Macro waited a while, to make quite sure that the enemy was settling for the night, before he ordered the units that were not on watch-keeping duty to stand down. The men tramped down from the wall and sombrely made their way back to their barracks. Some would find sleep easy enough. Others would continue in the agitated state of anticipation that Cato had observed as they stood and watched the approach of the enemy. At length Macro beckoned to Cato and they returned to the prefect’s quarters for a meal with the other officers. Scrofa and Postumus sat as far from the cohort’s commander as rank permitted and kept their eyes lowered, refusing to meet the gaze of either Macro or Cato. The mood was subdued, even though Macro had ordered his housekeeper to bring out the best jars of Scrofa’s remaining stock of wine. Conscious that his men were looking to him, Macro made himself appear calm and unflustered by the presence of the enemy. He even attempted a few ribald jokes with some of the officers, and ended the evening with a toast to their inevitable victory. The officers responded with forced enthusiasm and then the dinner party broke up as they returned to their rooms at the end of each barrack block.

‘Well, that was a storming success,’ Macro muttered as the last of them left and only Cato remained, picking at the dates in the bowl in front of him. ‘Might as well surrender the fort to Bannus right now and be done with it.’

‘They’ll fight hard enough when the time comes, sir.’

‘Oh? What makes you think that, my esteemed veteran friend?’

Cato looked up. ‘They haven’t got any choice. It’s fight or die.’

‘So what’s new?’ Macro grumbled. ‘I tell you, Cato, if that lot were legionaries instead of auxiliaries the spirit would be different. They’d be thirsting to get stuck into Bannus and his mob.’

‘Maybe they would feel the same, if Scrofa and Postumus hadn’t got to them. It’s a question of leadership. They’d been badly commanded for months before you took over. You’ve had too little time to return them to battle-readiness.’

‘Maybe.’ Macro reflected. ‘Perhaps the first attack might put a little bit of iron back into them.’

Cato smiled. ‘I hope not. A wound is the last thing they need.’

Macro winced at his friend’s attempt at humour. ‘It’s not a laughing matter, Cato. Our lives depend on it.’ He snorted. ‘The fate of the bloody province depends on it. So no stupid quips please. Not unless we’ve had a skinful of wine first, eh? Even then . . .’

‘All right then, sir. No more jokes.’

‘Good.’ Macro was silent for a while, deep in thought. Then he suddenly turned to Cato. ‘How do you suppose Vespasian did it?’

‘Did what, sir?’