‘It was dark, sir . . .’ the older man replied. ‘Couldn’t say for sure.’

His companion’s eyes widened. ‘We recognised one of them, sir. Figulus.’

‘Optio Figulus?’ The cohort commander scratched his jaw. ‘Cato’s optio. That makes some sort of sense. What about the other man?’

Macro forced himself to keep quite still as he waited for the veteran to reply.

‘Didn’t get a good look at him, sir. He was shorter than Figulus, but then most men are, sir.’

‘I see.’ Maximius looked round at Macro. ‘I want a strength return for the entire cohort. Find out who else is missing. Now!’

Macro turned away and began to look for the cohort’s trumpeter. As he expected, the man had joined the standard of the duty century and the broad arc of his bronze instrument was held ready in his grip. Macro strode up to him.

‘Sound the assembly!’

As the deep notes blasted across the rows of tents, the remaining men of the cohort started to pile out into the daylight, and scrambled across the mud to join the ranks mustering along the inside of the rampart. The centurions formed up in front of their men while their optios carried out a quick head count. Macro took charge of Cato’s century now that it had lost both its centurion and now its acting centurion.

A short time later the officers reported back to Maximius.

‘Only Figulus missing? But the sentries said there were two.’

‘Seeing double, perhaps?’ Macro smiled. ‘Under the influence.’

‘Didn’t look drunk to me,’ Centurion Tullius muttered.

‘No,’ agreed Maximius. ‘They weren’t. So it looks as if one of the men who helped the prisoners escape stayed behind. He’s still here.’

‘Maybe not, sir,’ said Macro. ‘Could’ve been one of the slaves.’

‘Yes . . . that’s true. Send someone to do a head count of the slaves.’

While they waited Macro noticed that his superior was eyeing the coming dawn with an anxious expression. Then he realised why, and quickly glanced towards the main camp.

‘Won’t be long until the legate arrives.’

Maximius snorted and let out a bitter little laugh. ‘The legate, the general and the first cohorts of each of the legions. We’re going to be a laughing stock.’

‘I doubt the legate will be laughing,’ Centurion Tullius added. ‘He’s going to have our balls for breakfast.’

Macro nodded. ‘If we’re lucky.’