Ferox pushed on, and the crowd was more scattered, and yet still there were ten or more Britons for every Roman riding among them. It was intoxicating to have so many enemies at your mercy so that a rider could choose which one to kill next. Alexander had led his Macedonians like this, and it was small wonder that the king soon felt himself to be a god, because there was an exultation and raw excitement about such slaughter that was like nothing else. The auxiliaries killed and killed, and there were still more enemies as the troopers grew weary, and their horses went faster than the men on foot and soon burst out of the back of the great mob of Britons. Ferox looked around him and there were no more warriors to cut down, for all had been left behind. His horse began to slow, but he forced the mare on until she was properly clear and only then halted her and turned her around.

Ferox tried to shout, but had to cough before any sound would come. His mouth was dry as dust, and his voice cracked as he called out, ‘Rally, rally on me!’ He waved his sword in the air and his arm felt like lead. Men came to join him, all wide-eyed, not quite believing what they had done. Vindex was with them, the blade of his long sword notched, and Masclus with some of his Batavians, even the fur on their helmets flecked with blood. The Thracian was there as well, and the man looked down at his thigh, puzzled because he was wounded, but not remembering how it had happened. Some forty men had made it through. Ferox did not know how many had fallen, although he could see a couple of dead horses among the crowd of enemies who now milled about, uncertain what to do. They had stopped running. Beyond them he could see a few dozen more cavalrymen, which meant that some had not broken into the enemy formation. The legionary horsemen were further back and it was hard to see them through the snow.