‘He’s at the ford, preparing his defences.’

‘Defences? He’s going to make a stand?’ Tullius raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

‘Those were the orders given to the cohort.’

‘Yes, but, sir, it’s suicide.’

‘Let’s hope not, since we’re going to join him.’

Antonius and Felix exchanged a look of surprise.

Cato edged forward. ‘We’d better get moving, sir.’

‘Indeed, Cato. All of you, get back to your units. We’ll move at double time. No stopping for stragglers.’

The centurions were running back to their men as Maximius bellowed the order for the cohort to advance at quick pace. The column rolled forward with a fast, rumbling rhythm of tramping boots. Glancing to his side Maximius saw the runner Macro had sent him trotting back from the mounted scouts. Beyond him was a small plume of dust swirling round the figure of a man bent low over his horse. As the runner fell into step beside him to wait for orders Maximius glanced round, appraising his condition.

‘You ready to run back to Macro?’

‘Of course, sir,’ the runner replied, his chest heaving as he strained for breath.

The cohort commander lowered his voice.’If he’s still there when you get back to the ford tell him we’re on our way as fast we can go. And, if he’s not there, you come straight back and warn us. Understand?’

‘Not there?’ the runner said softly. ‘Sir, do you mean-’

‘You know what I mean,’ Maximius snapped. ‘Now go!’

The runner saluted and ran off along the track towards the ford. Maximius glanced over his shoulder and saw that the five centuries had all gathered speed and were moving steadily. He filled his lungs and then shouted the order to increase the pace to a slow run. The men had drilled for this many times and could keep it up for an hour at a time. By then they should have reached Macro. If there was time Maximius must let them catch their breath before throwing them into the fight if they were to perform well enough to make a difference.

Towards the rear of the column, Centurion Cato and his men followed the pace set by the century in front. Their equipment jingled and chinked as they ran along the track, accompanied by the laboured breathing of men who were heavily weighed down by their weapons and equipment. Now and then a centurion or an optio somewhere along the column barked out an order for their men to keep up, and followed it with a stream of abuse and threats of dire punishment to spur the men on. Cato swerved out to the side and slowed down until he was level with the middle of his century.

‘Keep it up, lads! Macro’s depending on us. Keep going!’