There was no alternative, he realised. He must find a way back into Calleva and do what he could to help organise the defence of the Atrebatan capital. If Macro was dead then the command of the survivors of the two cohorts would fall to him. If Tincommius was dead then, with Verica barely alive, the Atrebatans would be leaderless. Cato had to get back as quickly as possible.

Crouching low, sword held tightly in his hand, he moved off in the direction of the main gate. A light breeze was blowing, rustling the tall grass and the leaves of the stunted trees that dotted the small plain. The strain of creeping forwards, muscles tensed for instant attack or flight, senses straining to detect any hint of movement or sound of the enemy, told on the young centurion, and after half a mile he stopped and rested a moment. Between him and the gate, their dark shapes rising above the grass, the Durotrigans extended in a loose screen, barring access to the town from any survivors of the two cohorts still lurking nearby. As Cato watched, one of the enemy moved closer to a comrade and the harsh laughter of their voices was clearly audible. Rising to his feet but keeping bent over, Cato quickly made for the gap in the screen and quietly slipped through, glancing both ways to make sure that he had not been spotted. No alarm was given and he pressed on. A short distance beyond was one of the small campfires lit by the Durotrigans. It was ringed by the dark forms of men sleeping under their cloaks, resting in preparation for the next day’s assault on Calleva. One man stood guard, warming himself by the fire, the shaft of his spear resting against his shoulder.