There was a deep groan from the far side of the gate as the locking bar was slid out of its heavy bracket. Cato turned to look back at his pursuers. He was terrified to see several figures burst out of the darkness into the glow of the burning faggots thrown down in front of the gate. One of them stopped, only twenty paces away, and threw a spear. It was a good throw and would have skewered Cato had he not seen it coming. He threw himself to the ground. An instant later the iron head struck the gate with a splintering crack and shivered a moment. Cato scrambled back to his feet and hammered on the gate

‘For fuck’s sake, open up!’

With a deep grinding grumble the gate began to swing inwards. Cato desperately pushed against it, and then some sixth sense made him glance over his shoulder. Right behind him, no more than six feet away, a Durotrigan warrior was drawing back his spear arm, ready to make a killing thrust into Cato’s back. A feral snarl of triumph twisted his features. Then, suddenly, there was a soft thud. The man froze, and Cato noticed the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from the top of his head. As the man toppled back, Cato thrust himself through the narrow opening that had appeared at the edge of the gate, and collapsed on the ground inside. At once the defenders threw themselves against the back of the gate and heaved it into position, just as a few of the Durotrigans slammed into the far side. But they were too few to make a difference and moments later the locking bar was eased back into its bracket and the gate was secured again. Cato stayed on his hands and knees, head bent forward between his arms as he gasped for breath.

A dark shape leaned over him.

‘You are in a sorry state, lad,’ Macro chuckled. ‘Where’ve you been all the bloody day?’

Cato drew a deep breath before he could reply. ‘Glad to see you too . . . Tincommius?’

‘No sign of him. Here, let me help you.’

Macro took a firm grip under Cato’s shoulders and heaved him onto his feet. By the flickering light of a nearby torch Cato saw that Macro was as filthy as himself, and had a large blood-soaked dressing on his thigh.

‘You all right?’

Macro was touched by the concern on his young companion’s face. ‘It’s nothing. Some bugger thought he’d try and slow me down by having a swipe at my leg.’

‘Bad?’

‘You should see the other fellow.’ Macro laughed. ‘Won’t be going very far without his head. Can’t say that you’ve picked a particularly good time to join us.’

‘How many have got back?’

‘Most of the legionaries. Figulus was the first.’

‘And the cohorts?’