One of the Britons stood up straight, mouth open wide as if to shout, but Ferox heard no sound, and his horse kept going. The warrior turned, pushing at the men behind, and suddenly the mass broke apart, men running away. A gap opened and the mare flew into it. Ferox cut down, felt a momentary jar as the sword hit bone before biting into the skull, and his gladius was almost pulled from his hand before the speed of his horse wrenched it free. A warrior came at him from the right, spear thrusting at his chest, and he beat it aside and was past, running amid a loose crowd of fleeing men. He leaned into a thrust, caught a man at the top of the spine, saw him drop and kept going. There were cavalrymen close behind and on either side, slashing more often that they stabbed.

Ferox sliced down, the man sheering away at the last minute so that the triangular tip of the centurion’s blade cut through one eye and the warrior’s cheek. The Briton clutched at the wound screaming until Victor drove his heavy spear full into the man’s back. Masclus was pushing his horse through the press, and Ferox watched as he drew level with a running man, cut back and took the warrior’s head off with a single blow. A jet of blood pumped up into the air, and horses and soldiers alike were spattered with blood, but little of it was their own.

Not all the Britons were helpless. Two men came at Ferox, one from each side, and he yanked hard on the reins and made his mare rear, front feet flailing, and one man lost his teeth when a hoof slammed into his face. The centurion hacked through the right arm of the other warrior, the hand still clutching a workman’s axe as it fell free. He raised the blade again and cut across his body at the first enemy, missing his head and biting into his neck. With the next blow blood was pumping and the man dropped.