‘You owe me a sword!’ the Brigantian yelled, and slammed his heels against his horse’s sides to force the tall beast onwards, using its weight to barge a path because his weapon was useless. Ferox followed, attacking any man who threatened the scout. His mare was bleeding badly, and he could feel her shudder. If he did not fight his way through to the far side then she would fall and he would have no chance.

Vindex found his path blocked. He caught a spear thrust and pushed it aside with his bent sword, and Ferox reached him and hacked down, taking off the back of the warrior’s skull so that blood and brains splashed over him. The press was getting denser, but then there was a shout and Roman horsemen were charging in from the front. There were not many of them, for only half the men left behind were bold enough to charge, but it was enough to confuse the Britons. Some died because they were facing the wrong way, and the mass broke up again so that Ferox, Vindex and the others could push through and gallop free of crowd, riding for the Roman lines again. At least ten men had not made it, and half of the rest were bleeding from wounds or nursing broken bones. Ferox’s mare sank under him as soon as they were clear, but he managed to spring from the saddle before she rolled over. Victor appeared, leading a riderless horse, its side stained with the blood of its former master, and Ferox thanked the auxiliary and hauled himself up.

The cohort of II Augusta had given ground. It was just a dozen or so paces and then the two lines had parted once more, men gasping for breath and with no strength left to shout. Each time men closed and fought they spent some of their strength and will, and no one knew how big a store of either he possessed until it was all gone. Each time the fighting lines separated it took longer to persuade anyone to go forward again. It was even harder when men sensed that they were losing and being forced back.

In the centre the Batavians were just about holding their own and might even have gained a few paces. As Ferox watched, the furthest group – that must be cohors III – shuffled forward, but with none of the enthusiasm of the earlier charges. The Britons met them and held on, refusing to give way. They had numbers on their side and the hot passion of a prophet in their midst who had promised them victory. Against that the soldiers had years of training and practice, better equipment, and pride in themselves and their units.