Macro snorted. ‘You always have to see the dour side of events.’ They were interrupted by a blast of notes echoing down into the courtyard and both officers turned and craned their necks to squint up towards the top of the main pair of pylons. Three bucinas were sounding off. Behind them the standard of the Twenty-Second Legion, with its gold-embroidered head of a jackal, was fluttering over the temple. To one side four men were struggling to erect a trophy made up from the weapons and equipment taken from the enemy dead. Aurelius stood, proudly looking on.

‘Well,’ Macro scratched his bristling cheek, ‘at least he’s happy. Now he has a great victory to go along with his battle wound. Nothing can stop him. The man thinks he’s a modern Alexander the Great.’

Cato stared silently at the legate for a moment. ‘Let’s hope the mood passes quickly, then. Taking the temple is one thing. Defeating Prince Talmis is quite another. The last thing we need is a commander who underestimates his enemy.’

Macro nodded.

The bucinas sounded again and the legate approached the edge of the platform and raised his arms up to draw the attention of the men below. There was a brief, expectant pause before he spoke, straining his voice to make sure that his words carried the length of the temple. ‘Men of the Twenty-Second! My fellow Jackals! Comrades! Today we have won the first of our battles against the Nubian Prince who dares to defile the Roman province of Egypt with his presence! His men lie dead at our feet and their arms are now our trophies.’ Aurelius made an extravagant gesture towards the arrangement rising up above the pylon. ‘This is but a poor token of the riches and glory that will be ours once we have crushed the main enemy army. As long as there are Roman soldiers in Egypt, the men of the Twenty-Second, and the name of their commander, will be remembered with pride and honour. Think on that, and keep it in your hearts as we march from this place to do battle with the invader!’ He punched the air and there was a silence before one of the tribunes on the platform drew his sword and thrust it into the air and chanted. ‘Aurelius! . . . Aurelius! . . . Aurelius!’

The other officers joined in and then the cry was picked up by the men down in the courtyards of the temple.

Macro turned to Cato. ‘Not the best orator I’ve heard, but he has the timeless gift of keeping it mercifully brief.’

Cato smiled. ‘A pity the same can’t be said for most politicians I’ve seen in Rome.’ His smile faded. ‘We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t fall prey to putting posterity before common sense.’