‘Transforma!’# The first squad wavered a little, transfixed by the sight of the other group bearing down on them, before managing a ragged about face.

‘Taaa!’ The second squad were no more than eight paces away, still marching. ‘Steeee!’ The man’s voice somehow managed to become even higher. All the men behind Festus were laughing.

‘Move!’ The first squad started marching away, although some of the men in the rear rank were turning their heads to see behind them.

Instead of trying to remember the order, the big man ran in front of his own squad, waving his arms to make them stop. They quickened the pace instead. Sensing or seeing this, the first squad also began to take longer strides, the ranks becoming ragged.

‘Oh, that fat mongrel!’ The boy closest to Festus managed to say before he could say no more for laughter, made worse as the second squad began to run, and everyone else ran to get out of their way.

Then the youth dropped his spear. It fell forward, the point close enough to twitch the hem of Festus’ cloak before it hit the ground. The centurion’s response was a reflex, as he spun around and swung his cane in his left hand, letting go with his right. If he was thinking at all, he probably meant to hit the soldier’s shield. Instead, the lad was already leaning forward, whether from laughter or to pick up his spear. Held wrong way up, the gnarled top of the centurion’s cane slammed into the youth’s mouth, so that he staggered back, blood coming from a split lip.

‘Stand to attention, man!’ Festus yelled. ‘And pick that up!’ He turned away, and his temper rose again because the parade was a shambles, the two squads mingled together, some running, some barging each other with their shields.

‘You!’ Festus almost screamed at the instructors. ‘Sort that disgrace out!’

There was a thud as the youth dropped his shield onto the grass and the scrape of a sword being drawn. Festus turned, frowning, small eyes staring and saw the youth coming at him, gladius held low, blood on his chin and growling. The centurion raised his cane, while his mouth opened to shout, but it was all so fast, so absurd. He was not wearing armour that day, because for much of the time he had supervised building work and had not wanted to be encumbered. Driven by rage, the triangular point of the gladius slid easily through his two tunics and undershirt into his stomach, angled up to thrust under his ribs. He grunted with the shock, as the boy made more animal noise and grabbed the centurion by the shoulder to pull him onto the blade. The cane fell from Festus’ hand and he gasped.

No one else had moved. There had been no warning and no time. The boy was screaming, trying to wrench his sword free and only then did other men drop their shields and spears and pull him away. Festus slumped, gave a long sigh and died.