The young sentry did not move, so was true to his pledge at least. He was also just where he should be, standing three paces in front of the ditch and to the right of the track leading up to the gate, but he was far too still.

‘Boy!’ the Thracian tried again, a little louder.

The lad stayed as he was, the butt of his spear planted firmly on the ground, the shaft against his shoulder to rest his weight. With his dark cloak gathered around him and shield propped against his legs, only his stillness and the slump of his helmeted head gave him away. The Thracian knew every soldier’s trick and this was an old and dangerous one. One of the most important things a recruit had to learn was to nap whenever and wherever he got the chance, because the army never minded getting you up at all hours. Sleep was precious, almost as precious as food. A knack for sleeping while standing up was rare and sometimes useful, but a dangerous curse for a man on sentry duty.

‘Wake up, you daft sod, or they’ll have the skin off your back!’ The Thracian spat the words out and then looked nervously back into the courtyard in case someone had heard. There were half a dozen men out in the street, fiddling with their equipment and adjusting buckles, but no one was paying him particular attention. The closed gate meant that they could not see the lad outside, but once the sun cleared the crest of the hill then it was the Thracian’s duty to ring the brass bell to mark the end of the night watches and the beginning of a new day. As the garrison was roused and the gate opened, he would shift the wooden peg on the board beside it to show that it was now the third day before the Ides of September. A pair of sentries would come to relieve them, morning parade would be held, orders and a new password issued, and only after that was there a chance of some food. Nothing much changed whether the garrison held a whole legion or a couple of dozen men, so even here the army’s day started in the same way as it did everywhere else.

He had to act quickly, for Crescens was bound to blame him for not keeping the youngster awake. He could tell that the curator was itching to lay formal charges against someone and earn them a beating or worse.

‘Sonny!’ the old soldier tried again, calling as loud as he dared. His foot kicked something across the floor. It was an apple core, left by one of the earlier sentries – probably that mucky bugger Victor. Propping his spear against the wooden parapet, he bent over to grab it.