‘Macro, my lad!’ he bellowed, rather too loudly, and the trio at the bar looked up in irritation. ‘Come over here and share a brew.’

As the others squeezed up, Macro made the introductions.

‘Lads, this is my optio. Cato, this lot of wine-sodden louts are the cream of the legion’s officer corps. In a kinder light you might just recognise one or two faces. Please make the acquaintance of Quintus, Balbus, Scipio, Fabius and Parnesius.’

The men looked up Wearily and nodded a greeting. Clearly a great deal had already been drunk.

‘A good bunch of lads,’ Macro said heartily. ‘I served with them before they were all made up to centurions. First time we’ve had a chance for a get-together since I was promoted. One day, if you live long enough, I’m sure you’re going to join us in the centurionate, eh lads?’

As the others roared out their agreement, Cato did his best not to look too appalled at the prospect, and helped himself to a drink. It proved to be another variety of the rough wine imported from Gaul and Cato winced as the sour liquid burned its way down his throat.

‘Heady stuff, eh?’ Balbus grinned. ‘Just the sort of thing to set you up for some hand-to-hand with the tarts.’

Cato had no intention of coming that close, if the women at the counter were anything to judge the profession by. Besides, the only woman on his mind was Lavinia, and the best way to rid his mind of her for the moment was to drink.

Several cups of wine later his eyes felt as if they were perpetually swinging round and round, and it was worse when he shut them. Some kind of focus was needed and his gaze wobbled over to the group of legionaries at the other table, and the segmented armour they were wearing.

He jabbed a finger at Macro. ‘Is that stuff any good, sir?’

‘Stuff? What stuff?’

‘That kit they’re wearing. Instead of chain mail.’

‘That, my lad, is the new issue of armour the legions are being equipped with.’

Parnesius stirred his head from where it rested on his folded arms and shouted out in a parade-ground way, ‘Body armour, segmented, legionaries for the use of! Get it fucking right, son!’

‘Ignore him,’ Macro whispered to Cato. ‘He works in the quartermaster’s office.’

‘I guessed.’

‘Oi! You lot!’ Macro called out to the other table. ‘Let’s be having you. The optio here wants to see your new armour.’

The legionaries exchanged looks. Finally, one of them replied. ‘You can’t tell us what to do. We’re off duty.’

‘Don’t give a shit. Get your arse over here,’ Macro shouted. ‘I mean NOW!’

First one, then the others, meekly rose from the table and came over. They stood at the side of the table while the officers examined their equipment with some curiosity.