There was a cry of terror from one of the men close to Macro, and with a quick glance he saw a legionary pulled bodily over the side of the wagon. He crashed on to the ground and was quickly cut to pieces under a rain of frenzied blows from the Durotrigans. Macro leaned forward and thrust his blade into an exposed throat, then pulled back, shouting over his shoulder.

‘Figulus!’

‘Sir?’

‘Set fire to the thatch! Then get your section out of here!’ Macro held his ground with increasing fury, stabbing and hacking at his enemies, face fixed in a snarl. He sensed a strange energy flowing through him, and an inner calmness. This was what he lived for. This was what he was best at, the one thing in life that was an unproblematic verity; he was born to fight. And even with violent death so close, he was content and happy.

‘Come on, you wankers!’ Macro, eyes wide with glee, shouted into the upraised faces of the Durotrigans. ‘Is this the best you can fucking do? Tossers!’

The legionary next to him spared his centurion an anxious glance.

‘What you looking at?’ Macro snapped as he slashed his sword across an enemy’s face, the skin splitting like an overripe watermelon. ‘Get into the spirit of things!’

‘Sir!’ The legionary backed away from the enemy. ‘Look! Fire!’

Thin tendrils of smoke were rising up from between the boards on the bottom of the wagon, where a hazy red glow was visible. More smoke curled up around the sides of the wagon, and one of the legionaries swung his leg over the rear of the wagon.

‘Stay where you are!’ Macro roared. ‘Nobody jumps for it until I say!’

The guilty man turned back, hurriedly stabbing an enemy warrior, who tumbled over the side at his feet. Beneath them the dry thatch crackled as the flames quickly spread, and the smoke thickened around the wagon in a choking acrid cloud. Macro’s eyes stung and watered so badly he could barely keep them open. And yet, incredibly, the Durotrigans still threw themselves forward, through the yellow flames licking up from under the wagon, then up the sides of the wagon, choking as they tried to shout their defiant war cries into the faces of their Roman enemies. The smoke was orange- and red-hued all about Macro, and his legionaries were no more than vague shapes, silhouetted against the flares raging up on all sides. His feet and legs were suddenly searing hot and Macro glanced down and saw that the flames were beginning to burn through the floor of the wagon.

‘Get out! Out! Back to depot! Go!’