‘Those men,’ Bestia nodded over his shoulder, ‘belong to the Second Legion — the Augusta — the toughest in the entire Roman army, and you’d better not forget it. There is no barbarian tribe, however remote, who hasn’t heard of us and who doesn’t live in mortal fear of us. The Second has killed more of these scum, and conquered more of their land, than any other unit. We have been able to do this because we train men to be the meanest, dirtiest, hardest fighters in the civilised world… You, on the other hand, are soft, worthless piles of shit. You are not even men. You are the lowest fucking form of life that ever claimed to be Roman. I despise each and every last fucking one of you, and I will weed out every worthless piece of scum so that only the best join my beloved Second Legion and serve under our eagle. I’ve watched you all the way from Aventicum — and, ladies, I’m not impressed. You signed up and now you are all mine. I will train you, I will hurt you, I will make men of you. Then — if and when I decide you are ready — then I will let you become a legionary. If any one of you doesn’t give me every last shred of energy and commitment then I will break him — with this.’ He held the gnarled vine cane aloft for all to see. ‘Do you shits understand?’

There was a murmured assent from the recruits, some of whom were so tired they just nodded.

‘What was that supposed to be?’ Bestia shouted angrily. ‘I can hardly fucking hear you!’

He moved into the crowd and grabbed a recruit roughly by the collar of his travelling cloak. Macro noticed for the first time that this recruit was dressed differently from the others. The cut of his cloak was unmistakably expensive — no matter how much mud was caked on to it. The recruit was taller than the rest, but thin and delicate-looking — just the kind of victim to make an example of.

‘What the hell is this? What the fuck is a recruit doing with a better cloak than I can afford? You steal it, boy?’

‘No,’ the recruit replied calmly. ‘A friend gave it to me.’

Bestia slammed his vine cane into the boy’s stomach and the recruit doubled over and slumped to the ground, hands splashing into a puddle. Bestia stood over him, cane raised for another blow.

‘Whenever you open your mouth you call me sir! Understand?’

Macro watched the young man gasp for air as he tried to reply, then Bestia swung the cane down on his back and the boy yelped.

‘I said, do you understand?’

‘Yes, s-sir!’ the recruit cried out.

‘Louder!’

‘YES, SIR!’

‘That’s better. Now, let’s see what else you’ve got.’

The centurion grabbed the blanket carrier and wrenched it free. The contents spilled out on to the muddy ground; some spare clothes, a small flask, some bread, two scrolls and a leather-bound writing set.