‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Macro shouted from close at hand as he ran up to the wagon with the remainder of the men. ‘You heard the optio! Close up to face cavalry!’

For a moment, Cato had forgotten about the horses but now they were close and the legionaries hurriedly closed ranks around the wagon, shields interlocking, with swords and javelins held ready.

As suddenly as the first attack had come, the second raced out of the night; a line of horsemen in the same equipment, some still holding horse-bows while others carried long spears, thrusting out from under their arms, all of them crying out their terrifying battle-cry. Macro quickly looked across at Cato to make sure the optio was unhurt.

‘Pick up a fucking sword, you idiot!’

Cato realised that he was unarmed and hastily snatched up the nearest weapon — one of the attackers’ curved cleavers. It felt strange to a hand used to the weight and balance of the legionary’s short sword, but reassuringly heavy.

‘Hold steady, lads!’ Macro called out. ‘Hold steady and we’ll live.’

When the horsemen were almost on them they drew up; those who still carried bows drew arrows and waited for a chance to pepper any Roman foolish enough to expose himself while the spear-carriers moved in on the ring of shields. They brought their horses slamming up against the shield wall, throwing the legionaries back against the wagon, while stabbing down with their long bladed spears. The bulk of their horses and fear of the archers kept the Romans crouched down through sheer instinct for self-preservation. A few of them took every chance to thrust their swords into any part of man or horse that came within reach and an occasional cry or shrill neigh told when a blow had struck home. But time was not on the Romans’ side; already four men were down on the ground around the wagon and blood was making the grass slippery.

It was all too obvious to Macro what the outcome of the fight would be if they fought defensively; a whittling away of their numbers and one final rush that would overrun the survivors. Just as he realised this, fate intervened in a peculiar way. Two of the horsemen suddenly spied the imperial secretary sheltering beneath the wagon and hurled their horses through the Romans. Leaning down from the saddle, they thrust under the wagon. Narcissus rolled away from their spear tips with a scream. Up jumped Macro, teeth parted in a savage snarl, as he automatically leaped to the imperial secretary’s defence. He caught one man by the arm and hauled him bodily from his saddle. A slash of the sword into the man’s eyes left him helpless as the centurion snatched up the fallen spear and plunged it into the small of the other attacker’s back.

Then Cato, too, was on his feet, kicking at the men nearest him. ‘Up and at ‘em! Come on, get up! Charge!’