‘The men will do their duty. This is what they have trained for. When the fighting starts, that will be what governs their actions.’

Cato stared back. Despite Macro’s reassurance he could not assuage his fears over the coming battle. He was not afraid for himself. No, he corrected himself, there was always the dread of a crippling wound and a long drawn-out death amid the carnage of the battlefield. Or, worse, mutilation and survival that would leave him an object of pity and ridicule. That prospect always haunted him before a battle and Cato had made himself charge forward with his comrades, or stand his ground, in spite of it, for the simple reason that he feared shame more than anything. That had always been a burden of his close friendship with Macro, he recognised; he never wanted to betray the confidence that Macro placed in him. Now that he was responsible for the lives of thousands, the burden had increased. Macro and all the other men looked to him, Cato, to lead them to victory, or die at their side.

Cato did not consider himself a brave individual. He could already feel the unsettled flutters in the pit of his stomach and the cold sweat pricking out down his spine. He wondered why he had not become used to it after so many years of fighting. What was it in him that preyed on his mind, thrusting forward terrifying images from past battles as well as imagined scenes of dreadful vividness? For Cato it seemed that there were two sides of his being locked in a perpetual struggle. The Cato he wanted to be - courageous, bold and respected, unburdened by self-doubt - and that other, truer, version - fearful, anxious and agonisingly sensitive to the view other people had of him. The latter could only ever act out the role of the former, winning the applause of the moment, before withdrawing into the shabby robes of his real nature. The thought sickened him and it was only when Macro cleared his throat and spoke again that his attention was redirected.

‘This plan of yours . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Seems a bit unorthodox. Mind me asking how you came to think it up?’

‘It’s not my idea,’ Cato admitted. ‘I remember something I read in Livius.’

‘The historian?’

‘That’s right.’

Macro raised a hand and rubbed his brow. ‘You, er, think that we are refighting another battle, then? Something from history. Which you’ve got out of a book.’

‘More or less. A similar situation in many respects. An outnumbered army taking on and crushing the enemy,’ Cato explained. ‘I expect you’ve heard of the battle of Cannae?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Macro replied patiently. ‘But it didn’t work out terribly well for our lads, as I recall.’