‘It’ll take him a few moments to get over his wounded pride. It takes a lot longer to build good relations between us and the Atrebatans. And almost no time to break them.’

‘Maybe,’ Macro said grudgingly, then recalled the legionary’s smirk at Cato’s final remark to him. The touch of humour had eased the man’s resentment considerably. ‘Anyway, it was neatly done.’

Cato shrugged.

They entered the shaded interior of the gatehouse and climbed the ladder to the deck above the thick timbers of the town gates. Emerging from the narrow hatchway Cato saw Verica and a handful of his bodyguards standing to one side. Cato saluted the king as he crossed the boarded floor towards the palisade and looked down the track that wound its way north, towards the river Tamesis. Half a mile away six large wagons, each drawn by teams of four oxen, crawled along the track. Around them marched a thin screen of auxiliary troops, with a small group of the legion’s mounted scouts forming a rearguard. Sunlight glinted off a breastplate and Cato squinted at a figure on horseback, halfway along the column.

‘Isn’t that the legate?’

‘How should I know?’ Macro replied. ‘Your eyes are better than mine. You tell me.’

Cato stared a little longer. ‘Yes! It’s him all right.’

‘What the hell’s he doing here?’ Macro was genuinely surprised. ‘He’s supposed to be with the legion, kicking the stuffing out of those bloody hillforts.’

‘I expect,’ Cato reflected, ‘he’s come to find out where his supplies have got to. Must have fallen in with the wagons.’

‘That’s our bloody Vespasian all right!’ Macro laughed. ‘Can’t help getting himself into a fight.’

Shadowing the column were several knots of enemy troops, accompanied by a number of the fast-moving chariots still favoured by many British tribes. A steady barrage of arrows, slingshot and spears was maintained on the Roman column. As Cato watched, one of the auxiliaries was struck in the leg by a spear and sprawled to the ground, his shield falling to one side. The man behind him, stepped round his wounded comrade, and continued forward, hunched behind his oval shield, without a backward glance.

‘That’s tough,’ said Macro.

‘Yes . . .’

Both men were frustrated by their inability to help their comrades. While they were under medical care, they were mere supernumeraries in the depot. Besides, the centurion in command of the garrison would take a dim view if they interfered with his command in any way.

Before the column had completely passed by the injured man, one of the animal handlers broke away from his pair of oxen and ran over to the auxiliary struggling to free himself of the spear. As the crowd on Calleva’s gatehouse watched, the handler grasped the spear and wrenched it free. Then with the handler supporting his wounded comrade the pair staggered towards the rear of the last wagon.