‘Not this time.’ Macro smiled and raised his cup. ‘Just to share some wine with a veteran, and exchange the odd scrap of news.’

‘The odd scrap of news!’ Scaevola said contemptuously. ‘I know why you’re here.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘It wouldn’t be anything to do with the bloody inventory the legate’s ordered, would it?’

‘Of course not.’ Macro reached over with the flask and topped Scaevola up. ‘Why would I be interested in that?’

‘You’d be the only one in the legion who wasn’t.’ Scaevola took a swig. ‘Anyway, I’m not saying nothing. Orders.’

‘Yes,’ Macro repeated thoughtfully. ‘Orders. I wonder where we’re being sent? Hope it’s somewhere warm for a change. I’m bloody sick of Germany. Freezing in winter, baking in summer and it’s impossible to get any decent wine — cheaply that is.’

The last remark was pointed. The wine they were drinking was from Macro’s last jar of Falernian, not the acidic Gaulish brew the local traders peddled. He hoped Scaevola appreciated the gesture, and also hoped that it might loosen the veteran’s tongue. It wasn’t just for curiosity — a centurion needed to plan ahead. It was useful to know where the Legion was being sent so that he could prepare for the transfer and buy in whatever he needed for the journey before the news broke officially and supplies were snapped up and the local traders charged premium prices. With a tip of his head Scaevola emptied his cup and Macro instantly refilled it. ‘Wherever we go, I hope there’s something decent to drink.’

‘Fat chance!’ Scaevola snorted. ‘You’d better enjoy this stuff. Won’t be much booze over there.’

‘None at all?’ Macro feigned horror.

‘None.’ Scaevola replied, then abruptly stood up and shouted over Macro’s shoulder. ‘There’s nothing bloody wrong with that sword! Hold it properly!’

Macro turned on his stool and searched out the target of Scaevola’s anger. Standing out, as usual, was that infernal new boy, examining his wooden short sword as he held it by the tip of the point.

‘But, sir. This isn’t a proper sword. It’s wood.’

‘Of course it’s bloody wood.’

As Centurion Bestia pushed his way through the crowd of recruits to see what the fuss was all about he bawled out. ‘What? You causing trouble again? What’s the matter now? Sword the wrong size?’

‘No, sir. It’s wooden. Not a proper sword, sir.’

‘Wooden? Of course, it’s bloody wooden. It’s not a proper sword because you’re not a proper soldier. If you become a real soldier, then you get to play with the real thing.’

Bestia filled his lungs to address all the recruits. ‘As some of you may have realised, like sonny boy here, the weapons you have been given are not real. Because you do not yet deserve the real thing. If we just handed out dangerous weapons to you ladies you’d be injuring each other in no time. The army does not wish to save our enemies the effort. Before you can hold a sword you must respect it. You must learn how to use it properly. Same goes for the spear. You may find your weapons heavy. That’s because they’re twice the weight of the standard issue. You are soft, idle scum and we need to build you up and make men of you. We can only do that by training and exercise, and there’ll be plenty of it, ladies. So get used to the weight. Now then, the sword belt is fastened with the sword hanging to the right, NOT to the left — like I’ve got it. That’s for officers only… Hold your spear in your right hand, shield in the left and get into four ranks outside… Now!’