For a moment the standard bearer paused and looked longingly at the Sixth’s standard, then with as little show of reluctance as he could muster he thrust the wooden shaft at Macro. ‘Here.’

Then they were gone, disappearing into the cold darkness between the dingy German huts, leaving Macro holding the standard with its weighted banner hanging down from the horizontal cross-piece. For a moment Macro felt a strange twinge of excitement as the familiar awkwardness of the standard brought back the memories of his own year served as a standard bearer. He turned the shaft fondly and smiled at the reawakened sensibilities of a far younger man, tantalisingly visceral, then he was aware of Cato again.

‘Boy!’ he called out softly. ‘Come here.’

Cato dutifully came to attention in front of his superior, face hardened with suppressed emotions.

‘Relax, son. You’ve got a new duty. I want you to look after this.’

‘Sir?’

‘You heard what the tribune said?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And I trust that’s all you heard. Now we’ve lost Porcius I need a good man to take charge of the standard for a while. Are you up to it?’

It was more of an order than a question, however gently said, and Cato felt elated as the bitter shame of a moment before was washed away. Without waiting to reply, he downed his shield and took a firm grasp on the standard with his left hand.

‘It’s a big responsibility,’ Macro said. ‘You know that.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll guard it with my life.’

‘You’d better. If Porcius finds so much as a scratch on it when he takes it back, he’ll have your balls hanging from the tip the next time we go into action. Got that?’

Cato nodded solemnly.

‘Stick close to me and, whatever happens, you hold on to that standard and you keep it high. Up where the men can see it at all times. Understand? … Now then, what’s up?’

A sudden flow of movement through the men on the wall had caught his eye. All the legionaries were on their feet, shields and swords at the ready. Cato lifted the standard and followed Macro up to the palisade. Beyond the walls, the Germans had risen from their fires and were now moving in a black mass towards the gate. Irregular shapes in the crowd showed where men struggled with the faggots. Some carried torches that lit the faces of the nearest men in a flickering yellow-orange glare.

‘Now, remember, lads,’ Macro called out as he drew his sword, ‘if they get in here then the whole cohort is finished. So give it your all.’

A loud shout rippled along the approaching German horde and quickly grew into a roaring cheer of anger and arrogance. Some of the legionaries shouted back their defiance.

‘Steady!’ Macro called out above the din. ‘They’re just wasting their breath! And we’ve got nothing to prove!’

Beside him, Cato stood rooted to the ground, transfixed by the approaching menace. For some reason, this mass advancing with fierce determination seemed far more threatening in the darkness. His imagination was busy amplifying every noise and every shape. Unlike that afternoon’s mad charge through the village, the imminence of desperate conflict gave men space to consider their own courage, their own willingness to fight, and to vividly imagine the worst consequences of what might befall them. Cato shuddered and instantly cursed himself, quickly glancing round at the others on the wall.