From the swamp came the sound of jingling and a dark mass of chariots and infantry spilled out on to the track and snaked their way up the slope. The chatter of their queer lilting language carried softly to the ears of the terrified Romans and Cato found himself comparing the sound favourably with the harshness of the German he had grown used to. A sharp order was given as a chariot passed down the line, and the column obediently fell silent until the chariot had passed beyond the line of scouts and over the brow of the hill, then laughter rippled down the line and they continued talking as before.

There seemed to be no end to the soldiers streaming from the marsh, and now the head of the dark mass had passed over the hill. On and on they came, until at long last the rearguard emerged from the swamp. Macro and Cato watched as the last ranks of the enemy marched over the crest of the hill and merged into its dark silhouette as they passed out of sight down the reverse slope.

‘How many do you think there were, sir?’ Cato whispered, as if afraid his words might yet carry to the ears of the Britons.

Macro looked down at the small stones he was clutching in his hand and quickly counted them up. ‘Say the equivalent of twenty cohorts, that’s…’

‘Nine thousand!’ Cato whistled.

Macro silently did the necessary maths for himself and nodded. ‘More than enough for Vespasian to worry about. Not to mention the chariot force. If that lot gets the drop on the legate…’

‘Then it’s up to Vitellius.’

‘Yes,’ Macro replied simply. ‘Vitellius… Look, we’d better get moving. With that lot on the scene we’d better abandon the cart. Bury the chest here, lose the cart somewhere else and use the horses to circle round the column and rejoin the Legion.’

‘Bury the chest? After all we’ve been through?’

‘You want it to be captured? Or worse, you want to be captured with it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well then, we’ll have to leave it here and return for it, if we ever get back to the Second in one piece.’

===OO=OOO=OO===

It was clear that the horse was badly winded and would drop if he drove it any further. Vitellius swerved off the track and dismounted in the shadows of an ancient grove whose leaf-laden branches stretched out on all sides. While his mount snorted and gasped at the cool night air, Vitellius cursed in anger and frustration. That bloody chest had nearly been in his hands. An emperor’s ransom — enough to fund the most lavish of political careers; an endless source for buying the favours of senators and soldiers alike. Maybe enough to buy him the loyalty of the Praetorian Guard. Certainly the services of the Praetorian agent Pulcher had been reasonably priced and the man had been sufficiently impressed by gold to rid himself of any inconvenient principles. And buying the services of the Syrians earlier that day had been easy, once Vitellius had passed himself off as a close friend of Scribonianus.