As his men faced out, the centurion lowered his shield to the snow and reached for the standard. Gritting his teeth, he hacked at the staff with his sword, cutting away at the smooth wood until it was weak enough to snap over his knee. He cast the bottom of the standard aside and moved towards the knot of men clustered at the edge of the lake. With a grunt, the centurion hurled the standard out towards the water. The gold wreath and the red material flew through the air and thudded into the snow-covered ice, sliding a short distance before coming to rest a few paces from the edge of the water.

‘Damn it!’ the centurion growled. He clenched his fists in frustration, then suddenly rounded on Marcus. ‘You can do it! You’re small enough for the ice to bear your weight. Go out there. Push the standard into the water.’

Marcus glanced across the expanse of unbroken snow. It was impossible to know how thick the ice was.

‘There’s no time to think!’ The centurion grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘You must go now, before they cut us all down. Go!’

Marcus nodded. If he died then he would do it for a reason. If he could not save his mother, or honour his real father, he would do this in memory of the old soldier he had always loved. He would do it for Titus. He sheathed his sword and slipped through the men standing at the edge of the lake, stepping cautiously on to the ice. The standard was no more than twenty paces away and Marcus paced carefully towards it. On either side he was aware of the fight reaching its bloody conclusion. The Roman cohorts had been shattered by the rebels’ ferocious attack and only a few clusters of men remained, scattered along the shore of the lake as they sold their lives dearly.

Individuals had thrown aside their weapons and tried to surrender but the rebels butchered the Romans where they stood or knelt. A handful of legionaries were trying to escape on to the ice, but it had given way beneath them and they floundered in the icy water until their strength gave out.