‘Come on!’ Ferox shouted. ‘We can hold them.’ He had a dozen or so of his Brigantes, and almost twice as many others, with a mix of legionaries, auxiliary infantry and cavalry. All of them were on foot, and they were in a ragged line, just two ranks deep. No one had a pilum, few even a spear or javelin, and half a dozen in the second rank lacked shields and were wielding dolabrae as weapons rather than entrenching tools. All stood with their back to Nicopolis, and closer still the huts covering the approaches to the assault ramp. Ferox saw a glow along the horizon, knew that dawn was close and hoped that the dust swirled up by the storm would make it harder for them to be seen from the walls of the city, because he knew that they must be in range. A mob of attackers faced them, trying to build up the courage to sweep them away and then get among the siege works. No torch would keep burning in this gale, but they were bound to have fire pots and tar and could do a lot of harm in a short time. If there were other Romans around then he could not see them. The picket outside the camp ought to have been close, but he had seen no trace of them when he had ridden with all the Brigantes he could find because this was the vulnerable spot. The Nicopolitans had come out in force, and most were attacking the front of the position, well entrenched by Cerialis’ men, who by the sound of it were fighting hard and holding them. That would not matter if the hundred or so attackers facing him got through.

Ferox started to bang the flat of his sword against the edge of his shield. ‘Let them hear you!’ he shouted, and men started to take up the rhythm. The Nicopolitans ought to have come on already, but they were hesitating and anything he could do to make them keep on hesitating was worth it.

A leader appeared from the mass of enemies, urging the rest on, waving a Greek-style kopis in one hand and an oval shield in the other. The sun started to rise, its light giving an odd glow to the dust in the air. A helmet clattered as it rolled in front of Ferox and he had no idea how it had got there. The Nicopolitans began a chant of their own, almost a song with the same angry word repeated over and over again.

‘Ready lads!’ Ferox called, and braced his shield, gladius held back, elbow bent so that the point was ready to jab forward at eye level. He spat dirt from his mouth, and it still seemed full of muck.

The Nicopolitans charged, the leader and a few others jogging, the rest at little more than a walk, but they came forward and they did not stop at the last minute. The man next to Ferox on the right was flung back as an arrow struck him in the face, and for the moment Ferox faced two enemies. One was the leader, who cut, caught his blade in the top of Ferox’s shield, and pulled back when the gladius speared forward at him. Ferox glanced to see if there was a chance to slash at the man on his right, then did not have to, because a legionary with a dolabra stepped into the open space and brought the pickaxe down with a great scything slash that gouged wood from the Nicopolitan’s shield. The leader stamped forward, cutting at Ferox, who managed to parry the blow and punched with his shield, driving the man back a pace. Ferox followed, pounding with the shield again, once, twice, before slashing back into the neck of the warrior facing the legionary. That man slumped forward, and the legionary pushed him aside and slashed with his axe again, grunting with effort as he drove the rear spike deep into the forehead of the warrior behind. The other Romans were pushing forward along the line, and suddenly the Nicopolitans went back a few paces.