The recruits placed their shields and spears down and struggled with the stiff buckles of their swordbelts before grabbing their equipment and fleeing towards the door.

‘Excellent stuff this wine,’ Scaevola hinted. ‘Shall we have another?’

There was hardly any left in the flask and Macro made sure that Scaevola had the lion’s share, saving the dregs for himself.

‘What were we talking about?’ Scaevola asked.

‘Drink. You were saying there’s no good drink where the Legion’s going.’

‘Did I?’ Scaevola raised his eyebrows.

‘I suppose that means the far east,’ Macro carried on casually. ‘Nothing decent to drink, just that crap they make out of fermented goat’s milk, so I’ve heard. Or worse, it might even be Judea.’

He watched Scaevola’s face for any flicker of response, but the chief armourer merely took another draught of wine and nodded. ‘It might be Judea… It might not.’

Macro sighed with frustration — getting information out of the canny old veteran was harder than getting the clap off a vestal virgin. He decided to attempt a new line of enquiry.

‘Well, have you indented for any lightweight tunics?’

‘Now why would I do that?’ Scaevola frowned. ‘Why on earth would I indent for those?’

Macro took a deep breath, fighting back his growing irritation at Scaevola’s smug avoidance of the one answer he sought. ‘Look here, Scaevola. Just tell me what you know. Just one word. Just the name of the place we’re going. Just the name of the province will do. And I promise I won’t tell another soul. You have my word.’

‘Sure.’ Scaevola smiled. ‘Until someone comes up to you with a flask of wine and tries to loosen your tongue. I have my orders. The legate wants to keep it quiet for as long as possible.’

‘But why?’

‘Let’s just say that the men won’t be best pleased when they find out where we’re being sent.’ Scaevola drained his cup. ‘Now I must get back to work. Vespasian wants the inventory completed as soon as possible.’

‘Well, thanks,’ Macro said bitterly as he rose from the table. ‘Thanks for nothing.’

‘Not at all!’ Scaevola beamed. ‘Drop by any time.’

Macro didn’t reply as he turned and made for the door.

‘Oh, Macro!’ Scaevola called after him.

‘Yes?’

‘If you do drop by, feel free to bring some more of that wine along.’

Macro ground his teeth and stamped out of the armoury.

Under The Eagle

Chapter Four

Vespasian was wearing the full dress uniform of a legion commander as he mounted the podium at the side of the parade ground. The silvered greaves, breastplate and helmet caught the light of the midday sun and shone brilliantly. The red crest and cloak lifted to a faint breeze. Behind him stood the standard bearers carrying aloft the golden eagle of the Second Legion and the image of the Emperor Claudius — a rather over-flattering likeness, thought Cato, who had last seen the Emperor spluttering food while attempting to conduct a conversation at an imperial dinner. Below the eagle hung a bottom-weighted square of red leather upon which the words ‘Augusta’ had been embroidered in gold letters.