‘Kill them all!’ Quertus screamed, a manic expression etched into his features. His men echoed his cry as they cut down the handful of men who had responded too late to the alarm to join their comrades in front of the chief’s hut. A second man emerged from the largest hut, tall and powerfully built. He was protected by armour and a helmet, beneath which his blond hair flowed over his shoulders. He carried a spear and a shield and thrust himself between two men to take his place in the battle line. There was something about his face that struck Cato. Something familiar. But there was no time to give the thought more than an instant.

The Blood Crows surged forward, thundering across the open space, kicking over the remains of the fires and sending swirls of ash and bright cinders into the air. Some of the Thracians surged in between Macro and Cato, forcing them apart, and Cato found himself twenty feet to the left of his friend and the rest of the command party, just as the first of the horsemen lowered the points of their spears and charged headlong into the line of Silurian warriors. There was a rippling clatter and thud as weapons clashed and struck shields. Battle cries died on men’s lips as they locked in combat, furiously wielding their weapons as they hacked and thrust at each other. There was an opening between two horsemen ahead of Cato and he pulled on his reins to direct his mount into the gap, sword held up, ready to strike.