'May I?' The quartermaster reached out for the tunic, and Cato gladly returned it to him. The quartermaster made an elaborate show of examining the tunic, running his hand over the crude stitching and finally holding it up to the light coming in from the open shutters.

'Yes,' he concluded. 'This is a standard-issue tunic all right. Nothing wrong with it.'

'But-'

'Shut it!' The quartermaster flung the tunic back across the counter. 'Now take the bloody thing and don't waste any more of my time.'

'But-'

'And call me "sir" – you snotty little upstart!'

Cato opened his mouth to utter a horrified protest, but managed to bite his tongue at the last moment. 'Yes, sir.'

'Good. Now get the rest of your kit.' The quartermaster turned back to his office, then noticed that everyone had stopped to enjoy the performance. 'What the hell are you lot gawping at?'

The stores building instantly turned back into heaving activity as the new recruits collected their kit allocations. With a shrug, Cato folded the tunic and stood at the counter as the assistant piled his clothing and equipment on to the battered wooden surface. In addition to the tunic was a pair of woollen breeches, a yellow leather jerkin, a thick red cloak waterproofed with animal fat, boots shod with iron nails and a mess tin. The assistant shoved a slate towards him. 'Sign here, or make your mark.'

'What's this?'

'Receipt for your civvy clothes.'

'What?'

'You're not allowed to keep your clothes. You give 'em to me after you change into uniform. We sell them for you in the local market and give you the proceeds.'

'Absolutely not!' Cato said firmly.

The assistant turned back towards the office and opened his mouth to call out.

'Wait!' Cato stopped him. 'I'll sign. But do you have to sell them? I want to keep my boots and travel cloak.'

'Recruits have to be in uniform. Can't just wear any old thing. Anyway there's no room to store clothes. But I promise we'll get you a good price.'

For some reason Cato doubted he would see much of a return on his clothes. 'How can I be sure you'll give me the full sum?'

'Are you accusing me of dishonesty?' the assistant replied in mock horror.

Cato slowly stripped naked and pulled on the standard-issue tunic. It was as ill-fitting as he had feared, reminding him of the short tunics worn by the prostitutes back in Rome. The breeches were uncomfortable and had to be tied tightly above his skinny hips to stop them falling down. And they itched terribly. Almost as uncomfortable were the heavy military boots made of thick-cut leather and laced with tough thongs. The nail studs on the bottom made a clattering sound on the stone floor and some of the younger recruits were amusing themselves by kicking sparks off the paving, until the quartermaster tucked his head round the door and shouted at them to stop. When the boots were laced and tied Cato pulled the heavy leather jerkin over his head and fastened the buckles on each side. It was difficult, as the leather of the new jerkin was stiff. It was hard to bend forward and he could only just reach his laces with a great deal of straining. He noticed that, for some reason, his jerkin had a piece of white linen stitched over the right shoulder – a quick look round the room revealed that his was the only jerkin with a patch.

The main door to the stores building momentarily darkened and Cato looked up to see Centurion Bestia enter and stand just inside the room shaking his head pitifully as he surveyed the new recruits, tapping his silvered greaves with the tip of his cane.

'Stand still!' he shouted and the room instantly fell silent. As he slowly strolled down the length of the storeroom the recruits nervously fell back against the wall.

Bestia snorted derisively. 'Hah! I've never seen such a bunch of women! Right then, girls – outside now!'

The drizzle had cleared away with the dawn and the sun glowed through a slight haze. The air was just cold enough to be fresh to the skin and, all around, the fortress bustled with activity. Training raw recruits was something Bestia greatly enjoyed, like every drill instructor, he had amassed a collection of useful invective for all occasions and comfortably slipped into the required role of rock-hard intolerance with subtle hints of a warm-hearted concern for his charges. In time they would come to regard him as a father figure – though perhaps not all of them.

As Bestia's eyes swept down the ranks they fixed on Cato, looming nearly half a head above the rest – his height emphasised by the fact he stood immediately to the left of Pulcher.

'You! Yes, you, Mister-I've-got-a-bloody-letter-from-my-friend-the-Emperor!' Bestia bellowed as he strode towards Cato and sharply poked his vine cane into the white shoulder patch. 'What the bloody hell is this?'

Cato winced. 'I don't know, sir.'

'Don't know! How long have you been in the army? Almost half a bloody day and you still can't recognise badges of rank!' Standing right in front of Cato, he glared up into the youngster's face barely a span apart. 'Just what kind of fucking soldier are you?'

'I don't know sir, I…'

'Don't look down at me!' Bestia screamed, splattering saliva. 'Keep your fucking eyes straight ahead! At all times. Do you understand me?'

Cato flicked his eyes up and stiffened. 'Yes, sir.'

'So what the hell are you doing with optio's insignia?'

'I am an optio, sir.'

'Bollocks!' Bestia shouted. 'We do not promote ladies overnight.'

'I was, in matter of fact, made an optio last night, sir,' Cato explained.

'So then, optio today, centurion tomorrow, tribune the day after… At this rate you'll make fucking Emperor by the end of the week! You take me for a fool, boy?'

'Er, excuse me, sir,' one of the drill instructors said quietly from behind Bestia. 'He is an optio, sir.'

'What?' Bestia jerked a thumb at Cato. 'Him?'

'Afraid so, sir. Direct commission from the legate. It's been entered on the new recruit roster, sir.' The drill instructor held out a wax board and pointed out Cato's name.

'Quintus Licinius Cato, optio.' Bestia read out loud. Then he turned back to Cato with clear menace in his eyes. 'So that's what the letter was about! Friends in powerful places, eh? Well, it won't help you. Optio you may be, but while you're on basic training you get the same treatment as the rest. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'In fact,' Bestia leaned close to him, whispering, 'I'll treat you worse. You got the promotion – now you're fucking going to have to earn it.'

Then he spun round and strode away. He took up a position ten paces ahead of the front rank of recruits. 'First lesson, ladies. The attention pose. Your drill instructors have placed you in four ranks, exactly one pace apart from the man beside you, and two paces between ranks. Memorise your position. In future, when I tell you to form ranks you will go to the position you are now in, at once. The correct posture for unarmed attention position is this.'

Bestia dropped his cane and stiffened, his chest thrust out, shoulders back, head up, arms straight down with palms flattened against the sides of his thighs. He paused a moment. 'You all see that? Right then, let's see you do it.'

The recruits self-consciously did their best to adopt the pose while the drill instructors went down the ranks, making adjustments where necessary. Once they were content Bestia continued. 'Next thing. When standing at attention you must at all times fix your eyes straight ahead – whatever happens. And I mean whatever happens, ladies. If bloody Venus herself rides past accompanied by a thousand naked virgins and I see any one of you so much as flicker his eyes to one side, I will beat the living shit out of him. Understand? I SAID, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?'

The recruits flinched before nervously replying in an overlapping wave of yesses.