Vespasian looked up from the lines of figures on the scroll. ‘Calm yourself, Tribune. This is no way for a senior officer to act.’

‘Sir?’

‘You don’t go belting about the camp unless there is the gravest of emergencies.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And are we in grave danger, Tribune?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then keep a cool head and set a good example for the rest of the legion.’

‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.’

‘All right then. What have you come to report that is so urgent?’

‘There are some men approaching the camp, sir.’

‘How many?’

‘Two men, sir. And a few more are holding back at the treeline.’

‘Two men? So what’s all the fuss about?’

‘One of them’s a Roman…’

Vespasian waited patiently for a moment. ‘And the other?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

When The Eagle Hunts

Chapter Seven

The Sixth Century had pulled the second watch of the day. After a hurried breakfast of steaming porridge, they relieved the century patrolling the walls of the fortified camp. The centurion coming off duty briefly informed Cato of the arrival of the horsemen from Calleva. Mid-morning sunlight streamed over the ramparts. Cato squinted, having climbed up from the cold shadows around the neat lines of tents. He was forced to shield his eyes for a moment.

‘Nice morning, Optio!’ a legionary greeted him. ‘Might actually get warm today.’

Cato turned to the man; a large, round youth with a jolly face and a handful of crooked teeth that looked like the remains of one of the stone circles the legion had marched past the previous summer. Being thin with little fat on him, thanks to his nervous disposition, Cato found it difficult to keep warm and was still shivering inside his tightly belted wool cloak. He simply nodded at the legionary, not wanting to let the man see his teeth chatter. The legionary was one of the recent replacements, a Gaul by the name of Horatius Figulus. Figulus was an adequate enough soldier, and the youngster’s cheerful nature had made him popular with the century.

With a sudden jolt of awareness, Cato recalled that Figulus was the same age as he was. The same age, and yet the few months longer he had served with the eagles made him look upon this recruit with the cool gaze of a veteran. Certainly, a casual onlooker might well imagine the optio to be a veteran; the scars of the terrible burns he had suffered the previous summer were clearly visible. And yet the hair on his cheeks was still so sparse that it would be risible for him to even consider a shave. Figulus, by contrast, shared the hairy physiognomy of his Celt forebears; the fine growth of light hair across his cheeks and chin needed almost daily attention from a carefully whetted blade.