At length the decurion of the scouts emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse and trotted his horse down towards Centurion Maximius, who had advanced a short distance in front of his cohort, impatient to discover what had happened to the garrison of the fort.

‘Well?’

The decurion looked badly shaken. ‘They’re all dead, sir.’

‘All? The entire unit?’

‘I suppose so, sir. Didn’t count ‘em but there must be over a hundred bodies in there. Most don’t look like they died quickly.’

Maximius looked towards the fort for a moment before he gave his orders to the decurion. ‘Take your men. Find the tracks of whoever did this. Find out where they went and report back to me at once.’

The decurion saluted, wheeled his horse about and trotted back towards his men, ordering them to form up. Maximius marched steadily towards the gate and entered the fort.

Once the scouts had galloped off to the north, on the trail of the enemy, the men of the cohort waited quietly in the baking sunshine, watching anxiously for the cohort commander to reappear. A long time passed, maybe a quarter of an hour, by Cato’s estimate, and at length he slapped his thigh in frustration.

‘Think something’s happened to him, sir?’ Figulus asked quietly.

‘I hope not. But he’d better get out of there soon. We can’t afford to be delayed. He’s got his orders.’

‘Shouldn’t someone go and check on him?’

Cato looked along the column, picking out the other centurions. Macro was looking his way and raised his hands in a gesture of frustration.

‘You’re right,’ Cato replied. ‘Someone has to find him. Stay here.’

Cato trotted forward. Felix and Antonius eyed him with surprised expressions as he passed by. He stopped when he reached Macro.

‘Taking his bloody time!’ Macro grumbled.

‘I know. We have to get moving.’

‘We need the trenching tools from the fort.’

‘Then we should be getting them and moving on to the ford. Someone has to go up there . . .’

While Macro scratched his chin and considered the situation, they were joined by Centurion Tullius, an anxious expression on his weathered features.

‘What do you think we should do?’

Macro looked at Tullius in surprise. As the senior officer present Tullius should be making decisions, not asking for advice, or worse still, opinions. The old centurion looked hopefully at the other two officers, waiting for them to say something.

‘Someone has to go up there,’ Cato said, at length.

‘He told us to stay with our centuries.’

‘Look,’ said Macro, ‘we can’t fuck about here all day. We’ve got to get to that ford. Someone has to fetch Maximius. Right now.’

‘Yes. But who?’

‘Who cares?’ Macro replied. ‘You go.’