Cato tightened his grip on the shield handle and braced it against the inside of the breastwork. Over the rim he watched the enemy rushing towards him, a sea of woad-patterned flesh and spiky lime-washed hair. They closed on the redoubt, clambering over the bodies of their comrades who had fallen in the first assault. Then they reached the hastily erected defences and tried to get at the warriors thrusting at them from above. The advantage of height and reach was with the Romans, and scores of Durotrigans fell to quick thrusts of the spears. Cato had only his sword and watched for his opportunity. Then directly below him a man threw himself forward and braced his arms against the side of the wagon Cato was standing on. Immediately the warrior behind scrambled on to the man’s back and launched himself towards Cato. The centurion slammed his shield boss into the man’s shoulder and the warrior toppled to one side. As he fell he grasped the shaft of the spear being wielded by the legionary fighting beside Cato, wrenching the weapon from the Roman’s grasp.

‘Shit!’ The legionary snatched at his sword, but was too late to spot the spear thrown from one side. The tip caught him under the chin and passed straight through his neck, the impact hurling him back so that he crumpled over the rear of the wagon.

‘Get a man up here!’ Cato shouted over his shoulder. ‘Now!’

As soon as the gap opened in the defenders’ line a group of the enemy swarmed forward to press home the advantage, and Cato found himself facing three men, armed with swords, hacking and thrusting at him. He pressed himself inside the curve of the shield and slashed and hacked back at them in a desperate frenzy that bore little resemblance to the rigorous sword training that had been harshly drilled into him by the legion’s instructors. There was a lucky strike as his blade caught one of his opponents across the knuckles, shattering the bones of his sword hand. The man screamed and fell back into the swirling mass of the warriors thrusting their way towards the redoubt. But his two comrades were more wily, and while one feinted at Cato the other waited for a chance to strike round the edge of the centurion’s shield, and only the curved surface of his segmented armour saved him from injury as a blow glanced off the side of his chest. Then the gap was plugged as an Atrebatan took his place at the breastwork and thrust his sword down towards one of the men trying to kill Cato.