The men turned and filed back towards their sleeping lines and Cato noted their discontented expressions and the faint grumblings of resentment at being roused and rushed into preparing for an inspection. That was the army way, he knew. Moments of frenzied activity, often for no better reason than to keep the men on their toes, ready to respond to any demand on the instant. But right now they were still tired and hungry, and their resentment was understandable. Even so . . .

Cato raised his vine cane towards a pair of soldiers whose complaints had reached his ears. ‘Quiet there!’

The men, tough-looking veterans, fell silent, but briefly eyed their centurion with contempt before turning away. For a moment Cato was filled with cold, bitter rage and was tempted to call them back and punish them for their impudence. Legionaries must always respect the rank, if not the man, and no infraction could be overlooked. But by then the two men had merged with the rest of the century walking away from him and it was too late for Cato to act. He slapped his cane hard into the palm of his left hand, wincing at the pain of this self-inflicted punishment for his hopeless indecision. Macro would have had them by the balls in an instant.

Cato turned and saw that the other centurions were making their way towards Maximius, while behind him the provost escort stood and waited. Cato strolled over to join them, the self-contempt of a moment earlier turning to anxious curiosity. The centurions gathered in a rough semi-circle about their cohort commander. Maximius was still wearing only his tunic and clearly felt uncomfortable about addressing his fully dressed and armed officers.

‘The legate has taken my deposition. Now he wants to speak to the rest of you individually. The optio here will call for us in order of seniority. None of you is to discuss the evidence you give with anyone. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the centurions replied quietly. Tullius raised his hand.

‘Yes?’

‘What about the men, sir?’

‘What about them?’

‘Will any of them be required today?’

‘No. Stand them down. Pass the word that it’s going to be a make-and-mend day.’

Tullius nodded unhappily. Make-and-mend was a rarely granted privilege when the legionaries were permitted time to maintain their equipment, or fashion some trinket, or simply rest and talk or gamble. Much as the men delighted in make and mend, the centurions resented it, grumbling that it softened them and too much of it made the men slack. It did, of course, win a small measure of popularity and good will for the officer who gave the order.

‘Make and mend,’ Tullius nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Shall I tell them now?’

‘No, you’re to go with the optio. I’ll tell them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tullius switched his gaze to the impassive faces of the provosts. Maximius noted his concerned expression and spoke quietly to his officers.