‘The gates!’ he shouted. ‘Down here!’ Perhaps five men were following him and he saw a score or more of Romans waiting on the road some fifty paces behind the gateway, but they were not moving. Two auxiliaries appeared in front of him, and then the one on the right took a spear in the face and there was a yell of triumph from one of his own warriors who must have thrown it from up on the wall. Brasus ran at the other, dodged the thrust from the man’s javelin and this time scythed a great horizontal blow. The man’s head flew through the air as his neck jetted blood high like a fountain.

‘The gate!’ Brasus shouted again, and had to spit because there was his enemy’s blood on his lips and face. ‘Open it!’ Three of his men rushed at the nearest, cutting down a Roman who stood in their path. There was shouting, commands in Latin and one of the Romans’ trumpets blowing, but no one else was trying to stop them and in a moment they were lifting the bar.

Brasus turned to watch the Romans on the road. They were coming on, clashing their spear shafts against their shields, but there was something weak and unconvincing about the sound.

‘Fight me!’ Brasus shouted in Latin. ‘Or are you a coward?’ He brandished his falx, trying to provoke one of them, ideally their leader, to face him in single combat and give his men more time to get the gate open.

It worked. A tall, broad-shouldered warrior stepped forward, holding up his hand to stop the rest.

‘Pig, whoreson, I will feed you to the dogs!’ the man yelled in a voice sounding a lot like Ivonercus. The Brigantian had got lost in the fog, and Brasus wondered whether or not he had caught up by now.

Brasus let the man come to him, bringing the falx back up into a high guard.

‘I am Bellicus of the Brigantes and I spit upon you.’ The man turned back to face his men and waved his shield and sword high. They cheered and Brasus let them, still waiting for the Briton to come at him. He heard a creaking and guessed that the gate was opening. A Roman trumpet from up on the tower blasted a signal out.

The Briton came forward carefully, step by step, always balanced, his shield out and sword back ready to thrust. ‘You will die, scum,’ he said and only his chatter made him seem nervous, but perhaps that was the way of his people.

There was a roar, a wonderful Dacian roar, as the first wave of attackers rushed through the gate, but the warrior was still coming on and Brasus did not let his gaze leave his opponent for an instant. Instead he sprang forward, feinted left and then went right, the Briton turning his shield to face. Brasus swung down, not to strike the man, for he was still too far away, but hooked the top of the shield and pulled, gambling that the Briton would never have seen such a move before. The man gasped and let the shield go. Then he turned and ran as feet pounded past Brasus and a couple of dozen of his warriors charged forward. The Roman formation broke apart as the men panicked and fled.