Quintillus quickly nodded and reached down for the hand of the Atrebatan prince, but Tincommius shook his head and, stepping back, he drew his sword.

‘Quick, you fool!’ shouted Quintillus. ‘There’s no time for heroics. You heard the centurion! Give me your hand!’

‘No!’

For a moment the three men froze, each glancing anxiously at the others, then the tribune withdrew his hand and took a firm grasp of the reins.

‘Very well. You had your chance. Centurion, carry on. I’m going for help.’

‘Help?’ Cato angrily turned on the tribune, but Quintillus ignored him. Savagely yanking the beast’s head round, he kicked his heels and spurred the pony back towards Calleva, leaving Cato staring after him, lips pressed together in cold contempt and fury.

‘Help?’ Figulus snorted. ‘How fucking thick does he think we are?’

Before Cato could reply there was a blast on a war horn to their left, immediately joined by another from the right. With a triumphant roar the Durotrigans poured down the slope towards the ordered lines of the Wolves and the Boars. Even as he glanced round his men Cato saw that some of them were already stepping back from their position in the line. He must keep them in hand, before the line started to crumble.

‘Hold your position there!’ he roared at the nearest unsteady man, who guiltily jumped back into place. Cato cupped his hands. ‘Cohort! Ready javelins!’

The second line took a pace back while the men in front changed their grip on the javelins and braced their feet apart, ready to throw the deadly missiles into the wildly charging ranks of the enemy. Cato glanced to the left and then straight down the vale. The small group they had seen initially, no more than thirty paces away, would reach them first.

‘First, Second and Third Centuries . . . release!’

With a collective grunt of effort the men threw their arms forward and hurled their javelins. The volley was more ragged than that of fully trained legionaries, Cato noted, but it achieved nearly the same terrible effect. The dark shafts arced up into the sky and then dropped down on the Durotrigans, who tried to take cover from the volley. It was instinctive, but quite useless. Those who managed to raise shields to protect themselves were almost as effectively skewered as those who did not as the heavy iron heads punched through the shields and tore into the flesh beneath. There were nearly two javelins for each man in the small charge, and after the crash and clatter of the volley only half continued on towards the Wolves, leaving their comrades dead or screaming in the long grass. The survivors would be easily dealt with and Cato turned his attention to the much larger band of Durotrigans charging down the slope towards the other three centuries.

‘Make ready!’ Cato bellowed, his nervous voice rising in pitch. ‘Release!’