‘A bloody fortune, that’s how much. And that bastard Narcissus pushes them aside and complains that they’re too salty.’ Scrofa was silent for a moment, wrapped up in the past, before he continued in a resigned tone. ‘So I decide to try my hand at winning a little glory on the field of battle. That should add lustre to the name of Scrofa, I thought.You know, my great grandfather fought with Mark Antony at Actium? Martial blood runs in my family’s veins. So my father pulled a few strings to get me appointed as a centurion of auxiliaries. I thought I’d carve out a reputation on the battlefields of Britannia.That was my request. And what happens? They send me to Syria. Garrison duty. Can you imagine? A complete waste of my potential. A whole year stuck in a wretched hole on the border with Palmyra. Then I get this appointment. Another bloody frontier fort. But the only enemy I have to deal with is Bannus and his little gang of thieves. Where’s the glory in that?’ Scrofa sniffed. ‘Police work. Might as well have got a posting to the urban cohorts in Rome. At least I’d be out of this damned oven!’ He gestured irritably towards the slave holding the fan. ‘Faster, damn you . . .’ He slumped back in his chair.

Macro’s shoulders heaved with relief that the tirade was over, and he tried to steer the cohort commander back on to the subject of sending out a force to find Cato and Symeon. ‘You’re right. No one should be out in this heat. Especially not an injured Roman officer.’

Scrofa looked at Macro sharply and frowned for an instant.Then he flapped his hand towards the door. ‘Very well, Macro! We’ll take all four cavalry squadrons. We’ll find your friend and bring him back here as quickly as possible.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Macro turned to the door, but he had not reached it before Scrofa spoke again.

‘But we’re not taking any risks with my men, you understand?’

Macro paused and looked back over his shoulder and stifled the urge to sneer. Risk was what soldiers got paid for. He had the measure of Scrofa now. The man was simply playing at soldiers. The last thing he wanted was any more injured men cluttering up his fort on the farthest-flung fringe of the Empire.

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Good. You can organise the men. I’ve some records that need seeing to. I’ll join you when the column’s ready to leave.’

‘Very well, sir.’