‘They won’t make it,’ said Cato.

The wagons trundled forward towards the safety of the town’s ramparts, driven on by desperate lashes from the drivers’ whips, and the gap between the rearmost vehicle and the two men steadily widened until they disappeared amid the ranks of the mounted rearguard. Cato strained his eyes for any further sign of them.

‘Should have left him,’ Macro commented sourly. ‘Stupid sod’s only wasted another life.’

‘There they are!’

Macro looked beyond the legion’s scouts and saw the pair still struggling after the supply column. Then he saw the nearest group of Britons racing in towards them for an easy kill. The handler looked over his shoulder and abruptly stopped. Pausing only for a moment, he pulled himself free of the wounded man and sprinted for safety. The auxiliary slumped to his knees and stretched a hand out towards the handler as the enemy closed in on him. He disappeared beneath a wave of woad-painted bodies with white limed hair. Some of the Britons sprinted on, intent on running down the handler. Younger, fitter and faster, they closed the distance rapidly and he was brought down with a spear thrust into the small of his back. Then he too disappeared under the savage blows of the British warriors.

‘Too bad.’ Macro shook his head.

‘Looks like the rest of them are going to make a move.’ Cato was watching the largest group of chariots where the tall figure in the lead was waving his spear above his head to attract attention. Then, with a swift stabbing motion he pointed the tip towards the remains of the supply column and the Britons roared their war cry and charged home. The auxiliaries closed ranks, forming a pitifully thin line between the Durotrigans and the wagons. The legate had rejoined his mounted scouts, and they quickly fanned out, screening the rear of the supply column and preparing to charge.

‘What the hell does he think he’s doing?’ asked Cato, astonished. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces.’

‘They might buy just enough time for the rest.’ Macro turned and looked back towards the ramparts of the depot. ‘Where’s the garrison?’

The distant thrum of hoofbeats and a thin defiant cry of ‘Augusta!’ announced the charge of the mounted scouts. Cato and Macro watched with sickening dread as the handful of horsemen swept over the sunlit grassland towards the screaming wave of Britons. For a moment the two sides were distinct forces, Roman against Briton, and then there was just a swirling chaos of men and horses, their war cries and screams of pain carrying clearly to those watching helplessly from the ramparts of Calleva. A handful of the mounted men broke free of the enemy and pelted back towards the wagons.

‘Is the legate with ‘em?’ asked Macro.

‘Yes.’