How long the fight raged around the redoubt, Cato could never be sure. There was no time for thought; only the instinct to fight and survive. As he stabbed and parried with his sword, and blocked savage blows with his shield, Cato shouted out encouragement to the men around him, and called for replacements whenever he was aware that one of them had fallen out of line. Even though five or six Durotrigans must have perished for every one of the defenders struck down from the breastwork, they could afford to take the punishment. Indeed, the very number of their losses seemed to provoke an ever-greater desire to close with the Romans and their Atrebatan allies, and they pressed forward tighter than ever, heaving against the defences so forcefully that Cato could feel the wagon shifting beneath him.

As the sun began to dip behind the bulk of the hall the redoubt fell into shadow and the slanting light illuminated the enemy with an intense contrast of light with dark that made them seem all the more vivid and fierce. Cato’s arms felt drained of strength, and desperation was no longer enough. Only iron will forced his shield arm to stay up and his sword arm to thrust with enough punch to strike a lethal blow. But for every man he sent reeling back into the mob, another took his place with the same implacable urge to obliterate the defenders.

Then, strangely, Cato found himself waiting for his next opponent. But as he readied his shield and steeled his trembling sword arm, the sea of hostile faces before him thinned, and ebbed away from the redoubt. A glance to either side was enough to reveal that the Durotrigans were all falling back. Their war cries faded away with them and, looking across the enclosure, Cato could see them running through the gate. Soon, only a few stragglers were in view, making best speed to catch up with their comrades, and the full extent of the battlefield was revealed to Cato’s eyes. Hundreds of the enemy lay strewn on the ground before the hall, many still living so that the tangle of bodies glistening with sweat and blood seemed to shimmer in the fading heat and light of the late summer afternoon. Cato looked across to Macro and the older centurion pursed his lips and shrugged.

‘Now, where the hell are they off to?’ Figulus said loudly.

The men on the breastwork stayed in position, watching for the enemy’s next move, not yet daring to believe that they might not come back. The clink and clatter of the Durotrigans’ armour and weapons faded into silence and then there was just the sound of the injured.

‘Cato!’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Strength return, right now.’