Then, just in front of the two horses, a rebel burst through the Roman line. An axe in one hand and a buckler in the other, his mouth gaped in a roar behind a wild black beard. He saw the Roman officer and charged forward, swinging the axe above his head and thrusting the heavy blade towards Quintus’s shoulder. Marcus acted instinctively, pulling hard on his reins so his horse crashed into the rebel and knocked him aside. The axe swept down, narrowly missing the tribune’s boot before crunching into the compacted snow on the ground. Quintus twisted in his saddle and swept his sword down, stabbing deep between the rebel’s shoulder blades. The man let out an agonized cry and collapsed face first in the snow as blood spattered the snow around him.

Quintus met Marcus’s eyes and he nodded his thanks before turning back to the fight.

Already the rebels’ superiority in numbers was telling. Both ends of the Roman line were being forced back as the legionaries tried to avoid being outflanked. But Marcus realized they could not prevent the inevitable for much longer. A harsh cry to his side alerted him to a fresh danger and he snapped his head round to see a lithe figure in a gladiator’s cuirass rushing towards him with a spear in both hands, the point aimed directly at Marcus’s chest. There was little time to react and he threw his weight back in the saddle at the same time as he thrust his sword out, catching the wooden shaft just beyond the iron point. He was not strong enough to parry the thrust and only deflected the point into the neck of his horse. It punched through the hide and flesh before the bloodied iron burst out the other side. The horse let out a terrified whinny and reared up, wrenching the shaft from the rebel’s hands. Marcus held the reins in his left hand as tightly as he could, but he was already leaning backwards and felt his legs slipping out of the saddle.

With a cry he tumbled off, letting the reins go before he crashed to the ground, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. There was no time to recover as the horse reared and kicked, spraying snow into Marcus’s face. He rolled away towards the river, then scrambled to his feet, gasping. On either side the legionaries were being driven back through the line of wagons and panicking mules.

‘Protect the standard!’ Quintus shouted. He turned his horse towards the gilded wreath and red drop that rose above the crumbling centre of the Roman line. Then his horse stumbled and Quintus desperately swung a leg over the saddle, jumping to the ground as the horse fell on its side, a broken leg thrashing out.

Marcus ran to his side. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

Quintus nodded. ‘We have to save the standard. Stay with me.’