‘ Are you sure about this, sir?’ Nepos muttered as they crouched down in some long grass scarcely a hundred paces from the main gate of the fort. The ramparts loomed grey and forbidding in the thin mist of dawn. The brooding, menacing atmosphere in the valley had been present the moment the two men had emerged from the track leading through the marsh and seen the stakes lining the route ahead, each one bearing an impaled head. Nepos looked round at the centurion.

‘Sir, if we go in there and give ourselves up, we’re dead men. Might as well save them the bother of clubbing us and just bash our brains out on the nearest rock.’

‘They have to be warned,’ Cato replied firmly.

‘Can’t we just shout the details out to them, then bugger off sharpish?’

‘No. Now shut up.’

Cato took a deep breath and then rose to his feet. Cupping his hands to his mouth he faced the gate and shouted the warning given to sentries by returning patrols.

‘Approaching the fort!’

There was a moment’s silence and then came the response. ‘Advance and give the password!’

Cato looked down at Nepos. ‘Right then, let’s go.’

The legionary reluctantly stood up beside his superior, then Cato advanced slowly towards the gate. He could already hear the sentry shouting for the duty officer, and could imagine the duty century being roused from their slumber by rough kicks from the centurion and optio. They would scramble into their armour, snatch up their weapons and rush up on to the ramparts under a barrage of abuse from their officers. As the two filthy, bearded fugitives walked steadily out of the mist, through the dew-drenched grass, helmeted heads began to appear along the wall. Javelins wavered above them like tall rushes in a light breeze.

‘Shit . . .’ Nepos whispered. ‘This was a bad idea. We’re dead.’

‘Shut up!’ Cato snarled. ‘Not one more word.’

They stopped just before they reached the defence ditch, which stretched out along the ramparts either side of the gate.

‘Who the hell are you?’ a voice called down from the gatehouse.

Cato drew a breath before he replied, struggling to sound as authoritative as possible.’Centurion Cato, legionary Nepos, of the Sixth Century, Third Cohort, Second Legion.’

Cato could see heads craning over the wooden rail of the palisade for a better look. Excited muttering rippled down the length of the wall.