‘Down! Get down!’

He hurled himself at his centurion and they rolled on to the muddy track behind the cart. The other legionaries followed suit as a flight of arrows whistled through the air. One man reacted too slowly and, with a sickening thud, a dark feathered arrow buried itself in his throat. The legionary slumped to his knees, gurgling blood, as he desperately struggled to wrench the barb free from his neck. Two arrows from the second volley caught him in the face and chest and, with a cry he went down.

‘Behind the cart!’ Macro shouted. ‘Get behind the cart!’

The legionaries crouched down in the filth behind the cart as further arrows landed around them. Two men were wounded and gasped in pain as they tried to wrestle the arrows free.

‘Leave them!’ Macro shouted, only too aware of the damage barbed arrows caused on extraction. If they lived, the arrow heads would have to be cut out by a surgeon.

If they lived.

The Syrians were already fanning out on either side of the track, as far as the marsh would allow, in order to minimise the effective shelter of the cart. The legionaries huddled tightly together. Most had left their shields down on the grass bank and only a couple had leaned them against the cart. Now these were hurriedly passed to the side to protect the men’s flanks and deflect the arrows with a harsh clatter. Even so, arrows were finding their mark and another man had been wounded in the leg.

‘What the hell are they doing?’ Pyrax asked. ‘They’re on our fucking side.’

‘Apparently not,’ replied Cato. ‘Whatever’s in that chest must be bloody priceless.’

‘How many of them are there?’ Macro asked. ‘Did anyone see?’

‘I counted eight,’ Cato replied. ‘Vitellius, Pulcher and six Syrians.’

‘Then we’re even. If we try and rush them.’

‘Rush them?’ Pyrax repeated shocked, as he pressed himself into the ground. ‘Sir, they’d cut us down before we could get near them.’

‘Only while their arrows last.’

‘If we live that long.’

A sudden piercing shriek caused Cato to jump. One of the mules had been hit in the flank and now it bellowed with pain and reared and wrenched in its traces. For a moment it looked as if the animal might panic enough to drag the cart clear of the sheltering legionaries but the other animal had frozen and gazed at its comrade with wide-eyed terror, and the cart stayed still.

‘Careful, you fools!’ Vitellius screamed out a short way off. ‘You’re hitting the mules. Pick your targets — only the men!’

‘Thank you, Tribune,’ Macro said bitterly as the arrows struck the cart and shields with splintering thuds. He caught Cato’s eye and gestured towards their attackers with his thumb. ‘I’m getting a bit sick of those Syrians. About time we did something about them.’

‘But not right now, sir,’ Cato implored him. ‘Please wait until the odds are a little more even.’