Cato lowered his hands and paused. ‘I don’t know. He has marched his army down here to put paid to Quertus and his raids just as much as he has come to rescue Maridius, I should think. If I were in his place, I’d put the need to shore up the support of my allies above the life of my brother. But then I’ve never had a brother so perhaps I cannot understand the depth of his feeling for Maridius.’

‘I haven’t got a brother either, but I think I would want to save one if I had the chance,’ Macro mused. ‘If I failed in that, then I’d not rest until I had avenged him.’

‘Then you have something in common with Caratacus.’ The thought caught Cato by surprise. Perhaps there was more truth in that than he would like to think. There was a kindred spirit between the likes of Macro and Caratacus, brothers in arms regardless of the causes for which they fought. They had certain attributes of valour, integrity and honesty of feeling that Cato felt he could only aspire to and never achieve. He was too questioning of things to allow himself the pleasure of such certainties. His heart ached as he felt a keen sense of loss over knowing that he could never share the sureness of sentiment enjoyed by Macro.

Macro looked outraged. ‘Me? Share anything with that bastard? Never! Bollocks to that.’ He reached for the latch. ‘The very fucking idea . . . I have to get back to the wall.’

Before Cato could say another word his friend had strode out of the room, muttering darkly to himself.

‘So much for the notion of the universal bond of the warrior.’ Cato shrugged and set off after his friend.

Throughout the night the garrison of Bruccium kept watch over the approaches to the fort. Stocks of javelins were brought from the stores and stacked at the foot of the rampart, along with bundles of kindling, tightly bound and liberally doused with pitch so that they would readily catch fire when the time came to bundle them over the wall and illuminate the enemy. Flames flickered in a handful of small braziers spread around the inside of the ramparts and some of the soldiers were warming themselves by the meagre blazes, their faces washed in a ruddy hue. The watches changed as a horn sounded from headquarters, blowing a brief series of notes over the camp. The haystacks had burned fiercely for a while, bathing the ground and the enemy warriors below the fort in a lurid red. The flames died down after midnight and only pinpricks of red still glowed in the darkness.