Cato forced himself to smile. Macro had less than ten years to serve. Cato faced another twenty-three more years with the Eagles, assuming they both survived that long. Not many did on active service. If the enemy didn’t get you, the rigours of campaigning almost certainly would. Both men gazed out across the settlement to the rolling farmland beyond, conscious of the fact that they might never see these shores again. Then Cato broke the silence.

‘What do you think will happen to us?’

Macro pursed his lips. ‘Another legion, I expect. Just pray that we get a nice quiet garrison unit. Preferably in Syria.’ Macro’s eyes glazed over as he daydreamed about his favourite fantasy posting. ‘Yes, Syria would do nicely …’

Cato knew that this happy reflection would go on for a good while yet, and beckoned to a passing wine-seller, buying a cup for each of them. The wine-seller, a swarthy fellow with a Greek accent, grunted as he saw the mess tins emerge from their kitbags.

‘Soldiers, eh?’

Cato nodded.

‘New arrivals?’ the wine-seller asked hopefully. ‘I could show you the best places to drink. The best places with the best girls.’

‘No. We’re leaving.’ Cato nodded. ‘On that ship.’

‘Pity. Don’t see that many legionaries these days. That’s bad for trade.’ The wine-seller glanced over them as he poured out the measures from his jar. ‘Not medical discharges then?’

‘We’re being transferred.’

‘That’s a first. Traffic in healthy soldiers has been one way. You’re lucky to be getting off this island in one piece.’

‘Tell me about it.’

The wine-seller wished them a safe journey, after one final effort to interest them in a very reasonably priced whorehouse just round the corner.

As soon as the wine had been unloaded the merchant captain began supervising the loading of the return cargo - mostly bales of fur, and two large cages containing several huge hairy hunting dogs that stared lethargically through the bars as they were swayed across and down into the hold. It was mid October, and the air had a chilly edge to it, though the captain’s face was beaded with sweat from his efforts. He caught sight of the two Romans and beckoned to them impatiently.

‘Heads up,’ said Cato. ‘We’re wanted.’

They heaved their kitbags on to their shoulders and crossed the wharf, carefully negotiating the narrow gangplank and jumping down on to the deck.

‘Take all the time you want,’ the captain said irritably. ‘It’s not as if I’ve got to catch the tide or anything.’

‘I think he’s in a hurry.’ Macro winked at Cato as he slowly set his kitbag down and stretched his back. ‘Anyway, you’re not going anywhere until the other passenger arrives.’

The captain crossed his thick arms. ‘No?’

‘Not if you know what’s good for you.’