Macro noticed the movement. For a moment he was almost moved to place a fatherly hand on his optio’s shoulder and try to comfort him. He had grown used to the optio’s presence and tended to forget that Cato lacked experience of the absolute brutality of war. It was hard to believe that the clumsy bookworm who had turned up with the other bedraggled recruits back in Germany was the same man as the scarred junior officer standing silently beside him. The lad had already won his first decoration for bravery; the polished phalera gleamed on the optio’s harness. There was no doubting his courage and intelligence, and if he survived the harsh life of the legions for long enough, a good future lay ahead of him. Yet he was still little more than a boy, inclined to a painful degree of self-consciousness that Macro could not understand. Any more than he could understand the depths of the lad’s occasional moods, when he seemed to shrink into himself and wrap himself up in a tangle of unfathomable threads of thought.

Macro shrugged. If the boy would only stop thinking so much, he’d find life a lot easier. Macro had little time for introspection, it merely confused the issue and prevented a man from doing things. Best left to those idle intellectuals back in Rome. The sooner Cato accepted that, the happier he’d be.

Figulus was still tutting at Diomedes’s shameless display of emotion. ‘Bloody Greeks! They turn everything into a drama. Too much tragedy and not enough comedy in their theatres, that’s their problem.’

‘The man’s lost his family,’ Macro said quietly. ‘So do him a favour before he overhears you, and fucking shut up.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Figulus waited a moment, and then casually wandered off, as if looking for something else to divert his attention while the century waited for orders.

Centurion Hortensius had seen enough, and briskly strode over to join Macro.

‘Bloody mess in there,’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Best get your lads to fill it in. We haven’t got time for a proper burial. Anyway, I don’t know what the drill is for the local version.’

‘You could ask Diomedes,’ suggested Macro. ‘He’d know.’

They both turned to look at the Greek guide. Diomedes had raised his head, and was staring towards the well, his features twisted and trembling as he struggled with his grief.

‘I don’t think so,’ decided Centurion Hortensius. ‘Not for a while at least. I’ll take care of him while you see to the well.’

Macro nodded, before another thought occurred to him. ‘What about the loot my optio discovered?’

‘What about it?’

Cato looked up irritably at the senior centurion’s failure to grasp the significance of his find. Before he could give voice to any insubordinate explanation, Macro intervened.

‘The optio reckons the raiders intend to return for their spoils.’