‘There’s plenty of them,’ Vindex said. The closest were more than a mile away, but there were many thousand warriors coming towards them. Leading them were plenty of cavalry and more chariots than Ferox had seen earlier in the day. He guessed that there would be far more true warriors among that force, and wondered how many other kings had sent bands. Men like Gannascus might not fight unless it was clear that the Romans were losing, or the high king and others may have tricked the Romans all along, in which case, as Vindex might say, they were royally humped.

‘We need to get on with it,’ Vindex said.

‘Stay with your men,’ Ferox told him. ‘Just for once I need you to obey orders.’

The Brigantian’s skull-like face split into a grin. ‘Well, I suppose we’re not being paid for this, so we could bend the rule just once.’

There was a sharp sound, like the crack of a whip but much deeper, and suddenly the enemy went quiet. Ferox had not seen a war engine shoot for some years, and had almost forgotten the violent force of its missiles. He saw a gap in the enemy’s front line. A warrior was down, his shield pinned to him, the bolt having driven through his mail shirt deep into his body. The blow flung him back, knocking several other men over, and Ferox watched as they staggered up. More of the scorpiones stung, the bolts flying with great accuracy as the crews picked out men from the bands facing them and killed them. The legionaries cheered when one bolt drove through a man so hard that the point came out the other side and pinned him to a second Briton. The pair staggered about, men jumping out of their way as if they had some curse, until the first man collapsed forward, pulling off the shaft of the bolt as he fell.

Archers scampered forward and began to shoot. More men dropped, for most of the Britons carried only the small square shields used by the Selgovae and the Votadini. They were handy enough, but with no room to dodge because of the press of men, they offered little protection from missiles. The front of each warband rippled as men were struck, the quiver more savage whenever a bolt from one of the engines slammed into its victim.