Cato lowered his head to hide the dark expression on his face. Macro was right in his implication. Figulus was a poor choice for the job, in many respects - barely able to write his own name and completely out of his depth when required to calculate any sums larger than the small amount of savings he had scraped together in his first year of service with the legion. Yet Cato had offered the position to him immediately. Figulus was almost the same age and Cato desperately needed a familiar face amongst the men under his command. Most of the men he had known when he had first joined Macro’s old century were dead, or discharged as invalids. The survivors had been distributed to the other centuries in the understrength cohort. So Figulus it had been.

He was not without redeeming features, Cato reflected in a self-justifying moment. Figulus was from Gallic stock; tall and broad, he was a match for any man in the legion, and any enemy outside it. Moreover, he was good with the men, with his easy-going and guileless nature. That made him a useful bridge between Cato and his century. And Figulus, like Cato, was anxious to prove himself worthy of his new rank. However, Cato’s attempt to teach him the basics of record-keeping had quickly exhausted the centurion’s patience. If things didn’t improve soon it looked as if Cato would have to take on most of the optio’s job as well.

‘You could always replace him,’ Macro suggested.

‘No,’ Cato replied obstinately. ‘He’ll do.’

‘If you say so. It’s your decision, lad.’

‘Yes. It’s my decision. And you’re not my father, Macro. So please stop acting like it.’

‘All right! All right!’ Macro raised his hands in surrender. ‘Won’t mention it again.’

‘Good …’

‘So, er, what do you make of our man, Maximius?’

‘Don’t know him well enough to make a judgement yet. Seems competent enough. Bit harsh on the bullshit front.’

Macro nodded. ‘He’s from the old school: every buckle done up tightly, every blade polished until it dazzles and not a speck of mud allowed on parade. His kind are the backbone of the army.’

‘What’s his history?’ Cato glanced at his companion. ‘You speak to anyone about him yet?’

‘Had a word with Antonius in the mess the other day. He came in with the same replacement column and got to know Maximius back in the depot at Gesoriacum.’

‘And?’

‘Not much to tell. He’s been a centurion for the best part of ten years, and served right across the Empire. Before that he was in the Praetorian Guard. Served a few years and then transferred to the legions.’ Macro shook his head. ‘Beats me why he took a transfer. I’d have killed to serve in the Guard; better pay, better accommodation and the best fleshpots and cheapest dives that only Rome can provide.’