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‘Excuse me!’ Cato had called out. ‘Excuse me.’

The quartermaster’s assistant looked back over his shoulder. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, this tunic, it seems a bit big for me.’

The assistant laughed. ‘No, mate. It’s the right size. You’re the one that’s the wrong size. You’re in the army now. One size fits all.’

‘But look! This is ludicrous.’ Cato held the tunic up in front of his body, it was far too wide for his thin frame, and his height drew the hem well above his knees. ‘My legs will freeze. Is there nothing else?’

‘No. You’ll grow into it.’

‘What?’ Cato replied incredulously. ‘I’m the shape I am. I’m not suddenly going to shrink and grow outwards. Now find me something the right size.’

‘I told you. That’s all there is, and you’re stuck with it.’

The raised voices were audible right through the storeroom and all the other recruits and assistants paused to look in their direction. In the small office behind the counter, a chair screeched back on the flagstone floor and a burly man emerged angrily from the door.

‘What’s all the bloody shouting about?’

‘Are you in charge here?’ asked Cato, glad to see someone in authority he could make a complaint to. It was as bad as some of the shops in Rome. Everyone was using cheap help these days, staff who neither cared nor knew about their goods. He had been forced to complain about such matters to managers many times before when purchasing for the palace and knew the best approach to adopt. ‘I was trying to explain to this man…’

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ The quartermaster bellowed.

‘Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort.’

The quartermaster frowned for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, I’ve heard all about you! Optio! Hah! Well then, optio,’ he smiled. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘Look here. I just want this man to provide me with a garment my size.’

‘May I?’ The quartermaster reached out for the tunic, and Cato gladly returned it to him. The quartermaster made an elaborate show of examining the tunic, running his hand over the crude stitching and finally holding it up to the light coming in from the open shutters.

‘Yes,’ he concluded. ‘This is a standard-issue tunic all right. Nothing wrong with it.’

‘But—’

‘Shut it!’ The quartermaster flung the tunic back across the counter. ‘Now take the bloody thing and don’t waste any more of my time.’

‘But—’

‘And call me “sir” — you snotty little upstart!’

Cato opened his mouth to utter a horrified protest, but managed to bite his tongue at the last moment. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Now get the rest of your kit.’ The quartermaster turned back to his office, then noticed that everyone had stopped to enjoy the performance. ‘What the hell are you lot gawping at?’

The stores building instantly turned back into heaving activity as the new recruits collected their kit allocations. With a shrug, Cato folded the tunic and stood at the counter as the assistant piled his clothing and equipment on to the battered wooden surface. In addition to the tunic was a pair of woollen breeches, a yellow leather jerkin, a thick red cloak waterproofed with animal fat, boots shod with iron nails and a mess tin. The assistant shoved a slate towards him. ‘Sign here, or make your mark.’