Then he recalled the glimpse he had had of his friend chasing a man round the rear of the chief’s hut. Macro turned back to Quertus who was still trading comments with the native. He could see that the Silurians were easing themselves into upright postures as the exchange continued. Macro sensed that their surrender was almost assured and that he was no longer needed at Quertus’s side. He tugged on his reins and worked his way through the horsemen and then trotted towards the rear of the hut, in the direction he had seen his friend take a short time earlier. He passed a body lying sprawled on the ground and continued round. As he reached the top of the slope he felt a surge of relief as he spied the red crest of Cato’s helmet and saw that the prefect had the standard of the Thracian cohort in one hand and his shield in the other. A short distance in front of Cato were two of the Thracians, casually riding towards him. Macro was about to call down to his friend when the words died in his throat. The two men spurred their horses into a canter and charged towards Cato with their spears lowered.

‘What the fuck?’ Macro muttered. The realisation that his friend was in great danger hit him like a blow and he jabbed his heels in and slapped the rump of his mount. ‘Yah!’