That evening, after the century had been fed and the miscreants assigned their extra duties, just as Cato was yawning with arms at full stretch, a slave entered the flickering gloom of the oil lamps lighting the centurion’s tent. He glanced about him, message tightly grasped to his chest.

Macro looked up from his desk, where the benefits of acquiring rudimentary writing skills were counterbalanced by the tedious paperwork he could now cope with. He held out a hand. ‘Here!’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ replied the slave withholding the scroll protectively. ‘This is for the optio.’

‘Fair enough,’ Macro said. He watched curiously as Cato tore off the seal and unrolled the message. The contents were brief and Cato dipped his pen and quickly scribbled a reply, thrusting it back into the hands of the slave before ushering him out of the tent.

‘That looked rather dodgy,’ said Macro.

‘It was nothing, sir.’

‘Nothing?’

Nothing to do with you, thought Cato, but he managed to smile before replying, ‘Just a personal matter, sir. That’s all.’

‘A personal matter? I see.’ Macro nodded with a maddeningly amused expression on his face. ‘Nothing to do with that slave girl, then?’

Cato blushed, grateful for the orange hue cast by the oil lamps, but kept his tongue still.

‘Have you finished your work for the night?’ Macro asked pointedly.

‘No, sir. There are still some ration requisitions to complete.’

‘Piso can finish them.’

Piso abruptly looked up from his desk in annoyance.

‘Off you go, young Cato. Right now. But don’t overexert yourself.’ He winked. ‘Remember there’s another long day ahead.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato forced a smile and then dashed out of the tent, burning with embarrassment.

‘Boys, eh?’ Macro laughed. ‘Same the world over, since the dawn of time. Takes you back a bit, doesn’t it, Piso?’

‘If you say so, sir,’ grumbled Piso, and then he sighed at the heap of scrolls spread out in front of him and looked at his centurion reproachfully.

Under The Eagle

Chapter Twenty-one

Vespasian smiled, even as he rubbed the red marks on his wrist where Titus had sunk his teeth in. That little boy could use some firm discipline, he decided. He simply had to stop biting, throwing things at people and running off with articles he was forbidden to touch. Earlier in the evening the little terror had burst into the nightly briefing of the tribunes. Scampering under the table he had raided the confidential papers safe-box and run off with Claudius’s scroll. If it hadn’t been for Plinius barring the tent flap, Titus would have got clean away. As it was, the tribune grabbed the boy and swung him up into his arms to return him to an embarrassed Flavia, who had appeared from the legate’s personal quarters. The boy swung his hand out and caught Plinius on the chin, just as his mother wrestled the scroll from Titus’s grip. Laughter rolled around the tent as the exasperated mother momentarily lost the scroll in the folds of her gown before handing it to the injured tribune and leaving with the writhing, giggling Titus pinned to her chest.