The attack came sooner than he expected. Up on the hillock the warrior rose into a crouch, swinging his arm around above his head. Something cracked as it hit the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. The horsemen surged forward, letting out high-pitched screams as they charged. Vindex sprang to his feet, raising the spear that had lain beside him. To his flank the crawling men pushed up and ran at him.

Ferox copied them, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall. He made no sound, and as he ran drew his pugio in his left hand and his gladius in his right. Only when the nearest warrior saw him did he start to yell. The man turned, dagger raised, and Ferox let him block a slash from the gladius, catching it on the blade of his knife, so that he could thrust his left hand into the warrior’s throat. The stubby army-issue pugio punched through his windpipe and into his spine. Blood jetted over Ferox, the liquid warm on his hand, and he let the knife go and went for the next man.

In the firelight Vindex stood, spear raised and poised to throw. He waited and waited, until Ferox feared that it was too late, and then flung it at the nearest horseman. There was a grunt as it hit the rider full in the chest and pitched him out of the saddle. Then something whipped through the fire and the Brigantian cried out, clutching his leg, and was not ready when the second rider spurred at him, jabbing down with his spear. Vindex fell as the warrior’s horse carried him past.

The man facing Ferox threw his knife at the centurion’s face and he only just had time to swat it away with his gladius. The man drew his own sword, a long slim blade, and stamped forward, thrusting it out. Ferox jumped back because there was no time to parry, then had to go back again because the man followed, lunging.

Vindex was struggling to get up, drawing his own sword, while the horseman reined in hard to stop his mount, and then tugged to turn back and attack the Brigantian again. Another rider appeared, coming from the same direction as the others, galloping straight towards the camp, and it was all going badly wrong.

Ferox feinted a cut at the man’s head and kicked him on the shin. The man gasped in surprise as much as pain, so the centurion jabbed the dome-shaped pommel at his face, just as he had hit Venutius, hitting him squarely on the forehead, where there was a dark mark that was surely a tattoo. The warrior was reeling, and Ferox slashed at his neck, felt the steel edge bite, wrenched it free and slashed again with all his strength. More blood sprayed across his face.