While they waited Cato looked across the river. The far bank was covered with bodies, washed in the rosy glow of sunrise. Above them wheeled a swirling cloud of carrion birds, drawn to the ripe stench of death. Scores of them had already settled to plucking shreds of flesh from the bodies. But even that failed to ruin Cato’s appetite when the slave handed him his mess tin, filled with steaming sliced sausage and hunks of bread. The centurions set to the meal and soon the warm food in their bellies had revived their spirits and, mouths full, they began to talk about the battle.

‘How was it on the island, Macro?’ asked Felix. ‘How long did you hold them for?’

Macro thought about it, trying to recall the detail.’An hour or so.’

‘You fought them off for an hour?’ Felix’s jaw dropped in amazement. ‘The whole bloody army?’

‘Not the whole army, you twat!’ Macro jabbed a finger towards the ford. ‘They could only take us on a few at a time. And then only after they cleared away the little surprises we’d prepared for them. I doubt we were in contact for a fraction of that time. And that was more than enough.’

Maximius was watching him closely. ‘Why did you give way?’

‘Once they’d opened a gap in the barricade what else could we do? And I’ll tell you something else.’ Macro wagged a finger at him to emphasise the point. ‘Those bastards are starting to pick up a few tricks from us now.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Tullius.

‘They only went and formed a testudo when they came in for the second attack!’

‘A testudo?’ Tullius shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true! Ask any of my men. That’s why we had to fall back. We had no way of stopping that. If we’d stayed they’d have cut us to pieces in short order.’

‘Same as the rest of us on the river bank,’ Maximius said thoughtfully. ‘We had to give ground or fall where we stood. Wouldn’t have taken ‘em long to carve us up.’

The other centurions glanced at each other warily, and ate their food in silence until Antonius looked up.

‘Oi! Slave!’

‘Yes, master?’

‘Any more sausage there?’

‘Yes, master. There’s one left.’ He looked to Maximius, waiting for instruction. ‘Master Maximius . . . sir?’

‘What?’ Maximius looked round irritably. ‘What is it?’

‘The sausage, sir.’ The slave nodded towards Centurion Antonius, who was holding out his mess tin.

Maximius smiled and nodded his assent. ‘Let him have it. He’s a growing boy and needs his food.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Antonius beamed, eyes greedily fixed on the skillet the slave swung towards him. He thrust his mess tin forwards, caught the edge of the pan and the sausage jumped over the rim into the fire.