‘Centurion Maximius is approaching along the south bank. He’s nearly three miles away. You run to him as fast as you can. You tell him that Caratacus is making for this ford. Tell him to send a rider to the legate at once to let him know what’s happening. No, wait . . .’ Macro could visualise how that part of the message would be received by the touchy cohort commander. ‘Tell him, I respectfully suggest that he sends a rider to the legate. Finally, tell him that Caratacus is closer to the ford than he is and that he must get the cohort here as quick as possible. Quicker!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Fabius grinned as he struggled out of the armour and laid it down on the track.

‘Well, what’re you waiting for?’ Macro growled. ‘Move yourself!’

Fabius turned and ran down to the river, plunging into the ford. Macro watched him for a moment before turning back to the rest of his men. Most had finished arming and stood ready for orders. He waited until the last man had tied his chinstraps; no easy feat under the impatient gaze of all his comrades and commanding officer. At last the legionary looked up with a guilty expression and pulled himself up into a stiff posture of readiness. Macro cleared his throat.

‘Stand to!’

The legionaries grounded their shields and spears and gathered in a compact line across the track and under the willows.

‘In less than an hour Caratacus and his army are going to come pouring down the track towards the ford. Right behind them should be General Plautius, with his sword right in their backside.’

A few of the men chuckled at the crude image and Macro indulged it a moment before continuing.

‘The rest of the cohort is on the way. I saw it from the top of the hill there. I’ve sent Fabius to hurry them along and they should reach us before the enemy gives us much grief. Not that we’re going to need ‘em, of course! The Third Century can hold its own with the best of them. It’s only a few days that we’ve served together, but I’ve lived with the Eagles long enough to know quality when I see it. You’ll do. It’s those poor bastards on the other side I feel sorry for! They can only attack us on a narrow front, and only then after they’ve impaled themselves on our stakes and the barricade. If they’re really lucky, and I’m feeling generous, I might just spare them a little more bloodshed and accept Caratacus’ surrender.’

Macro smiled, and to his relief his men smiled back.