There was a dull creak under his boots and Marcus stopped dead. The sound eased and after a pause Marcus took another few steps. There was another creak, louder this time, and then a crack. He stopped again, heart pounding, and slowly lowered himself to his hands and knees before continuing towards the standard, wincing as the ice seared his bare skin. He was no more than ten feet away from the standard when the ice began to crack again and Marcus caught his breath. He lowered himself on to his stomach and edged forward slowly. His fingers groped for the red cloth where the cohort’s number had been stitched in gold thread. As the ice creaked beneath him Marcus clenched his teeth, clasping the material in his fingers and drawing it back towards him. Taking it in both hands, he turned slowly on to his back and took a deep breath. He counted to three, then hurled it over his head with all his strength.

The sudden movement caused the ice to crack, and water seeped through his cloak and tunic as he heard the splash behind him. Dreading that the ice would break at any moment, Marcus wormed his way towards the edge of the lake until he was confident the ice was thick enough to climb to his feet. He looked back to make sure there was no sign of the standard, then hurried towards the survivors of the cohort banded together by the lake. The rebels massed round them, grim-faced and silent.

‘Well done, lad.’ The centurion clapped him on the shoulder. ‘That took guts. Now the cohort can die with its honour intact.’

‘Die?’ Quintus said.

‘What else?’ The centurion gestured towards the rebels. ‘They’ll charge any moment. It’ll all be over very quickly.’

But there was no charge, and the two sides stood their ground, breathing hard from their exertions as they waited.

‘Why don’t they attack?’ Quintus asked, his voice wavering. ‘For pity’s sake, why?’

Then there was movement in the rebel ranks and a tall figure emerged and strode towards the Romans, stopping two sword lengths from their shields. He carried a long heavy sword in one hand and his dark hair was tied back with a thong. Marcus recognized him at once. It was the same man who had led the ambush of Caesar’s party several days earlier. Mandracus glared at the Romans for a moment before he spat to one side and addressed them.

‘The fight is over. You have been defeated. Throw down your weapons and you will live. If not, you will be cut down where you stand.’

There was a brief stillness before Quintus lowered his sword and stepped towards the edge of the ring. The centurion stood in his way.

‘What do you think you are doing ... sir?’

‘The fight is over. We did our best and lost. It’s time to surrender.’