‘There was one more reason for my decision, the most important of all. I would have given Prefect Equitius the hard word if I hadn’t seen something in the boy, and neither his honour, nor the gold, and not even the bonus centurion that sweetened the deal would have swayed me. I’m not stupid enough to go risking my life, and those of the officers I serve with, not without a good reason.

Scaurus shifted, staring hard into his eyes.

‘What reason?’

Frontinius stared back at him, his eyes flint hard in the half-light.

‘He’s a born soldier, Prefect, simply that, a born soldier. I’ve spent most of my adult life chasing recruits round these hills, teaching them how to take their iron to the barbarians that threaten their people. I’ve seen thousands of them, good, bad and indifferent, and I’ll tell you now, without hesitation, that he’s the most able warrior I’ve ever met, and the best leader to boot. He knows what to do, he does it without hesitation, and he’s faster and more skilled with a blade than any man I’ve met. The men of his former century would cover his arse with their shields even if it put them at risk of catching a spear themselves. Given a different roll of the dice he would have risen to command a legion without breaking sweat…’

He stopped, unable to read the prefect’s expression in the shadows.

‘You weren’t at the battle of Lost Eagle, Prefect, but if you had been you wouldn’t be asking me to explain my decision. When you get the chance to see him fight, then you’ll know what I mean when I tell you that you’ll never see a man throw his iron around with so much grace, or so much purpose.’

The prefect laughed quietly.

‘Very poetic.’

Frontinius shook his head dismissively.

‘Fuck poetry, that was simple fact. And now, Prefect, you’ve toyed with me for long enough. You’ve made your decision, now have the decency to tell me what it is. If you want me on a cross then that’s how I’ll depart this life. But I warn you, if you plan to nail him up then you’d better have something good up your sleeve because there’s at least one century of Tungrians that will paint the floor black with their own blood and that of anyone that gets in their way before they’ll stand still and watch that happen.’