‘The signal will be coming soon,’ he told them, his voice low. ‘Once that scout gives the all-clear, the Druids and their mates will march in through the gate. They’re going to retrieve their loot and probably intend to spend the night here. They’ll be tired and longing to get some rest. That’ll make ‘em careless.’ Cato drew his sword and pointed it towards his men. ‘Remember, lads…’

Some of the veterans could not help chuckling at being referred to as a lad by the young optio, but they were respectful of rank and quickly stilled their amusement. Cato drew a sharp breath to hide his annoyance.

‘Remember, we go in hard. We’ve been ordered to take prisoners, but don’t take any unnecessary risks to get them. You know how much the centurion hates having to write bereavement messages for the families back home. He’s not likely to forgive you in a hurry if you get yourself killed.’

Cato’s words produced the desired effect and the awful tension of waiting to fight was eased as the men chuckled again.

‘Now then. On your feet, shields up and javelins ready’

The dark shapes of the men rose and amid the sweep of large snowflakes their ears strained to hear the trumpet signal above the low moan of the wind. But before the signal came, the first of the Britons appeared from the direction of the main gate. Men on foot, leading their horses and talking in contented tones now that their day’s march had come to its end. They slowly emerged from the greater darkness of the burned buildings and gathered in the open space before the well. As Cato watched nervously, the raiders grew in number until over twenty of them were milling around, and still more were trudging out of the night. The champing and pawing of the horses mingled with the cheerful tones of the Britons and seemed unbearably loud after the long period of enforced silence. Cato feared his men might not hear the trumpet signal above the noise. Despite their stillness, he was acutely aware of their growing anxiety. If the signal did not come soon, the scattered men of the Sixth Century might be outnumbered by those they were set on ambushing.

There was a sudden harsh shout from the centre of the milling mass of raiders. A mounted man forced his way through and issued a string of orders. The Britons fell silent and at once the loose rabble turned into soldiers ready to act on the word of command. A handful of men assigned as horse holders began to take their charges in hand while the others formed up in front of the mounted man. To Cato’s intense frustration, the best moment to launch an attack was slipping away. Unless Hortensius gave the signal immediately, the enemy might yet be sufficiently organised to offer effective resistance.