A tall man in his early thirties with a thin, almost ascetic face, he was dressed in a simple white tunic with the thin purple stripe on his left shoulder denoting that he was a member of the equestrian class. Scaurus’s eyes were a watery grey, their seemingly soft gaze set below black hair in a narrow face and with a chin that the first spear was unsure whether to characterise as aristocratic or simply weak, but his bearing was confident and his voice was cultured, almost urbane.

‘First Spear. Won’t you come and join me?’

Frontinius stepped into the prefect’s office, accepting a beaker of water and taking a seat opposite the prefect. The room was lit by a single lamp, its shadows pressing in on the two men. Prefect Scaurus took his seat on the other side of his desk, his face half lit by the lamp’s soft glow, and took a sip from his own beaker before speaking.

‘The detachment has returned, I hear. I presume that the job of dealing with the locals went well enough, since we don’t seem to be overrun with wounded?’

‘Yes, sir. We played our part as requested, broke into the fort and dealt with the defenders easily enough. Three dead and half a dozen wounded, none of them seriously enough to need transferring to Noisy Valley. Flesh wounds for the most part. The officers also managed to retrieve this…’ He put the heavy gold neck ring on the prefect’s desk, watching as the other man picked it up and inspected the finely worked bull’s heads that knobbed both ends of the torc. ‘… a nice donation to the burial club.’

The prefect put the torc back on the desk and nodded with satisfaction, but his next words instantly put the older man on his guard.

‘And centurion Corvus?’

‘Prefect?’

‘I said, “And Centurion Corvus?” By which, First Spear, I meant to ask you how your youngest officer performed during the defeat of the Carvetii.’

Frontinius shifted uncomfortably.