The centurion withdrew his blade and Philipus felt a quick rush of blood as it poured out of the wound. He released his grip as he felt his legs buckle and he collapsed on to his knees, staring up at the centurion in mute horror. Through the gateway he could see the bodies of the sentries and, beyond, one of the marines striding into clear view in front of the fort and punching his sword up into the air three times. This must have been a prearranged signal, Philipus realised, and a moment later there was a cheer from the liburnian as men who had previously been hidden along the deck swarmed over the side on to the jetty. Philipus saw the quartermaster try to draw his sword, but he was overwhelmed with a glinting series of sword blows, as were the stunned optio and the sailors. They were dead even before they could draw their weapons. Their assailants rushed along the jetty and up towards the entrance to the fort.

Philipus slumped against the wall of the gatehouse and unbuckled his breastplate. He let the armour drop to one side and pressed his hands over the wound with a groan. The officer who had stabbed him stood nearby. He had sheathed his dagger and was shouting orders at his men as they rushed into the fort, cutting down any opponents they could find. Philipus looked on, in agony. His marines and sailors were being butchered in front of his eyes. Those who had been playing dice outside the barracks, and others who had emerged at the first sounds of fighting, now lay dead. Muffled cries and shouts from the barracks told of those who were being killed inside. At the end of the street a handful of men who had snatched up their swords tried to stand their ground but were no match for their skilled opponents who parried their blades aside and struck them down.

The centurion looked round the fort and nodded with satisfaction, then turned and gazed down at Philipus.

The trierarch cleared his throat. ‘Who are you?’

‘What does it matter?’ The man shrugged. ‘You will be dead soon. Think on that.’

Philipus shook his head, already he could see spidery dark shadows at the fringes of his vision. He felt giddy, and his hands were now slick with blood as he failed to stem the flow. He licked his lips. ‘Who?’

The man untied his chinstrap and removed his helmet before squatting down at Philipus’s side. His hair was dark and curly and the light line of a scar marked his brow and cheek. He was powerfully built and well balanced as he sat poised on his haunches. He looked into the trierarch’s eyes steadily. ‘If it is any comfort to give a name to death, then know that it was Ajax, son of Telemachus, who killed you and your men.’

‘Ajax,’ Philipus repeated. He swallowed and muttered. ‘Why?’