*

Crispinus was taking a light meal when the trumpets began to sound. He was alone, glad for once not to have people expecting him to listen or tell them what to do, and as an indulgence he had taken off his shoes. He leaped up from the couch, slid his gladius from its scabbard and hurried to the door, his ungirt tunic hanging almost down to his ankles. His chamber led to a larger room, where two slaves sprang to their feet. Crispinus ignored them, as the trumpets kept calling. A helmeted head appeared through the flap forming the main entrance.

‘Alarm, sir! Sounds like an attack!’

Crispinus went past him. There was the glow of flames beyond the front rampart, bathing the top of the city wall with red light. Men were talking excitedly, emerging from the tent lines, running about, sometimes even to the places where they were supposed to form up. A centurion emerged from the principia.

‘Turn out! Turn out!’ the man bellowed. ‘Get a move on!’ He saw the legatus and dashed over.

‘A sally, my lord! Looks like they’re after the ramp!’

‘Yes. Form them up as quick as you can and bring them on. You and you,’ he pointed to two of the guards still outside his tent, ‘follow me!’

‘My lord?’ the centurion called after him, but the legatus was running for the main gate, barefoot and armed only with a sword, the two legionaries struggling to keep up. ‘Oh bugger,’ the centurion added under his breath. ‘Stand to arms!’ he yelled. ‘Form up!’

Crispinus reached the gate as a crowd of fugitives surged to come in through the sheltered entrance, pushing aside the sentries.

‘Stop, you mongrels!’ The legatus bawled at them.

‘Halt, you bastards!’ Caecilius had appeared, and if he lacked the skill of a trained orator his voice had the power of someone well used to giving orders. Two more centurions rushed up to join them as they stood in the middle of the road.

Crispinus wondered what he would do if they did not stop, then felt a wave of sheer relief as the men slowed to a walk, then stopped and began to look sheepish.

‘Who is in charge here?’ Caecilius bellowed. ‘You. Longus, isn’t it? Then get a grip, lad! Sort these buggers out.’

‘Stay here, Caecilius,’ the legatus told him. ‘Out of my way.’ He strode into the crowd.

‘Clear a path for the legatus!’ one of the centurions yelled as both followed him.

‘Greeks! Hundreds of the bastards!’ a sentry called down from the top of the narrow tower built to the left of the gateway. It was a clavicula, the wall on the right curving out so that no one could rush straight into the camp, which at the moment meant that Crispinus could not see past it. He ran forward, pushing stragglers out of the way, until he was clear because he wanted to see if anyone was still resisting.

‘Praise be to holy Isis,’ a centurion said as he came up beside him. The picket was still there, fifty paces in front of the gate according to regulations. There were forty of them and Crispinus was glad that he had listened to Caecilius and doubled the number of men even at night, for there they stood, solid as a wall and tall as towers, facing off a mass of enemies some thirty or forty paces beyond them. Behind them fires were spreading, and he guessed that the Nicopolitans had done a lot of damage, but at least they had not broken into the camp.