There were no reserves. Both cohorts of VIIII Hispana had wheeled round and marched several hundred paces to form a new line facing north. The Vardulli and Tungrians had been fed into the line to reinforce the Batavians – Ferox saw the last group of auxiliaries jog forward as a centurion led them to join the fighting. He could not see the singulares and had no idea where they had gone for they were not part of the line facing north. Flaccus was with the legionaries, and he wondered what the man was doing, but then Crispinus appeared as well and he could only guess that the Legate Marcellus had ordered the redeployment.

A couple of soldiers helped an officer back from II Augusta. The man shook them off, and Ferox recognised their senior centurion, even though his helmet was gone and a dirty bandage was wrapped around his head. There were wounds on both arms, he had lost his shield and his armour was rent and stained, but the man lurched forward, going back to the fighting, until he collapsed. Even then he tried to crawl back to his men.

‘Keep them busy as long as you can,’ Ferox croaked to Masclus. His throat was parched, in spite of the snow still tumbling down around them, and it seemed an age since he had had a drink. ‘You help him,’ he said as Vindex looked ready to follow him. ‘Try to hold them back as long as you can.’

He trotted the horse towards II Augusta, jumping down beside the centurion, who was still pulling himself across the grass, leaving a trail of blood behind.

‘Get him away,’ he said to the soldiers. He turned to another man, a young soldier who looked to be no more than a boy. ‘Who is in charge now?’

‘Don’t know, sir,’ the man said, seeing Ferox’s crest. ‘Must be one of the optiones because all four centurions are down.’

‘Wrong answer, lad.’ Ferox grinned at the pale-faced youth. ‘I’m in charge. Now come with me.’

XXIX

THERE WAS NO trace left of the neat three-deep line in which the cohort had begun the battle. A lot of legionaries – Ferox guessed as many as two hundred – had drifted back so that men were scattered alone or in loose clusters as far as a bowshot behind where the line had once been. Most of these men were bloodied, and plenty of them had wounds to the legs, right arm or face, all the places a shield did little to protect. The handful of medici, the soldiers trained to deal with wounds, had long since been overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of casualties. They were doing their best to help any who could be helped on a snowy moor in the middle of a battle. Lots of other men, unscathed and reluctant, had used the excuse of helping the wounded back to slip away.