With a shout, the legionaries pushed their shields out and hacked into the Germans before them. The unexpectedness of the move momentarily caught the Germans off guard and they checked and recoiled.

‘Run!’ Macro shouted.

In an instant the charge turned tail and the soldiers bolted down the street, Cato amongst them, cursing the awkwardness of the standard. As the street narrowed towards the point where the rest of the century was waiting, Macro faced the Germans once again, determined to make sure his men got away. The enemy were still reeling from the sudden turnabout in Roman tactics and, with a grim smile of satisfaction, he ran after the others.

But one German, more alert than the rest, hefted his spear above his head and hurled it after the retreating Romans with all his might.

Cato, awash with relief, was bolting towards the gap being held open by his comrades when he heard Macro shout.

‘Ahhh! Fuck!’

Cato turned quickly. Ten paces up the street Macro had tumbled headlong, a spear right through his thigh. His shield had fallen ahead of him and his sword lay to one side. Beyond Macro, the Germans had recovered from their surprise and were running towards the stricken centurion. Macro looked up and saw Cato.

‘Run, you fool!’

‘Sir…’

‘Save the fucking standard! RUN!’

In a moment of shocking stillness Cato saw the angry look on Macro’s face; the Germans running down towards him; the fire raging in the buildings around them and the sky glowing blood red against the night. Then, before he was aware of any kind of conscious decision, he was running back towards his centurion screaming meaninglessly at the Germans.

Under The Eagle

Chapter Eleven

‘Did you see Titus today?’

‘Sorry?’ Vespasian looked up from his travel desk. ‘What did you say?’

‘Your son, Titus. Have you seen him today?’ Flavia tapped her finger on his shoulder. ‘Or have you been too busy to notice that you have a son?’

‘My dear, I really haven’t had time.’

‘That’s what you always say. Always. All this wretched paperwork is taking up your whole life.’ She looked into the document chest. ‘Don’t you think you should make time for the boy?’

Vespasian laid down his stylus and regarded her for a moment, heart heavy with guilt. After three miscarriages and one still-born, Titus had seemed like something of a miracle. The long labour had nearly killed Flavia and the child. Since his birth in Rome two years ago the boy had been treated like a precious vase, wrapped in wool and hardly ever out of his mother’s sight. Vespasian had devoted much effort to being as supportive as he could, all the while conscious that time spent with family was time spent away from politics and career advancement — which was ultimately for Titus’s benefit, he assured himself.

Accepting the appointment to the Legion had not been an easy choice. He had known Flavia was hugely reluctant to leave Rome, even as she dutifully urged him to accept the post. Like all wives with a respect for tradition, she had accompanied him when Vespasian had left to take up his command. While the fresh air was a pleasant change from clinging stench of Rome, it had not proved beneficial to Titus. Since they had arrived at the base the child had been down with one illness after another. The cold, damp climate was ruinous to a fragile constitution, and many months of long nights at the side of his cradle had exhausted Flavia. The thought of the loss of Titus filled them both with dread, but Vespasian had had the comfort of a full working day while Flavia had not. Removed from her social circle and isolated in the closed world of a military base with only a handful of other officers’ wives, Flavia’s world had turned inward on her son.