‘You first, boy,’ Macro protested.

‘No, sir, it’ll be easier to get you through now than drag you out after.’

‘Fair enough.’

With Cato half supporting him, Macro thrust his head, arms and shoulders through the wall, dislodging a shower of earth which tumbled down over him. He spluttered for breath, shaking the earth from his head, and then someone swung a boot into his side.

‘Bloody Germans are coming through the wall!’ someone shouted.

‘Easy lads! I’m Roman!’

‘Oh! Sorry, mate!’

A rough hand reached down to Macro. Moments later, Cato was helping to prop him up and brushing the dust off his head and uniform. The legionary who had kicked him in the side gulped nervously as he caught sight of the centurion’s medalled harness.

‘Sir, I didn’t know…’

‘No harm done, son. Just take us to the tribune.’

‘This way, sir.’ The legionary supported Macro on his other side and, with the centurion’s arms over the legionaries’ shoulders, the trio made their way past the rearmost ranks of the soldiers holding the entrances to the village square. They found Vitellius standing outside the village chief’s hut with the trumpeter and the cohort standard-bearer. From inside the hut came the sounds of muffled cries and screams.

‘Stop here a moment, lads,’ Macro ordered, before extracting his arm from Cato’s shoulder and saluting Vitellius.

‘Ah! So you’re still with us, Macro! I was told the Germans had you, and the optio here, bang to rights.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Nasty wound. Better get it cleaned and dressed.’ Vitellius jerked a thumb at the door to the hut. ‘The orderlies are a bit busy right now, but you might attract their attention. And get them to wipe some of that shit off you while they’re about it.’

‘Where’s my century, sir?’

‘They’re holding the main gate at the moment—’ Vitellius moved aside as a fresh casualty was carried past into the hut. ‘I had them run the villagers outside between assaults. Can’t afford to have troops wasted on guard duty.’

‘How are we doing?’

Vitellius frowned momentarily before answering. ‘Not well. We’re down to less than three hundred effectives. The Germans are trying to force an entry to the square down five streets. The fire has cut them off from all other accesses and we still hold the wall and gate on the other side of the village.’

‘Can we hold out until Vespasian gets here?’

‘Maybe.’ Vitellius shrugged, looking up into the snowy sky. ‘If the fire keeps channelling them into a limited number of streets. We’re holding them back now, but they can afford to lose more men than us. Once they’ve got the edge in numbers they’ll just push us back into the square. Then we make a final stand here, by the injured.’

‘And what if the fire gets to us before the Germans?’

‘We’ll be forced back to the main gate, and then outside into the tender arms of the waiting German horde.’

To be burned to death or gutted by barbarians, thought Cato. Which would he choose when the time came?