The man nearest him continued to turn, one hand wrenching at the handle of his sword, the other still holding his penis. Cato threw himself into the man, his blade thrusting into his stomach an instant before Cato crashed into him and sent the Batavian sprawling back into the long grass. All around, the grimy forms of the legionaries rose up and sprinted towards the wheeling confusion of men and horses. Beyond them Cato glimpsed Figulus and his men racing in from the far side of the track. The commander of the Batavians recovered from the surprise like a true professional and had his sword in his hand even as he bellowed his orders. But there was no time for orders; all was chaos, a seething mêlée of mud-stained furies, and the large-framed bodies of the horsemen struggling to control their panicked horses while they fought for their lives. Even though they had the advantage of numbers and surprise the legionaries carried only an assortment of blades, while their foes had shields, helmets and chain-mail vests. They also had long-bladed cavalry swords, which they now swept through the air in swooshing deadly arcs at the unprotected bodies of the men rushing amongst them.

Cato glimpsed a glint of light to his side and ducked down just as a blade cut through the air where his head had been a moment before and he felt the rush of air through the top of his scalp as the sword flashed over him. The sharp musty stench of horses filled his nostrils as he glanced up at the man who had tried to kill him. The momentum of the blade had twisted him round in his saddle. Before he could reverse the swing Cato hacked at his elbow, shattering the joint with a dull crack. The Batavian screamed and his nerveless fingers released the sword. Hands grabbed at his cloak and he was dragged down into the mud and killed under a hail of sword-blows and the stamping hoofs of his own horse.

‘Kill them!’ Figulus roared above the din of clashing weapons, the harsh cries of fighting men and the shrill whinnying of the horses. ‘Kill ‘em all!’

One of the legionaries, just in front of Cato, could not get round his comrades to reach the rider and was thrusting his dagger into the neck of the rider’s mount instead. Jets of blood sprayed out from the glossy black hide below the bedraggled mane. There was a roar of anguish and rage as the rider saw what was being done to his horse and his sword slashed forward, cutting through the legionary’s throat and spine in an instant and sending the head leaping from the man’s shoulders in a hot explosion of blood.