While his men eased their horses into formation behind the last wagon, Vespasian trotted forward to the convoy’s commander, still standing astride the driver’s bench of his vehicle. As soon as he saw the legate’s ribbon fastened around Vespasian’s breastplate the man saluted.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You are?’ Vespasian snapped.

‘Centurion Gius Aurelias, Fourteenth Gallic Auxiliary Cohort, sir.’

‘Aurelias, keep your wagons moving. Don’t stop for anything. Anything, you understand? I’ll take charge of your men. You look after the wagons.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Vespasian wheeled his horse round and trotted back towards his men, taking a deep breath before shouting out his orders.

‘Fourteenth Gallic! Form line on me!’

Vespasian swept his sword out to the side and the survivors of the convoy escort hurried to take up position.

Beyond the cavalry scouts the Durotrigans had recovered from the shock of the charge, and now that they could see how pitifully few men had panicked them they burned with shame and thirsted for revenge. They advanced in a dense mass of mixed light and heavy infantry, and rumbling round to the side of the convoy came the chariots in an effort to head off the wagons before they could reach the gates and trap the Romans between them and their infantry, like a vice. Vespasian realised there was nothing he could do about the chariots. If they did manage to cut the convoy off from the gates then Aurelias would simply have to try to force his wagons through, trusting to the lumpen momentum of his oxen to push aside the lighter Durotrigan ponies and their chariots.

All that Vespasian could do now was hold off the enemy infantry as long as possible. If they should reach the wagons then all was lost. Vespasian took one last glance along his slender line of men, and the grimly determined expression on the faces of the tribesmen advancing on them, and knew at once that he and his troops stood no chance. He had to stop himself from laughing bitterly. To have survived all the bloody battles against Caratacus and his armies over the last year, only to die here in this squalid little skirmish - it was too ignominious. And there was still so much he wanted to achieve. He cursed the fates, and then the commander of the garrison at Calleva. If only the bastard had led his men out to support the convoy at once, they might have stood a chance.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Two

‘Not in here you don’t!’ Centurion Macro shouted. ‘Officers only.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ replied the orderly at the nearest end of the stretcher. ‘Chief surgeon’s orders.’