The front wall was lined with the men from the garrison watching in silence. Macro could make out a number of horses being led beside the enemy force. The clipped manes and saddles were of Roman design, and he knew then that Cato’s attempt to assist the men of the reinforcement column had been in vain. Macro’s heart sank like a rock at the thought that his friend had perished along with the other men of the two squadrons of Thracians. He strained his eyes along the columns of warriors and saw men being supported by their comrades, and others being carried on makeshift stretchers fashioned out of pine branches and the red cloaks of legionaries. Finally, he saw what he hoped to see. A file of prisoners towards the rear of the column. Twenty or so men, hands bound behind their backs and linked together by loops of rope round their necks. They still wore their armour and as Macro stared he saw that one of them wore the breastplate and cloak of an officer, though the distance was too great to be sure of his identity. His heart quickened at the prospect that it might be Cato. But then the brief moment of hope chilled as he considered what fate Caratacus might have in store for his prisoners. If the prisoner was Cato, then it would have been better for him to have died in battle, Macro told himself bitterly.

As dusk closed in over the valley Macro gave the order for the garrison to be issued with full rations. He saw no point in letting the men go hungry. They would fight better on full stomachs when the morning came. Down in the enemy camp they had already begun to celebrate their victory and Macro decided that the enemy commander would be likely to indulge his men and there was little risk of another night attack. Even so, he had the men bring their bedrolls to the foot of the rampart so that they would be on hand if there was an attempt made to rush the fort.

One by one fires were lit across the floor of the valley. By the light of the flames Macro saw the enemy warriors drinking, and snatches of singing and laughter carried up to the garrison of Bruccium. The biggest fire burned in front of Caratacus’s shelter and Macro could easily pick him out where he sat with his comrades on the raised ground of the reviewing platform overlooking the parade ground. As the night wore on, there was no sign that the celebrations were coming to an end and a new moon rose over the mountains and took its place among the stars. Then there was a commotion down on the parade ground and Macro saw figures massing around the fire. More fuel was added until great tongues of yellow and red licked up into the night. Soon thousands thronged around the fire.

‘Centurion Macro!’