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life. He had hoped that learning his letters might broaden his mind, but the stuff Diogenes tried to get him to read just baffled him. In fact, it had often occurred to Castus that if Diogenes had been such a good teacher, he would never have had to join the army...
    â€˜Centurion!’ A shout up the stairs, then a hammering of studded boots on boards, and a soldier pushed past the slaves and into the room. He was one of Castus’s century, legionary Aelianus.
    â€˜No enlisted men!’ Valens called, flourishing a chicken leg at the soldier. ‘This drinking and dining club is officers only!’
    â€˜Centurion,’ Aelianus gasped, breathing hard, ‘message from optio Modestus – there’s trouble; you have to come quickly.’
    â€˜What’s happened?’ Castus said, sobering at once. He pushed aside his bowl and picked up his centurion’s stick.
    â€˜Men from the Second Legion,’ the soldier said, already halfway back down the stairs with Castus at his heels. ‘They pushed their way into a bar over in our part of town – there’s a lot of them... some of ours are down already...’
    Behind him, Castus heard Valens and Rogatianus jumping up to follow him. Their steps thundered on the stairs, then they were all spilling out into the street and marching quickly towards the forum. By the time they reached the corner they could hear the sounds of fighting. Bellows of rage, screams, the thud and crash of breaking wood, the grating clatter of studded boots on stone paving.
    Castus held himself back from running. Already he could feel the energy of combat rising in him, the heavy beat of his blood. He tried to slow himself, calm himself: he needed a clear head. It was his duty to stifle the trouble, whatever it might be, but his sympathies were with his men. Five days of forced marching had put a lot of strain on them, and the presence of the rival legionaries of the Second only stoked the tension higher.
    Up the street there were running figures, some of them his own men. Others formed a gang around a gate in the wall; as Castus approached, two men shoved their way out and into the street, throwing punches at anyone who tried to bar their way.
    â€˜Let them through,’ Castus said, in his drill-field bark. A few of the men at the gateway noticed him and straightened up, saluting. One of them was Modestus, the optio, and Castus caught him by the shoulder and dragged him close, fixing him with a level stare. Modestus had been a drunk and a shirker once, but if he had over-indulged earlier tonight, the fighting and riotous confusion had cleared his head. Castus nodded curtly at him.
    â€˜Hold this gate,’ he said. ‘Don’t allow anybody else in. Anybody wants to leave, let them.’
    â€˜Yes, centurion!’ he heard Modestus say as he strode through the gateway. Valens and Rogatianus were somewhere behind him, with a knot of other men from the Sixth, but he didn’t have time to check now. He could only hope there were enough of them to back him up.
    A narrow paved yard, wooden balconies on two sides, rooms above and below. For a moment it looked as though blood was pooled on the cobbles – then Castus saw the shards of broken pottery sprayed across the yard and realised it was wine from a shattered amphora. There were men on the ground, others gathered around them, and at the far end of the yard, indistinct in the dusk shadow, a brawling melee.
    Castus noticed the graffiti scratched on the wall by the steps. He squinted, deciphering it: ‘EPPIA SUCKS THE BEST’, ‘ANTHIOCA HAS A FINE ARSE’, ‘I SHAT HERE’. The place was a brothel, amongst other things.
    Lowering his brow, jutting his jaw, he marched on across the yard, crushing broken pottery underfoot. Movement from above him, and he stepped aside smartly as another heavy amphora came toppling over the balcony and exploded across the cobbles. Screams of