating profusely in the heat. They snapped to attention at Macro’s approach and as he passed between them he noticed, with wry amusement, a bead of sweat suspended on the tip of one man’s nose. Inside he paused momentarily to adjust to the shaded environment. An orderly was sweeping the hall and Macro turned to him.

‘You there!’

‘Yes, sir?’ The man stiffened his back at once and saluted.

‘Show me to Prefect Scrofa’s office.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ the orderly responded with a deferential bow of his head, and led Macro through the hall to a staircase at the rear. They climbed to the next floor where the rooms were spacious and designed to allow any available breeze to be channelled through them by well-placed windows.

‘This way, sir.’ The orderly indicated an open door at the end of the landing. Macro strode past him and entered the commander’s office, and paused in surprise at the luxurious appointments. The walls were richly painted with mythic scenes of a heroic nature. The furniture was well crafted and finished with neat decorative flourishes, and there was a couch to one side covered in comfortable cushions. A glass bowl stood on a small side table, filled with dates and figs. Prefect Scrofa, wearing a light tunic, sat behind a large wooden desk. To one side of him stood a huge red-haired slave, steadily directing air at his master with a fan. Scrofa was a wiry man in his early thirties with pale skin and dark hair that had receded on either side of his central fringe. On his left hand he wore the ring signifying that he came from the equestrian social class. He looked up irritably as Macro marched into the room, covered in dust and stained with the decurion’s blood.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Centurion Macro. Sent from Rome to assume command of the Second Illyrian.You are hereby relieved, Prefect Scrofa. Please send for your senior officers at once, so they can be told of my appointment.’

Scrofa’s mouth sagged open. The slave continued fanning without any change in his expression.

‘What did you say?’