The sun had declined from its zenith as the fleet of small craft set off from the east bank of the Nile. Half the men of the First Cohort sat or stood in the boats, nervously watching as the crews raised the sails and got under way. Watching them, Cato could understand their mood. Weighed down by their armour, the men would sink to the bottom of the river if they fell over the side. The thought of drowning momentarily filled Cato with terror as he vividly imagined his helplessness, encumbered by heavy kit, struggling to free himself as his breath ran out and his lungs burned, and then the final gasp that would fill his throat with choking water and the last desperate flailing of his limbs before he died. He shook the image off and looked at Hamedes sitting on the central thwart opposite him. It was hard to believe that he had ever been a priest, thought Cato. The Egyptian wore a scale armour vest, bronze helmet, and rested a large shield against his knees. His face was set in a determined expression as he stared down. He looked every inch a fighter and Cato wondered if the young man would consider enlisting once the campaign was over. Because he lacked Roman citizenship the legate had refused to take him on to the official roll of the legion and he had been entered as an irregular scout and issued his kit on a temporary basis.

Hamedes suddenly looked up and met Cato’s gaze and smiled uncertainly. ‘Is it always this way, sir? The sick feeling in your guts before you go into battle?’

‘Always,’ Cato replied. ‘Trust me, it’s the same for every man, except Macro. He just enjoys it.’

‘It’s what the job is about.’ Macro shrugged. ‘And I happen to be good at it and take pride in that.’

Hamedes examined the centurion for a moment before he spoke again. ‘And you never feel fear, sir?’

‘I didn’t say that. The trick of it is not to let your imagination have free rein. If you can do that and keep your eye on the job then you’ll get through it without surrendering to fear. Of course it ain’t going to make you invulnerable. A sword thrust is every bit as likely to kill a hero as a coward.’ Macro winked. ‘So, kick your imagination in the guts and pray like hell to every god out there who owes you a favour. That’s my advice, lad.’