‘How’s it wear?’ Macro asked, rising from the bench for a closer examination.

‘Well enough, sir,’ the first one to rise from his seat responded. ‘Lighter than chain mail. And it’s tougher. It’s made up of these solid strips.’

‘It looks like shit. How can you move in that?’

‘It’s articulated, sir. It adjusts to your movements.’

‘You don’t say?’ Macro tugged at the armour, and then lifted the cloak at the back. ‘Fastened by these buckles, I take it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Easy to get on?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Expensive?’

‘Cheaper than the mail.’

‘How come you lot in the Twentieth are the only legions to get this issue? It’s not as if you do much fighting.’

The officers laughed as the legionary fumed at this slight. He barely managed to recover his temper enough to reply, ‘Dunno, sir. I’m just a squaddie.’

‘Stop calling him sir,’ one of the other legionaries hissed. ‘We don’t have to now.’

‘I can’t help it.’

‘Don’t do it!’ the legionary said firmly. ‘Otherwise what’s the point in being off duty?’

‘You!’ Macro thrust a finger into the man’s chest. ‘Just shut it! You talk when you’re fucking told to and not before. Understand me?’

‘I understand,’ the man replied firmly. ‘But I’m not obeying orders.’

‘Yes you fucking are!’ Macro swung a fist into the man’s midriff, and swore violently as it connected with the new armour. With his other hand he smacked the man in the face, sending him reeling into his comrades. Macro’s follow-through swung him round and he collapsed onto the man he had hit with a howl of laughter.

‘OK, lads, rank doesn’t apply. Let’s ruck!’

Every officer, except Cato, lurched to his feet and piled into the legionaries who, like Cato, just stared dumbfounded — until the first few blows had landed. Then, drunken wits recovered, the legionaries fought back and the bar was filled with the sound of crashing tables and benches. The barman hurried his women out of the room.

‘Come on, Cato!’ Macro called out from beneath a legionary. ‘Get stuck in!’