He snatched his sword from its scabbard, crouched low and threw his weight behind his shield as he rushed forward to meet the enemy, the nearest legionaries piling in on either side, and behind him. The two sides crunched together, shield to shield, close enough to hear the panted breath of the enemy and the sound of straining in their throats. Crushed inside the curve of his shield Macro worked his sword arm free and stabbed it at any expanse of barbarian cloth, or flesh that came within range. The spears and long swords of the Britons were now useless in the kind of fight the shorter blades of the legions had been expressly designed for. In the press of bodies more and more of the enemy were cut down. Unable to pull back through their ranks, or even collapse, they suffered on their feet or simply bled to death, heads lolling beside the desperate expressions of their still-living comrades.

The Romans had the advantage of height on the river bank, and more solid footing, and managed to hold off the greater weight of enemy numbers. Macro had no idea how long the contest lasted. His mind was simply fixed on defying his enemy, to hold his ground. All around were the grunts and cries of men, the splashing of the red-hued river and the glitter and glare of the harsh sunlight reflecting off raised sword blades and polished helmets, now spattered with gore and mud.

He never heard the harsh bray of the enemy war horns. He became aware only that the Britons were pulling back when the pressure against his shield abruptly eased and he had space to work his sword forward again.

‘They’re going!’ someone shouted with disbelief. A ragged chorus of elated cheers from the Romans echoed across the ford as the Britons withdrew. Macro kept silent, quickly taking the chance to glance around and appraise the situation. One of his men brushed past him, dropping down into the current and taking a pace towards the retreating enemy.

‘YOU!’ Macro bellowed, and the man glanced back, afraid. ‘You are on a fucking charge, my son. Get back up here!’

The legionary backstepped and climbed up the bank to his furious centurion.

‘What the hell are you thinking? Going to take on the whole of bloody Caratacus’ army on your own, were you?’

‘Sorry, sir. I-’

‘You’re sorry, all right! As sorry an excuse for a bloody legionary as I’ve ever met. Do that again and I’ll ram this sword right up your arse. Understand me, boy?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Get back in line.’

The man backed away, merging into the ranks as his comrades mocked him with shakes of the head and muttered tutting noises.