The young centurion realised that he was trembling in the cool dawn air and remembered that he had not eaten since the previous dawn, nor had he rested properly for days. He crossed his arms and rubbed his shoulders.

Macro eyed him curiously. ‘Afraid?’

For a moment Cato thought about denying it, then realised he would not fool Macro, and simply nodded.

Macro smiled wearily. ‘Me too.’

Once the mutual admission had been made there was an awkward silence before Cato spoke again.

‘You know, it’s possible that the tribune might get help to us in time.’

‘Possible? Only if we can hold out for a few days yet.’

‘We might.’

‘No,’ Macro replied, lowering his voice to make quite sure that he was not overheard by any of his men. ‘Once they get over the wall - and they will - then we’ll have to fall back on the depot. And once they break into the depot it’s all over . . . Just hope I get a chance to take that bastard Tincommius with me before I’m finished . . .’ Macro’s vengeful train of thought was interrupted by a loud rumble from his stomach. ‘. . . Which reminds me, I’m hungry. I sent Silva to the depot to draw some rations. Should have been back long ago.’

‘I don’t think I can eat anything right now.’

‘Course you can. You’d better,’ Macro said seriously. ‘Make sure the men see you eat. You let them know how nervous you really are and they’ll lose what little heart they have left for this fight. You’ll eat your full ration and like it. Understand?’

‘What if I’m sick?’ The mental image of himself, pale and puking in front of his men filled Cato with dread and shame.

Macro’s eyes narrowed. ‘The moment you throw up, I’ll chuck you over the palisade. I mean it.’

For an instant Cato wondered if his friend was serious, and then the cold, hard expression told him Macro was in deadly earnest. Before Cato could respond, the groaning squeak of a poorly greased axle announced the arrival of Silva and the cart loaded with rations he had fetched from the depot. A pair of stocky mules was harnessed to his cart and Silva steered them towards the legionaries waiting by the gate. Macro licked his lips as he saw several jars of wine and haunches of cured meat in the back of the cart.

‘Come on.’ Macro nudged Cato. ‘Let’s eat.’

The two officers joined the legionaries gathering round the cart as Silva hoisted himself up beside the wine jars.

‘Easy now, lads. There’s plenty for everyone.’

‘What about my men?’ asked Cato.

‘Them?’ Silva replied with a trace of disapproval. ‘They can take their turn after our boys have finished.’

‘They’ll have theirs now. Detail some of these men to see to it.’