By the time Vespasian had run across the camp and climbed the watchtower on the northern gate, he was desperately out of breath again. Clutching the sentry rail and taking great gulps of air, he took a last glance at the relief column snaking its way across the rolling countryside towards the dark mass of tiny figures that represented the Fourth Cohort. Sextus could be trusted to see that the rescue operation was carried out with as little loss of life as possible. Camp prefects, as a rule, had long outgrown the distasteful — and dangerous — thirst for glory that some of the junior officers espoused. If he was honest, the men of the relief column were probably safer with Sextus in charge rather than himself. That thought did little to relieve the frustration he felt at having to pass the command over to the camp prefect.

As soon as he was breathing more easily, Vespasian turned and walked over to the sentry keeping watch to the north.

‘So where are these bloody horsemen?’

‘Can’t see them right now, sir,’ the sentry replied nervously, not wanting his legate to suspect that it might be a false alarm. He continued hurriedly, ‘They rode down into that dip there, sir. Just a moment ago. Should be coming back into view any time now, sir.’

Vespasian looked in the direction indicated, a shallow valley running parallel to the camp barely a mile away. But the only sign of life was a thin trail of smoke rising from a small group of thatched huts. They waited in silence, the sentry growing ever more twitchy as he willed the horsemen to reappear.

‘How many of them did you see?’

‘Thirty or so, sir.’

‘Ours?’

‘Too far off for me to be sure, sir. They might have had red cloaks.’

‘Might have?’ Vespasian turned to look at the sentry, an older man who must have served quite a few years with the eagles. Certainly long enough to know that a sentry should only ever report details they were sure of. The legionary stiffened under the legate’s gaze and was astute enough to refrain from any further comment. Vespasian seethed internally at having been diverted to the watchtower. If he’d known the number of the approaching horsemen earlier he could have left Sextus to deal with the matter. Well, it was too late now, he reflected, and it would be bad form to take it out on this nervous sentry. Better to keep an air of imperturbability, and enhance the image of the unflappable commander he presented to the men of his legion.

‘Look, sir!’ The sentry jabbed his hand over the palisade.

A line of plumed helmets bobbed up over the side of the valley. Above them flapped a purple pennant.

‘The general himself!’ The sentry whistled.