‘Centurion!’ Mandrax called out, and Cato spun round towards the standard-bearer. Mandrax was jabbing his sword towards a section of the line behind the wagons. As Cato watched, the rearmost men were pushed bodily aside and the Britons burst through the Roman line. These were heavily armed warriors, bearing shields and helmets and many wore chain mail. As they found themselves opposite the wagons they gave a savage roar of triumph and surged forwards.

‘Wolves!’ Cato cried, snatching up his shield. He drew his sword and ran over to Mandrax, standing in front of the king’s wagon with Cadminius at his side. ‘On me!’

His men just had time to brace themselves for the impact before the enemy slammed into them. Cato was knocked back against the side of the wagon, the breath driven from him in an explosive gasp. A muscular warrior with a gallic helmet snarled at the centurion, spraying Cato’s face with spittle. His arm rose high above and he slashed down at Cato’s head. Cato cringed, waiting for his skull to be shattered, but there was only a deep thud as the end of the blade bit deep into the side of the wagon above him. The warrior looked at his sword and then glanced down at Cato, and both broke out in hysterical laughter. Cato recovered first, and kicked his boot into the man’s groin. The mad laughter abruptly turned into a groan, and the warrior doubled up and vomited on to the grass. Cato punched the pommel of his sword on to the back of the man’s neck and he went out like a lamp. On either side the Wolves were locked in a desperate struggle with the enemy, and a quick glance towards the legate revealed that Vespasian had seen the danger and was anxiously rounding up a small party of officers and men pulled from the rear of one of the cohorts to plug the gap. Cato knew he and his men must hold the enemy back for a few moments yet, if the battle was not to be lost.