‘Wonderful. At the start of the second hour of the night watch. We shall look forward to seeing you there. It will not be anything special, I am afraid, but at least it will be warm and dry!’ Cerialis grinned and patted the centurion on the shoulder.

VII

FEROX STRUGGLED TO keep pace. It was an hour into the dinner and he felt bloated and his elbow ached from supporting his weight. The borrowed toga was stiff and uncomfortable, and every time he shifted on the couch there was tightly bunched-up wool underneath him. He hoped that Philo had not lied when he assured him that the garment was on loan from the slave of one of the centurions in the garrison, and that everything had been properly arranged. The little Alexandrian had been delighted when he heard of the invitation. In moments it revived him from a bedraggled wreck into a whirlwind of excited activity. ‘A pity it is not a symposium,’ he kept saying, but that disappointment aside, the slave was happier than he had seen him for years. Much to Ferox’s surprise, he produced the centurion’s best tunic, cleaned to an almost dazzling whiteness, and his best shoes, free of any speck of dirt. ‘I had hoped for some invitation of this kind,’ Philo confessed, as if he were going to the meal, but had worried that the senior officers would fail to realise the true importance of his master. The lack of a toga caused panic, and the slave vanished for nearly two hours before returning in triumph, then fussed until the centurion was ready. Philo inspected him, walking all around, with less of an air of disappointment than usual.

‘No scent,’ Ferox told him firmly when the lad produced a small bottle of blue-green glass.

‘Very well, my lord,’ the Alexandrian replied, meaning nothing of the sort. ‘But do you not think, my lord, that a slight touch would be beneficial after the rigours of the last days?’

‘You mean to cover the foul reek of filthy centurion?’

Philo said no more, lifting the bottle and reaching for the stopper, convinced of the correctness of his judgement.

‘No.’

‘My lord, please?’ The voice was imploring, tinged with regret.

‘No.’ Ferox sighed. ‘Do you know that the Emperor Vespasian once gave a promotion to a man recommended to him, but when the fellow turned up, in he walked in a cloud of scents and perfumes. Then the emperor – the very wise emperor – rescinded the commission and sent the man packing. Said he’d rather he smelled of garlic if he had to reek of anything.’

‘I see, master, but the Emperor Vespasian is long dead’ – and good riddance to bad rubbish was the implication – ‘while I am sure the other gentlemen will be properly turned out. And there will be great ladies present…’ The boy pulled the stopper from the bottle.