Keeping the shield high, Cato glanced round to see that the line of his cohort had disintegrated and the men were lost amid a general mêlée of stabbing spears and swinging swords and axes. His ears filled with the thud of blows landing on shields and shattering bodies, the metallic clash of desperate parries and the cries and screams of the dying. Cato stepped back and looked over his shoulder. Macro’s men had also been driven in by the ferocious charge, and in between the two sides of the desperate skirmish the three centuries that had faced the first charge were breaking, dropping their weapons and streaming back towards Calleva, running for their lives.

‘Oh, no . . .’

A sudden shout from Figulus saved Cato as he turned, saw the axe blade biting through the air towards his face, and ducked just in time. The axe hissed through the air above Cato’s head, clipping off the metal bracket that held his crest. As the red horsehair dropped to the bloody ground beside him, Cato swung his sword into the warrior’s kneecap, smashing the bone and severing muscles across the joint. That one would never be able to fight again, Cato noted as he struggled back on to his feet.

‘Cato’s down!’ a voice cried out nearby. ‘The centurion’s dead!’

‘No!’ Cato cried out. But it was already too late. The cry was taken up on all sides, and the remains of the cohort broke. For a moment Cato stood side to side with Figulus, shield up and sword ready to thrust, but the Durotrigans left them alone as they went for the unprotected backs of those who had turned and were trying to escape the carnage. It was the worst thing the Atrebatans could do. A man armed and facing his enemy was far safer than any who dropped his sword and shield and ran for his life. But the first victim of panic is always reason, and those who ran were driven by an animal instinct to flee and survive that was senseless and quite foolish.

‘Let’s get out of here!’ said Cato. ‘Keep close.’

The two Romans pushed their way through the loose mass of figures spread across the floor of the vale. As long as they kept their guard up, they were ignored as the Durotrigans went in search of easier prey. But as the mass of struggling men gradually dispersed Cato knew that the Durotrigans would turn their attention on them.

‘Figulus.’

‘Sir.’

‘We’ll have to run for it. When I give the word, drop your shield and follow me. But whatever you do, keep hold of your sword.’

‘Yes, sir.’

A moment later, the way ahead of them cleared, and in the distance Cato could see the sprawling mass of thatched roofs of Calleva. He took a last look round, then shouted. ‘Now!’