For a moment Macro watched the exchange of expressions; the tribune struggling to contain his anger and the boy, afraid but defiant. Then the tribune’s eyes flashed towards the centurion and he forced a smile on to his lips.

‘Right then, in person it is.’ Vitellius stood up, scroll in hand. ‘Come with me.’

Vitellius led them down a short passage into an antechamber where the legate’s private secretary worked at a desk to one side of a large studded door. He looked up as they approached and, seeing Vitellius, wearily rose to his feet.

‘Can I see the legate?’ Vitellius asked briskly.

‘Is it urgent, sir?’

‘Imperial despatch.’ Vitellius held out the letter so that the seal could be seen. The secretary instantly knocked on the door of the legate’s office and entered without waiting for a reply, closing the door behind him. There was silence for a moment and then the door opened again. The secretary ushered Vitellius inside and held up a hand to the other two. From inside, Macro could clearly hear a raised voice, punctuated by an occasional monosyllable from Vitellius. The dressing down was mercifully brief but the tribune managed to fire a cold, hostile glare at the centurion as he passed out of the office back towards the admin hall.

‘He’ll see you now.’ The secretary waved a finger at them.

Macro silently seethed with anger at Bestia. That bloody letter would do for him. Having been ordered to act as the boy’s guide to the headquarters, Macro was about to face the wrath of the legate for imposing on his precious time. If Vitellius, a tribune, could be shouted down only the gods knew what the legate would say to a humble centurion. And it was all the bloody boy’s fault. Macro instinctively passed on the look he had received from Vitellius, then gulped nervously as he marched smartly through the door, past the smug expression of the secretary. At that moment he would rather have faced ten howling mad Gaulish warriors single-handed.

The legate’s office was unsurprisingly spacious. The far side was dominated by a black marble-topped table behind which sat Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasian — scowling as he looked up from the open letter in front of him.

‘Right then, Centurion. What are you doing here?’

‘Sir?’

‘You’re supposed to be on duty.’

‘Orders, sir. I was told to show this new recruit to headquarters and see you got that letter.’

‘Who ordered you?’

‘Lucius Batiacus Bestia. He’s covering the watch until I return, sir.’

‘Oh, is he?’ A frown creased the broad brow of Vespasian. Then his gaze switched to the young recruit standing one step behind and to one side of Macro, desperately hoping that immobility was the surest route to invisibility. The legate’s eyes quickly looked over the boy, assessing his potential. ‘You are Quintus Licinius Cato?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘From the palace?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Bit unusual to say the least,’ Vespasian mused. ‘The palace doesn’t generate too many recruits for the legions, my wife excepted — even she’s finding it hard to adapt to the squalor of a legate’s private accommodation. I doubt you will find our ways much to your taste but you’re a soldier now and that’s that.’