‘It’s all right. I did as I said I would earlier. None of you has anything to worry about. Just tell the truth.’

‘Centurion Tullius?’ the optio called out, extending his arm towards the provosts. ‘If you please, sir?’

Tullius swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, of course.’

Tullius fumbled with his helmet ties as he strode towards the escort. Then, flanked on either side, he was marched off, crested helmet tucked under his arm. When the escort was out of earshot Centurion Antonius stepped close to his cohort commander.

‘What happened, sir?’

Maximius stared at him, his blank expression giving nothing away. ‘What happened to me is . . . nothing to do with you. Understand?’

Antonius looked down. ‘Sorry, sir. I just . . . it’s just that I’m worried. Never experienced anything like this before.’

Maximius’ lips relaxed into a slight smile. ‘Me neither. Just answer the questions the legate asks you as straight as you can, and remember you’re a centurion of the finest bloody legion in the empire. The only things in life that should worry a centurion are barbarians, plagues, wine droughts and insanely jealous women with access to cutlery. Questions -’ he shook his head - ‘questions will never hurt you.’

Antonius smiled. So did the others, even Cato, who as a child had lived in the imperial palace long enough to know that the wrong answer to a question could kill a man just as surely as the strongest barbarian warrior.

All morning and into the afternoon, the centurions waited by the smouldering remains of the fire the slave had built to cook their food. When he returned from his interrogation Macro had taken the whetstone out of his leather haversack and busied himself in sharpening the edges of his short sword. He spoke to no one, not even Cato, and refused to meet the eyes of the other centurions as he concentrated on rasping the stone along the bright shining length of his blade.

While Antonius was being questioned Tullius and Felix played at dice, and the luck seemed to be going Felix’s way to an extent that outraged the laws of probability. The fact that he owned the dice began to feed the suspicion growing in the mind of the normally trustful Tullius. Cato watched them with amusement for a while. He never bet on games of chance, and thought it weak-minded of men who did. When he had lived in Rome, the tiny sums of money he had bet as a boy had always been on the races in the Circus Maximus, and then only after exhaustive study of form.