Masclus signalled to the trumpeter to recall the Batavians harassing the enemy and they took their place again in close formation beside Ferox’s men. The decurion looked around for Flaccus, but could not see him and so walked his mount over to the centurion. ‘We go on your order, sir,’ he said. ‘When they charge?’ He nodded at the cohort of legionaries.

‘We wait a little longer.’ Ferox looked to the north. It was hard to see, but as far as he could tell the enemy coming from that direction were not yet close. ‘There’s time, and if we wait a bit the mongrels have longer to worry.’

Masclus looked unconvinced, and was no doubt wondering what an infantryman knew about such things, but Ferox was a superior officer and the habit of obedience was strong. ‘The lads are doing well,’ he said instead of challenging the order.

‘They are indeed,’ Ferox agreed and gestured over towards the centre where the Batavian infantry were charging again, not bothering with the drawn-out barritus this time, but simply screaming defiance as they took their blades to the enemy.

‘Should one of us go to the Lord Flaccus?’ The decurion asked the question, his expression formal, but not quite hiding the lack of confidence in Ferox that underlay the question.

‘Come on, boys, let’s show these dogs how real soldiers fight!’ the senior centurion of II Augusta harangued his men. He began to bang the blade of his gladius against the side of his long rectangular shield. ‘Come on the Capricorns!’

The legionaries copied him, drumming the swords in time, and then marched forward. Ferox did know his own legion, but could not help feeling pride as the men stepped smartly towards the waiting enemy. Part of him – and not just the part than remained a Silurian – disliked the banging of swords on shields, for it risked blunting a blade’s edge and the noise was often less frightening than silent order.

The Britons were not cowed.

‘Blood! Blood!’ The chant was clear, and Ferox saw the Stallion near the front of this group, his headdress distinctive and a bloodied sword in one hand. There were more of his tattooed followers with him and they looked fresh as they pushed their way into the front rank. ‘Blood!’

Romans and Britons began to charge at the same moment. This time there were no pila and only a few javelins thrown by the warriors as they closed the distance. Neither side flinched, until the last moment when they slowed as the two lines met. Men yelled and hacked or stabbed, shields pounding on shields, blades striking armour or flesh and bone.