Lentulus nodded and squatted down, keeping his eyes on the approaching enemy. The centurion turned and walked a few paces back down towards the ford, and stopped to scan the south bank of the Tamesis. There was no sign of life close to the track on the far side and nothing to be seen as he scanned left along the bank. Then a far-off glint caught his eye and Macro stared hard in that direction. He made out a faint shimmering glitter against the green and brown landscape, and a slight haze hanging in the air about it. That had to be the Third Cohort, still a good three miles from the ford.

Caratacus was going to reach the crossing first.

Lentulus was still in earshot and Macro gritted his teeth to avoid any explosive outpouring of expletives as he silently invoked every curse in his repertoire and directed it at the distant - too distant - column of the cohort crawling across the hot shimmering landscape towards the ford. He took a last longing look, and then trotted back down the slope towards the Tamesis.

As he approached the ford Macro slowed down to catch his breath. No sense in making the lads even more anxious, he decided. Best to try to keep a veneer of calmness and confidence.

‘That’s enough work!’ he called out to the men still embedding the stakes in the shingle.’Get back to the island and kit up! We’ve got company.’

The legionaries abandoned the remaining stakes and let them flow downriver with the current as they splashed along the safe path towards the gap in the barricade.

‘Don’t run!’ Macro bellowed angrily. ‘If anyone gets caught on one of the stakes I’ll leave them there for the Britons.’

With a great effort of will, bolstered by fear of their centurion’s wrath, the legionaries slowed down.

Macro followed them at a more measured pace, keeping a wary eye out for the tips of the stakes they had planted. Glancing ahead he could see more of his men forming up behind the barricade, hurriedly strapping on helmets and hefting their shields and javelins from where they had been left beside the worn and rutted track that crossed over the back of the little island. As Macro emerged dripping from the river, he glanced round at his men and then fixed his gaze on a tall, wiry legionary.

‘Fabius!’

‘Sir!’ The man snapped to attention as Macro strode up to him.

‘Get your armour off. I need a runner.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fabius quickly undid the leather ties of his segmented armour as Macro explained.