Cato drew himself up and licked his lips, dry - like his throat - from all his exertions. Then, using a combination of orders and harsh curses he ordered his men to manoeuvre the wagons into a dense mass, before the chocks were pounded tightly against the wheels. The sharp smell of the oxen was made worse by the baking heat, but only when the work was finished did the centurion allow his men a small measure from their waterskins. Around them curved the lines of the cohorts, drawn up in a tight circle about the crest of the hill. Down in the vale the Britons had not moved and sat watching the Romans, as still and silent as before. Away along the track towards Calleva, a dark column of infantry was marching towards the hill, throwing up a thin haze of dust that obscured the full extent of their numbers. Still further in the distance was a smudge on the horizon that might be a thin band of cloud, or another force of men on the move.

Vespasian passed the order for the men to rest and eat their rations. The coming fight might well be their last, but men fought best on full stomachs and the legate was determined to wring every advantage that was available to him out of the situation. They had the high ground, clear lines of visibility and the best training and equipment of any army in the known world. In all this, Vespasian was content. But three and half thousand men, no matter what their quality, would not prevail against many times that number, and every moment that passed revealed more and more of the enemy’s strength as their column crept over a distant ridge and headed relentlessly towards the tight ring of legionaries defending the top of the hillock. There seemed to be no end to the enemy forces spilling across the landscape, and the Romans viewed it all with quiet resignation as they chewed on strips of salted pork drawn from their haversacks.

Macro came over to see Cato, and pulled himself up on to the driver’s bench beside his friend.

Macro nodded towards Verica’s wagon. ‘How’s the king doing?’

‘Well enough. I looked in on him a while back. He’s sitting up and complaining about being bumped about.’

‘Think he’ll recover?’

‘Does it matter?’ Cato nodded towards the approaching enemy column.

‘No,’ Macro conceded. ‘Not now.’

‘After all that fighting back in Calleva, we end up here,’ Cato grumbled.

‘That’s the army for you,’ replied Macro, straining his tired eyes as he stared in the same direction as Cato. ‘Any idea who that second lot are yet?’

‘No. Too far. Moving quickly, though. Few more hours and they’ll be up with us.’