Ferox stopped. He guessed the two javelinmen were still sixty paces away, and just then one of them pulled his arm back and sent a shaft humming through the air. The aim was good, but the distance too long and it hit the earth and skidded towards him harmlessly.

‘Come on, you mongrels!’ Vindex screamed in Latin at the enemy. ‘Let’s see what you can do!’

‘I am Bran, brother of the sword and servant of the Mother.’ On the other side the younger warrior spoke his challenge in the language of the tribes. ‘I stand here. Come and fight me with honour or flee!’

Ferox contented himself with stepping to one side and spitting on the javelin. The second man ran closer and threw with more strength, the point glinting as it came towards him. He raised his shield and felt the hard thump as the missile struck. Hefting one of his own javelins, he ran a few paces forward and threw. The javelinman timed it well, jumping to the side so that it passed.

Vindex whistled in derision. ‘You’re getting old, granddad!’ he shouted. ‘Oh shit!’ The exclamation was prompted as he barely caught another light spear on his own shield. ‘Now that’s unfriendly!’ He sprinted forward and flung one of his own back, aiming at the bowman, who had edged forward, but now ran away, going straight instead of dodging. The man flung himself into the dirt a moment after the javelin fell short. Vindex roared with laughter.

‘Does any dare fight with me?’ Bran had gone further forward than anyone else and then thrust one javelin point down into the earth. He spread his arms wide, lifting the other javelin and his shield high in the air. If the enemy could not understand the words then there could be no mistaking the gesture. Ferox wondered whether Arrian was saying something about the Iliad sprung to life before their eyes. For a short while this was war the old way, the way of the tribes throughout much of the world. More of the enemy were daring to come closer. An arrow came from the side, and he had to jerk the shield to his right to block it. It took a moment to spot the archer, a fellow in a pale yellow tunic and wearing an old-fashioned helmet shaped like a Phrygian cap. He had stuck a row of arrows into the ground and was reaching for another. Beside the bowman was another man holding a javelin in one hand and in the other a big round shield of the old Greek type, the ones you saw on monuments. He was sheltering the archer behind him, and if Arrian had spotted this then the tribune ought to be in ecstasy. Ferox tried to force such thoughts from his head and sprinted towards them. His remaining spear was in his hand and he held it up ready. The man with the round hoplon shield stepped away to let the archer shoot, and the arrow slammed into Ferox’s shield, the tip bursting through the back. Then the man spun as a javelin came at the archer and he just managed to deflect it as Vindex cursed. Ferox flung his own and, before the man could heft his shield round to face the new threat or dodge, the point struck him in the face, driving through his cheek.