‘The scouts report a large force camped a few miles to the west of here. Too many campfires to be the same band having a go at Calleva yesterday. Looks as if Caratacus might have stolen a march on the general after all. Thing is, the scouts also saw the loom of another army’s fires in the distance, far beyond Caratacus’ lot. It might be Plautius; it might not. I’ve ordered some scouts to find out who they are. It is possible that Caratacus is moving in two columns, and that the general is still chasing his tail north of the Tamesis. In which case, we’re well and truly buggered.’

A few of the officers chuckled nervously before their legate continued, ‘If we sit here and try to hold what’s left of Calleva’s defences we might last a day or two before we’re overwhelmed. Then the enemy will turn on the rest of the legion and destroy it in detail. Our best chance is to get out of here as soon as possible, head south and try to swing round the enemy’s flank and join up with the other cohorts at the legion’s camp. That we can defend, for as long as the food lasts, or Plautius reaches us. We’re taking Verica with us, and what’s left of his men. They can return to Calleva once the crisis is over. We’ll march in a tight column. We’ll take as few wagons as possible; just enough for the wounded. The men are to carry nothing but their weapons and armour and food for two days, nothing else. Any questions, gentlemen?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Heads turned towards Tribune Quintillus. ‘What happens if the enemy catches up with us before we link up with the other cohorts?’

Vespasian answered curtly, ‘If that happens, Tribune, you’ll have to continue your career in another life . . . Gentlemen! Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen. Anyone else? . . . Good. Back to your units. We march as soon as I give the signal . . . Centurion Macro! A moment, please.’

Macro, a man who favoured the back row of any gathering - a hangover from a very brief period of formal education as a child - waited until the other officers had dispersed before approaching the legate.

‘Sir?’

‘You know Centurion Gaius Silanus?’

‘Yes, sir. Second Cohort.’

‘That’s him. Or was. He was killed in a skirmish yesterday. I want you to replace him. Take what’s left of your garrison with you.’

‘Yes, sir. What about Centurion Cato, sir?’

‘What about him?’

‘Are his men to march with us?’

Vespasian nodded. ‘We need every man who can hold a weapon. Cato’s cohort - what is it you call them?’

‘The Wolves, sir.’

‘Wolves? Good name. Anyway, they’ll guard the carts.’

‘They won’t like that, sir,’ Macro replied quietly. ‘They’ll want to fight.’