For a man who prided himself on the military blood that coursed through his veins, Prefect Scrofa was a very poor horseman, Macro reflected, as he watched the cohort commander being hoisted up into the saddle by his Celtic slave. Scrofa flung a leg across the animal’s back and wriggled into position, then adjusted his helmet, which had slid forward since it had not been tied securely enough. He was little better than the raw recruits Macro had broken in back in the legions. If the man had been a common soldier Macro would have been all over him, bellowing into his face and applying his vine cane in retribution for such slovenliness. As it was, thanks to the imperial policy of directly appointing minor aristocrats to the office of centurion, alongside those who had won the rank on merit, Scrofa was in command of the Second Illyrian. Macro shook his head gently. What was Cassius Longinus thinking of when he picked Scrofa for this post? Surely he had better men backing his cause? Or was he so short of men of quality amongst his plotters that he had been forced to call on the services of Scrofa?

Prefect Scrofa took up his reins and flicked them casually as he tapped his heels into the flanks of his horse. ‘Let’s be off.’

Behind him the decurions commanding the four mounted squadrons chosen for the task relayed the order in more formal tones and the column clopped out of the fort and on to the track that stretched across the stone-strewn desert to the west. Scrofa led the way at a steady walk and once again Macro found himself simmering with frustration and rage as the column ambled along. A light wind blew in from the deep desert, and the dust kicked up from the track swirled round the men in a choking, blinding cloud. The officers at the head of the column were spared the worst of the dust and occasionally Macro could see the distant shapes of horsemen along the track ahead. Bannus was keeping them under observation, Macro realised. Even though the brigand scouts kept far beyond the reach of the Roman column, Macro had no doubt that the lightly armoured men on their small, swift horses would easily evade any sudden rush by Scrofa and his men. Not that Scrofa showed any signs of being interested in chasing the enemy down.

At length, as the sun began to sink towards the western horizon, Macro could no longer tolerate the pace and urged his horse forward until he was alongside the cohort commander.

‘Sir, at this rate we’ll not be able to return to the fort before nightfall. Let me take half the men and go on ahead.’

‘Divide my command?’ Scrofa frowned and glanced at Macro with a disappointed expression. ‘Really, I’m surprised at you. I’d have thought you would be conversant with the basic principles of military campaigning.’