‘That was close!’ Macro shook his head, then turned to look at his young friend. ‘Thanks . . .’

Cato shrugged. ‘Save it. We’ve got to get out of this mess first.’

Then, from out of the night, Tincommius’ voice rose up, calling out in Celtic.

‘What’s he saying?’ asked Macro.

‘He’s inviting the people of Calleva to join him . . . Telling them, the survivors of the Wolves and the Boars, to desert their Roman masters and become free men once again . . .’

‘Oh! Nice touch. Boy should have been a lawyer. Come on, we have to put an end to this.’

Macro led the way back on to the rampart. They noticed several of the native troops eye them in a guilty, furtive manner and Cato feared that Tincommius was right: many of these men would be gone before the sun rose, silently slipping over the wall to run and pledge their allegiance to a new king. Some would stay; out of duty to Verica, out of duty to their comrades, maybe even out of duty to the officers they had come to respect with the grudging admiration of one warrior for another. Normally Cato disapproved of such sentimentality between men, but not tonight. Tonight he positively prayed for it with every superstitious fibre of his being. Tincommius continued to call out to the men on the wall, promising them a glorious victory over the Eagle soldiers, and a chance to win back the pride of place amongst all Celtic tribes that had once been the preserve of the warriors of the Atrebatans.

‘Can you see him?’ asked Macro, squinting into the darkness surrounding the ramparts.

‘No. Sounds like he’s somewhere over . . . there.’ Cato pointed.

Macro nodded to the cluster of legionaries armed with bows and slings along the palisade. ‘You there! Try a few shots. Aim for the voice.’

It was hopeless. The odds of hitting Tincommius were little better than trying to toss a pebble down the neck of an amphora at twenty paces, blindfolded. But it might put Tincommius off his stride and undermine his attempt to talk the native troops round. A steady flow of arrows and slingshot arced into the night, and still Tincommius called upon his people. Macro turned back into the town and shouted down towards the supply cart.

‘Silva! Get me some trumpets up here, fast as you can!’

‘Better hurry,’ Cato muttered. ‘He’s telling them that it was you who attacked Verica.’

‘Bastard!’

‘. . . Now he’s saying that we’re holding the king prisoner, keeping him from his people. All because Verica has had a change of heart and could see Rome for what it really was . . . That’s why we had to remove Verica.’

‘Does he really expect them to swallow that load of bollocks?’

‘Unless we start countering it, they might.’

Macro cupped his hands. ‘Hurry up with those bloody trumpets!’