Both sides stared at each other, all of them gasping for breath. The sun’s light was blinding, right in the eyes of the Romans, making them blink. Ferox glanced as best he could to either side, saw that he had several men down, but that the line was still holding for the moment.

The legionary beside him held his dolabra ready and spat noisily. He had a gladius on his belt and there were shields to pick up from the ground, but the man did not seem interested. Shaking the axe at the enemy he screamed something that was not Latin or Greek or any tongue that Ferox understood. His features were heavy, his arms thick and heavily muscled, and his bare head fringed with grey around a bald centre. Then his entire head disintegrated, shattered by a stone that whipped on and smashed the leg of one of the Nicopolitans ahead of them. Ferox was sprayed with blood and brains, and had to spit because some was in his mouth. The headless body stood for a moment, then sank down.

‘Charge!’ Ferox shouted, because he had to do something or stand there in horror and because the enemy were as horrified as the Romans. He ran forward, slammed the boss of his shield against the leader, making the man stagger and his shield drop just a little. Ferox stabbed, under the cheek pieces and into the neck above the man’s cuirass, twisting the long triangular point free, and more blood was spraying. The other Romans were coming on, shields thudding together, blades sparking as they met other blades or armour, or thudding into flesh and bone. Another catapult stone came, to the left this time and carved a bloody furrow through Roman and Nicopolitans alike. There were shouts, and as Ferox blocked the jab of a short spear, he saw riders, no more than silhouettes, coming from behind the enemy. The warrior facing him jabbed again, and suddenly Ferox’s helmet yanked forward, throwing him off balance as the tie snapped and it fell off. His opponent was snarling hatred one moment and then his face collapsed and there was only a bloody mess between the cheek pieces of his helmet as a stone the size of an apple smashed into it.

Both sides broke, and men fled any way they could. A rider, one of the legionaries escorting Crispinus, was plucked from his horse and flung to the ground by another stone, a Nicopolitan fell with a bolt deep in his back, and a Brigantian had his knee shattered by a stone before the missiles stopped as abruptly as they had started. Ferox staggered, his head throbbing, and saw Bran, Vindex, with half a dozen of their men and the remaining legionary horsemen with Crispinus, all struggling to control their panicking horses.

The enemy had gone, and he doubted that they would come back because from the gate of the camp a column of legionaries was doubling forward. Then he realised that the wind had died away, and that would have been a relief had his head not hurt so much. Propping his shield against his leg, he rubbed his forehead and his fingers came away bloody. His helmet lay in the dirt, the crest-holder twisted into a weird shape and half the horsehair crest ripped away, and he guessed that the metal had gouged his skin as it was ripped off.