‘All right then!’ Macro called out, keeping his eyes firmly on the Briton. ‘We’ll rush him. Ready? Now!’

Six men threw themselves at the Briton and, with a wild stab, he caught one man in the leg before the others crashed into him, knocking him flat. But, hopelessly outnumbered as he was, the Briton hurled two men to one side, grabbed a Roman sword and rolled on to his feet, crouching low, with the unaccustomed blade held ready to slash at his enemies.

‘Leave him to me!’ Macro waved the others back. ‘Bastard wants a fight, then he can have one with me.’

Readying his short sword, Macro bent his knees and slowly circled the Briton, sizing him up. And all the time the chieftain stared back, coldly assessing the stocky Roman.

‘Fancy yourself, don’t you?’ Macro said quietly. ‘Big bastard you may be, but you haven’t got a bloody clue how to use that sword. Designed for thrusting… it’s not a bloody cleaver.’

He feinted forwards and, as he had anticipated, the Briton swung the sword up above his head, rushing at Macro with a savage howl of rage. Macro simply dropped to his knee, straightened his arm and let the Briton’s momentum do the rest. With a grunt the man doubled over the sword and flung his arms forward, his hands searching for Macro’s neck. He got a grip and pressed down on the windpipe. Gasping, Macro tumbled on to the ground with the Briton on top of him, huge hands grasping ever more tightly on Macro’s throat. Their faces were less than a foot apart and Macro saw the man’s eyes brighten in triumph as he gritted his teeth and tightened his grip. The sword was still in Macro’s grip and he worked it furiously inside his opponent trying for a vital organ. His head felt as if it would explode under the pressure of the man’s grip until, at last, the fire in the Briton’s eyes faded and after a last spasm, the man’s grip loosened. Macro wrenched the hands from his throat and desperately gulped down air. He heaved the body to one side and struggled on to his feet before fixing his men with an angry glare.

‘Why the fuck didn’t you help me?’

‘You told us not to,’ Pyrax protested.

Macro rubbed his neck, wincing at its tenderness. ‘Well, next time use your bloody initiative. If some sod’s about to croak your centurion you get stuck in and stop him, whatever you’ve been told to do. Get it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right then, might as well put the chariot to good use. Load the wounded on, and sling him over one of the horses. Then, my lads, it’s back to the safely of the Second Legion and the drinks are on me, if anyone’s still awake tonight.’

Under The Eagle

Chapter Forty

The Second Legion moved no further that day as the surviving officers re-formed their units and took stock of their losses. They had answered grievously for Plautius’ orders to join him as quickly as possible. Nearly a third of the Legion had been killed or injured and half the baggage train destroyed or immobilised by the loss of draught animals. A rough perimeter was in the process of being erected around the survivors although no-one seriously believed that the Britons would be able to regroup enough men to mount another attack. In any case, Togodumnus had been slain and his body was displayed, spread-eagled across his chariot, in front of the pen holding the British prisoners. They gazed at the body of their commander in sullen silence and wept, quite unashamed.