‘What the fuck am I thinking?’ Cato suddenly demanded of himself with a fierce whisper. He had no right to be defeatist, not while the lives of hundreds of men depended on his leadership. It was the most woeful and shaming self-indulgence and he felt disgust and loathing for himself. Not for the first time, Cato felt as if he was just playing the part of being a prefect and the real fear was that he would be found out. Other men, the real professional soldiers, would see through his façade. Worst of all was the prospect of Macro at last recognising him for what he was. To lose Macro’s respect would break his heart. It had been an odd friendship from the outset, Cato reflected. At first Macro had despaired of his efforts to learn the soldier’s trade, but in time he had shown enough courage and ingenuity to win the veteran over. It was Macro’s seal of approval that had given Cato the heart to fight on, up through the ranks, to surpass even his mentor. Macro had been more of a father to him than his own father, more than a brother. That was the peculiar bond of soldiers, he realised. A bond more powerful than family ties, not love perhaps, but something even more essential, and more demanding.

Cato let out an exasperated sigh. He was doing it again! The endless round of self-investigation that served no purpose. His mind was wandering because he was tired, he concluded. Rest was what he needed. Very badly.

Turning away from the enemy camp, Cato left the gatehouse and trudged back to his quarters where Decimus brought him what was left of the bread, stale and hard, and a wedge of the local goat’s cheese. It was a poor meal and Cato had little appetite but he made himself eat, knowing that he needed to sustain himself through the coming trials of the siege. The evening briefing of his officers was perfunctory as each knew his duties and had little to report. Cato dismissed them swiftly and retired to his quarters, removed his sword belt and cuirass but left his boots on in case he was roused by an emergency, and slumped down on his bed. He reached across to extinguish the wick on the small oil lamp that provided the room with a dim light and lay back on the straw-filled bolster. He stared up towards the barely discernible rafters and wood shingle tiles. Once again he mentally went over the defences of the fort but before he had got very far he had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep and for once began to snore as loudly as his friend Macro.