'So you must have some loyalty to your comrades in the legions.You would not want a comrade to be executed over the death of some mere provincial levy, surely?'

Macro felt his blood pound through his veins as his rage swelled at this description of his men as provincial levies. They were the Second Illyrian. The men who had fought off a rebel army, backed by Parthia, and crushed the uprising in Judaea the previous year. The men were tough and had guts, and they had proved themselves where it counted, in battle. Macro was proud of them. Proud enough to place his loyalty to them above anything he owed to the brotherhood of the legions.That thought came to him in a rush and took him by surprise. Then he realised it was true. He had taken to his new command more than he had thought. Macro felt a strong sense of responsibility and duty to his men and he was damned if he was going to let a pampered aristocrat like Amatius try to drive a wedge between him and the men of the Second Illyrian.

Macro took a deep breath to calm himself before replying. 'No legionary I know of would stoop low enough to make that kind of appeal… sir.'

There was a sharp intake of breath as Amatius sat bolt upright and glared at Macro. 'That's gross insubordination, Prefect. If you were in my legion I'd break you for that.'

Longinus cleared his throat. 'But he's not in your legion, Gallus Amatius, so he's not under your jurisdiction. However,' Longinus smiled, 'he is under my command and I will not tolerate such dissension between my officers. So, Prefect, I will ask you to withdraw that last remark and apologise.'

Macro shook his head. 'Go to Hades, sir.'

'I'm sure I will. But not on your say-so. Now you will apologise, or I shall have to find someone else to command the Second Illyrian.'

'I'm sure one of my officers would relish the chance to whip those auxiliaries into shape,' Amatius added with relish. 'One of my tribunes perhaps.'

Macro clenched his jaw. This was unbearable. The two aristocrats were using him for their sport, but much as he would like to openly reveal his contempt for them and their kind – politicians playing at soldiers – he dared not let his pride come before the best interests of his men. Some smart-arsed tribune from the Tenth Legion with a taste for glory was the last thing the cohort needed when it went up against the Parthians. Macro swallowed hard and turned to Amatius with a frigid expression.

'My apologies, sir.'

Amatius smiled. 'That's better. A man should know his place.'

'Indeed,' Longinus added. 'But there, that's settled. We still have to decide what to do about this legionary of yours.'

'Yes, sir.' Amatius composed his face. 'A punishment along the lines I suggested is sufficient, given the circumstances. While I can understand the prefect's feelings on the matter, we are talking about the life of a Roman citizen after all.'

Macro decided to make one last attempt to reason with the governor and leaned towards him as he spoke. 'Sir, you cannot allow this man to escape the punishment he is due. You have to think about how it will be seen by the entire army. Unless you make it clear to the men what the consequences will be if they break regulations and carry knives off duty, then they'll continue doing it, and with things the way they are this won't be the last death on the streets of Antioch. Believe me, sir, it gives me no pleasure to ask for the man's death, but you must consider how much damage will be done by sparing him.'

Longinus frowned, then abruptly stood up and strode across the room to the balcony that overlooked the garden courtyard of the house. Beyond the tiled roof of the slave quarters that backed on to the garden he stared out across the city, over the walls to the long palisade that enclosed the army's camp on rising ground a short distance beyond. A faint cloud of dust to one side of the camp indicated some activity: a patrol, or one of the units training on the expanse of ground that had been cleared and flattened for exercises and the occasional parade. He stared for a moment longer and then turned back to the two officers still seated in front of his desk.

'Very well, I've made my decision.'

Cato slowly made his way down the line of posts set to one side of the huge exercise ground.The infantry contingent of the Second Illyrian stood in lines in front of each post, every man armed with a wooden training sword with a heavy lead weight in the pommel, and another just ahead of the wide rim of the guard. In their left hands they clutched the handles of their wicker shields, also designed to be heavier than their battlefield equivalent. If a man could learn to wield such equipment with ease while training then he would fight with greater strength and confidence against an actual enemy. But for now, the auxiliaries just charged at their practice posts with a roar and set about them with a savage flurry of blows until Cato blew his whistle, and then each man would recover, and retire to the end of the line while the next man charged the post.

They were going at it with a will, Cato noticed, and he could imagine that each one of them had mentally imposed Crispus over their stake. Be that as it may, they had been drilling for the best part of the morning under a hot sun without complaint. He decided to keep them at it until noon before sending them back to their tents to rest. The afternoon would be spent with the mounted contingent, practising attacks against the same stakes while riding at speed in and around them, an altogether trickier proposition for mounted men.Thanks to the relentless training Cato was confident that the Second Illyrian would give a good account of themselves when they marched to war against Parthia. He smiled to himself. He was already taking it for granted that there would be a war.

The coming campaign was never far from his thoughts, and despite his confidence in his men Cato was anxious about fighting the Parthians. He realised well enough the difficulties the Roman soldiers would face in dealing with Parthian tactics. The enemy had developed their skills in mounted warfare over hundreds of years and now fielded one of the most formidable armies in the known world. Their method was simple, and unvarying. The first attack would be made by horse-archers who would pepper their foes with arrows, attempting to break their formation up, and then the small corps of heavily armoured cataphracts would charge home with their lances and shatter their opponents.The tactics had worked well against most of their enemies, and had resulted in the destruction of the army of Crassus several decades earlier. Now a new Roman army was preparing to face the might of the Parthians, and with not a little trepidation.

'Sir!' One of the optios assisting Cato with the training called out to him, and thrust his staff towards the hills to the east. Cato turned and scanned the near horizon of rocky slopes studded with clusters of cedar trees. Then something flashed in a shallow ravine leading down towards Antioch. He squinted and raised a hand to shade his eyes as he tried to make out more detail. A column of tiny figures on horseback was emerging from the mouth of the ravine.The optio strode over to join him and both men stared into the distance as the relentless dull thuds of the training continued behind them.

'Who in Hades are they?' the optio muttered.

Cato shook his head. 'No way of telling just yet. Could be a caravan from Chalcis, Beroea, or perhaps even Palmyra.'

'Caravan? I don't think so, sir. I can't make out any camels.'

'That's true.' Cato stared as the distant party of horsemen continued to emerge from the ravine until at least a hundred men had appeared. As sunlight glittered off weapons and armour he felt the first icy trace of fear tingle down the back of his neck. Lowering his hand, he quietly gave his orders to the optio. 'Get the men back into the camp and call out our cavalry. I want them out here ready for action. Send word to the general that we've sighted a column of horsemen to the east.'