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centurionate fifteen years ago, he had been transferred into the Eighteenth from his old legion.
    Tramp, tramp. The soldiers of Tullus’ century marched past. Led by the standard-bearer, they were six men wide, twelve deep – a unit was never at complete strength – with his optio Fenestela near the back.
    As each man passed Tullus, he took great care to square his shoulders and keep his shoulder-carried javelin at the right angle. Keen-eyed, expressionless, Tullus observed how good their equipment looked, and whether it showed any signs of wear, or damage. He’d spotted most of the problems when the legionaries had assembled outside their stone barracks: a loose armour plate here; a helmet cheekpiece missing its iron tie ring there. As then, none of it mattered enough to halt their progress. They’d been chastised, he thought, and would fix their kit upon their return. That, or they’d feel his vitis , vine cane, across their shoulders.
    Now and again, Tullus’ attention strayed to the camp’s impressive fortifications. His home had been within for a decade and a half, and he wasn’t yet tired of appreciating the defences. Everything about them exuded confidence, permanence and the power of Rome. First came the deep double ditch, with the spiked branches at the bottom of each. Behind those was the earthen rampart, built with the spoil from the ditches. It was taller than the loftiest cavalryman. The stone wall that sat atop it was even taller, and ran around the camp’s entire perimeter.
    Flashes of sunlight marked the sentries pacing to and fro on the rampart’s walkway. Those who were in the twin towers spanning the gate observed Tullus with a faint air of superiority, their height and his patrol duty giving them immunity to any potential reprimand. Tullus’ lips twitched with amusement. He’d acted much the same way as a young low-ranker, a lifetime before. As long as the sentries remained alert – and they appeared to be – he didn’t care.
    Even in these peaceful times, outside a camp containing a legion, it paid to be watchful. That was how he approached life, how he approached routine duties such as this. No one had had a problem with tribesmen this side of the river in years, but every time his legionaries marched beyond the walls, on duty, they – and he – were armed and equipped for battle.
    Tullus was a solid man; middle-aged, but in excellent physical shape. Under his centurion’s crested helmet and the felt liner that sat beneath it, he had short brown hair. A long jaw didn’t stop him from being good-looking; nor did the pattern of scars that marked his body. He jerked his head as his optio, Marcus Crassus Fenestela, drew level. They paced together to the front of the unit, their gaze roaming over the tramping legionaries.
    As Tullus walked, he studied Fenestela sidelong. It amused him that he and Fenestela were such physical opposites. Where he was solid, Fenestela was thin; where he was brawny, Fenestela was wiry. Fenestela’s auburn, curly hair was longer than regulation cut, and his features were, as Tullus liked to joke, uneven. His ugliness wasn’t helped by his bushy red beard. Tullus didn’t give a shit about Fenestela’s appearance, however. He and his optio had served together for many years. They had saved each other’s lives on numerous occasions, and trusted each other inside and out.
    ‘Happy?’ Tullus asked at length.
    ‘Aye, sir,’ Fenestela replied, his keen eyes darting over the column. ‘They look all right.’
    ‘Even the green ones?’ asked Tullus as they drew alongside two ranks of newish recruits. He was amused: although the soldiers’ helmets and kit shone from polishing, and their gait was satisfactory, they were careful not to catch his eye.
    ‘They’re coming along,’ Fenestela murmured.
    ‘Look at Piso. He’s got mismatched feet, or I’m no judge.’ Tullus watched the tall soldier in the second rank of recruits. Despite the fact that he was