Macro spent the long winter months drilling the new recruits while Cato put the rest of the men through gruelling route marches and weapons practice. As the Second Illyrian trained, a steady stream of other units arrived at Antioch and joined the growing camp outside the fortress of the Tenth Legion. With them came throngs of camp-followers and the avenues and markets of Antioch resounded with the cries of street vendors. Every inn was filled with soldiers and queues of men waited outside the brightly painted brothels which reeked of cheap incense and sweat.

As the sun set over the city, Cato's gaze took all this in without any sense of judgement. Although he was barely in his twenties he had already served four and half years in the army and had grown used to the ways of soldiers and the effect they had on the towns they passed through. Despite an unpromising start Cato had turned out to be a good soldier, as even he was prepared to admit. Quick wits and courage had played their part in transforming him from a pampered product of the imperial household into a commander of men. Luck had played its part too. He had been fortunate to find himself appointed to Macro's century when he had joined the Second Legion, he reflected. If Centurion Macro had not recognised some potential in the thin, nervous-looking recruit from Rome, and taken him under his wing, then Cato had little doubt that he would not have survived for long on the German frontier, and the campaign that followed in Britain. Since then the two of them had left the Second Legion and had served briefly in the navy before being sent east to join Macro's present command. In the coming campaign they would be fighting as part of an army again and Cato felt some small relief that the burdens of independent command would be lifted from their shoulders: relief tempered by instinctive concerns about the realities of entering a new campaign.

Far better soldiers than Cato had been struck down by an arrow, slingshot or sword thrust they had not seen coming. So far he had been spared, and he hoped that his good luck would continue if there was a war against Parthia. He had fought the Parthians briefly the year before and well knew their accuracy with a bow, and the speed with which they could mount a sudden attack and then melt away before the Romans could respond. It was a style of fighting that would sorely test the men of the legions, let alone those of the Second Illyrian cohort.

Or perhaps that was not fair, Cato reflected.The men of his cohort actually had a better chance against the Parthians than the legionaries. They wore lighter armour and a quarter of them were mounted, so that the Parthians would have to be far more wary in attacking the cohort than in any assault they mounted on the slow-marching heavy infantry of the legions. Cassius Longinus would have to proceed cautiously against the Parthians if he were to avoid the fate of Marcus Crassus and his six legions nearly a hundred years earlier. Crassus had blundered into the desert and after several days of harassing attacks under the pitiless glare of the sun his army had been cut to pieces, along with its general.

As the sun finally sank below the horizon there was a distant blare of bucinas from the army camp announcing the first watch of the night. Macro stirred and eased himself away from the rough plaster of the wall.

'Better get back to the camp. I'm taking the new boys out into the desert tomorrow. Their first time. It'll be interesting to see how they cope.'

'Best to go easy on them,' Cato suggested. 'We can't afford to lose any before the campaign begins.'

'Go easy on 'em?' Macro frowned. 'Will I fuck. If they can't hack it now, then they never will when the real fighting starts.'

Cato shrugged. 'I thought we needed every man.'

'Every man, yes. But not one makeweight.'

Cato was silent for a moment. 'This is not the Second Legion, Macro. We can't expect too much from the men of an auxiliary cohort.'

'Really?' Macro's expression hardened. 'The Second Illyrian ain't just any cohort. It's my cohort. And if I want the men to march, fight and die as hard as the men of the legions, then they will do it. Understand?'

Cato nodded.

'And you will do your part in making that happen.'

Cato's back stiffened.'Of course I will, sir. Have I ever let you down?'

They stared at each other for a moment before Macro suddenly laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. 'Not yet! You've got balls of solid iron, boy. I just hope the rest of the men can match you.'

'So do I,' Cato replied evenly.

Macro rose to his feet and rubbed his buttocks, which had lost a little feeling after some hours on the hard wooden bench of the inn. He picked up his centurion's vine stick. 'Let's go.'

They set off through the forum, already filling with brothel touts and sellers of trinkets and the first of the off-duty soldiers from the camp. Fresh-faced recruits hung together in loud packs as they made for the nearest bars, where they would be fleeced by experienced conmen and swindlers who knew them for what they were and had all manner of petty rackets at their fingertips. Cato felt a twinge of pity for the recruits but knew that only experience would teach them what they needed to know.A few sore heads and the loss of their purses would ensure they kept their wits about them in the future, if they lived long enough.

As ever, there was a strict division between the men of the legions and those of the auxiliary cohorts. The legionaries were paid far more and tended to regard the non-citizen soldiers of the Empire with a degree of professional disdain – a sentiment which Cato could understand, and Macro wholly agreed with. The feeling extended beyond the camp and into the streets of Antioch where the men from the cohorts generally kept a respectful distance from the legionaries. But not all of them, it seemed. As Cato and Macro turned on to one of the streets leading from the forum they heard an angry exchange of shouts a short distance ahead. Beneath the glow of a large copper lamp hanging over the entrance to a bar a small crowd had gathered round two men who had tumbled out into the street and now rolled in the gutter in a mad flurry of blows.

'There's trouble,' Macro grumbled.

'Want to give it a miss?'

Macro watched the fight for a moment as they approached and then shrugged. 'Don't see why we should get involved. Let 'em sort it out amongst themselves.'

Just then there was a brief fiery glimmer in the hand of one of the fighting men and someone cried out, 'He's got a knife!'

'Shit,' Macro growled. 'Now we're involved. Come on!'

He increased his pace, and thrust aside some of the other men who had come out of the bar to investigate the commotion.

'Oi!'A burly man in a red tunic turned on Macro.'Watch where you're going there!'

'Hold your tongue!' Macro raised his vine stick so that the man, and all the others, could see it, and pushed his way through to the men fighting in the gutter. 'Break it up, you two! That's an order.'

There was one final scuffle and a deep explosive grunt and then the men rolled apart. One, a thin wiry man in a legionary tunic, moved like a cat on to his feet and rose in a crouch, ready to continue the fight in an instant. Macro rounded on him, brandishing his vine stick.

'It's over, I said.'

Then Cato saw the small blade in the man's hand. It no longer glittered, but was obscured by a dark film that dripped from the point. On the ground the second man had risen up on his elbow while his other hand clutched at his side. He gasped for breath and winced in agony.

'Fuck… Oh, shit it hurts… Bastard's stuck me.'

He glared at the legionary for an instant, then groaned in pain and slumped back on the ground in the wan glow of the lamp overhead.

'I know him,' Cato said softly. 'He's one of ours. Caius Menathus, from one of the cavalry squadrons.' He knelt down beside the man and felt for the wound.The auxiliary's tunic was sodden with the warm gush of blood when the knife had been withdrawn and Cato glanced up at the men clustered round.