He moved forward, keeping low, and there was a faint swishing through the dry grass behind him as his men followed. Keeping in the shadow of the rocks, Macro moved stealthily towards the tower. He could see that the heavy door at the base of the tower was open. Above, on the platform, he heard voices muttering and a faint rustle as the morning breeze stirred the tips of the palm leaves of the sunshade. Macro scurried across the open ground in front of the tower, making straight for the door. Then a figure appeared in the frame, and froze. Macro powered forward, lowering the tip of his sword. At the last moment he punched the blade forward and it ripped into the man’s midriff an instant before Macro’s shoulder struck him in the chest. He slammed the man back through the door, across the interior of the tower until he struck one of the posts holding up the floor above. The man grunted as the breath was driven out of him and warm spittle and blood splattered Macro’s face. Clamping his spare hand over the man’s mouth, Macro thrust the sword up into the ribcage, ripping through vital organs. His opponent struggled frantically and then abruptly slumped forward on to Macro. He drew back, wrenching his blade free, and eased the body down on to the ground. Around him, his men crowded into the tower.

‘What’s going on there?’ a voice called down the flight of wooden stairs leading up to the platform. ‘Portius?’

There was a faint hue of wavering orange light from above, illuminating the topmost stairs.

‘Let’s go,’ Macro growled, running to the stairs and pounding up to the first level of the tower. When he reached the top, he saw a room with several sleeping mats lining the wall, a table and stools and weapons rack. There were two men. One rising up on an elbow, disturbed from his sleep. The other was near the top of the stairs, close to the weapons. He was quicker witted than his companion downstairs and instantly snatched at a spear and lowered the tip towards Macro as he and his men raced into the room. The spear tip thrust forwards and Macro swerved aside, crashing into a stool that sent him sprawling. The legionary behind him did not see the danger until it was too late and the spear thudded into the shoulder of his sword arm, the impact spinning him round against the shaft and knocking it to one side. The next man thrust his way past, and hacked at the spearman’s neck, cutting deep. With a sharp cry the renegade collapsed back, on to the floor, the butt of the spear clattering beside him. The man on the mattress made to get up but was cut down before he reached his feet.

‘The roof!’ Macro called out as he scrambled to his feet. ‘Move!’