The German ran into him so quickly that Macro was only aware that he was suddenly flat on his back, gazing up at the orange sky, winded and gasping for air. To one side of him the German had fallen headlong, spear clattering on to the street. As Macro struggled to roll over and draw his dagger, the German reacted more quickly. In a trice he was on his feet, snatching up the spear and whirling round to plant the broad blade in his enemy’s throat. Macro held his dagger out, knowing it was no more than a pathetic gesture of defiance.

‘Thanks be to Jupiter!’ the German said in perfect Latin.

‘Eh?’

The German lowered his spear and offered him a hand. Macro just stared at the man as if he were mad.

‘Do come on, sir. We haven’t got time,’ Cato urged, drawing back the hood, then wrinkling his nose. ‘What the hell is that smell?’

Macro slumped back against the wall, smiling with relief, and the moment’s loss of determination set his head reeling again. But he didn’t really care. Cato was here, bless the lad. Now if he could just rest a moment…

‘Sir!’

He was being roughly shaken and his eyes flickered open. Above him loomed Cato, hands tightly grasping Macro’s harness.

‘Up we go, sir!’ Cato said, gritting his teeth with exertion as he hauled Macro to his feet. He supported him with one arm while using the spear to steady them both. Macro stubbornly held on to the standard, which trailed behind them, as Cato dragged him along the side of the market to the next street corner. A quick glance revealed more Germans milling about as their front ranks tried to force a way through to the village square.

‘This is no good,’ Cato said. ‘They’re in every street. We must try something else.’

‘I have to rest.’

‘No, sir! You can’t.’ Cato shook him until his eyes flickered open again. ‘There! That’s better. Now then.’

Cato kicked open a door and dragged Macro into a small hut. The centurion was only dimly aware of being led through an assortment of dingy rooms and yards before Cato deposited him beside an earth-faced wicker wall. The lad drew out his sword, slipped off the German’s cloak and attacked the wall with all his strength.

‘What the hell are you doing, boy?’ Macro asked weakly.

‘I think the square is on the other side of this house. If we can just get through the wall.’

‘Then I can rest.’

‘Then you can rest, sir.’

Cato grasped the sword handle with both hands and stabbed away at the wall, loosening great lumps of clay, until he had exposed a large section of the wattle. He wiped his brow once, and attacked the slender intertwined branches with desperate energy. Macro watched listlessly, no longer really caring about anything, slowly giving in to his desire to float off into a deep sleep.

The wattle proved a much tougher prospect than the lathe and Cato’s heart pounded as he hacked at the wall with single-minded fury. At last he had cut away enough to start attacking the tightly packed earth and clay on the far side. In moments he had thrust through and a dim shaft of light filtered into the room. Cato worked with renewed frenzy and the gap quickly widened. When it was large enough to squeeze through he gently picked up the centurion and dragged him across to the hole.