IT DOES NOT take long for a running man to cover two hundred paces. Already the archers were pelting back as fast as they could to take shelter behind the cohorts, and Ferox hoped that the crews of the scorpiones were carrying the machines to safety. Ahead of him, the enemy were more cautious, not sure whether it was wise to charge horsemen. They came at a walk, hanging back, and he could see no true warriors or even the tattooed fanatics of the Stallion. Masclus’ troopers began to throw javelins into the mass and as men started to fall the Britons stuttered to a halt.

All along the rest of the front, the enemy charged as fast as they could run. They did not come in a solid line because the keenest, bravest – and the most foolish – went far faster than the rest. Knots of men, mainly the fanatics along with a few groups of true warriors, outstripped the crowd. Others swung to the side to follow their lead so that instead of one great wave it was like the fingers of an outstretched hand jabbing towards the Romans. Ferox had seen the same thing happen many times, but today the mixture of inexperience and wild enthusiasm meant that it happened a lot faster. As always the groups of bold men aimed at the heart of the nearest Roman formation.

‘Pila!’ the centurion called out to the men of II Augusta and the front rank raised their slim javelins ready to throw. Already the space between the battle lines had shrunk so that the nearest group of Britons was no more than fifty paces away. They kept coming, and even the leaders were splitting up as each ran at his own pace. Ferox could no longer hear any words in their chant, just a scream where rage mixed with terror. The gap was down to thirty paces, then twenty, and the leading Britons did not slow, but if anything went faster. They were the Stallion’s men, half of them stripped naked just like their leader, and all covered in tattoos.

Over towards the centre the Batavians’ chant surged up into a roar and Ferox could see both cohorts charging, throwing their javelins as they went. The legionaries of II Augusta still waited, the nearest Britons within ten paces, and he was afraid that their senior centurion had left it too late.

‘Now!’ The centurion swung his arm down as his men jogged three paces and the front rank threw their pila with that familiar grunt of effort. The second rank waited a couple of heartbeats and then lobbed their own missiles, and then the third rank did the same, hurling them straight forward because they could not see well past the men in front.