‘Too much of a good thing, perhaps?’

‘What?’ Macro was astonished. ‘What kind of bollocks is that? One of your stupid fucking philosophies, I bet. Look, lad, there’s no such thing as enough of a good thing. Believe me.’

‘Very epicurean of you, Macro.’

‘Oh, piss off . . .’

They had reached Maximius’ tent. A dull glow framed the flaps at the entrance, and as the sentries spied the two centurions approaching from the darkness, one stepped to one side and held a flap open. Macro led the way. They entered the thick, hot atmosphere inside the tent and saw Maximius seated beside his campaign table. In front of him were arranged five stools, three of which were already occupied by the other centurions of the Third Cohort.

‘Thank you for joining us,’ Maximius said curtly.

The signal for the change of watch was still not due for nearly half an hour, by Cato’s calculation, but before he could even consider protesting Macro stepped in front of him.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Take your seats, gentlemen. Then we can get started.’

As they sat down Macro raised an eyebrow to Cato in warning. It dawned on Cato that this was how Maximius liked to run his cohort. He expected - no, demanded - that his subordinates exceed the requirements of his orders. It might lead to a certain amount of second-guessing, but it kept them on their toes. Cato had been aware of this style of command in other cohorts and disliked it intensely. A commander who adopted such an approach could never be certain that his orders would be carried out as he intended.

Once the last arrivals were seated Maximius cleared his throat and stiffened his spine before he began to address his officers.’Now that we’re all here . . . You saw the legate’s map and understand our task. We hold the fords against Caratacus and he is beaten. We’ll be the first cohort to march from camp tomorrow, before sunrise, as we’ve got the furthest to go. We’ll be following a supply track that leads to the ford. There’s an auxiliary post we should reach by noon. We’ll rest there and draw from their rations. The ford’s a mile or so further to the north and we can reach it and fortify it soon afterwards. We should arrive in plenty of time. Your men are to leave their packs here tomorrow. They’re to be ready to fight and carry nothing else, apart from their canteens. We’re marching to battle. There are to be no shirkers, no stragglers . . .and no surrender when we meet the enemy. Of course,’ he grinned,’if the enemy wants to surrender, then we must make every effort to accommodate his wishes. With a bit of luck we might just win the day, and a small fortune besides. You understand me?’

All but one of the centurions nodded solemnly. Maximius turned towards Macro.

‘What’s the matter?’