The six signa carried by the cohort were in the biggest group at the centre of the line and Ferox headed towards them, running through the gap to get in front. ‘Form there.’ He pointed with his sword to show that he wanted them to stand level with the standards in the space between this cluster and the next. ‘Terentius, you’re there as right marker. Longus next to you, then you and you.’ He gestured to two more men. ‘The rest in three ranks behind them. When I say go, you follow me. Understood?’

‘Sir.’ Terentius stamped to attention and clashed his sword against his shield. ‘We’ll be ready.’

‘Good.’ He turned his back on the enemy to face the other legionaries, praying that there was no one still with a missile and the energy to throw it into his back. The Britons were no more than four spear lengths away, but all looked spent – at least for the moment. Some were even on their knees or bent double as they gasped for breath. There were bodies of the dead and badly wounded strewn on the ground between the two sides. One was a Roman, just a few paces away.

‘Water, please, water,’ the wounded man begged.

Ferox ignored him and shouted with all his strength. ‘Capricorns! You are Second Augusta.’ Some of the men looked up to see who it was, but some were too tired to care. He could see that only one of the signa was still carried by a signifer wearing the usual bearskin over his helmet. The other five were held by ordinary soldiers, which meant that the standard-bearers were down. Ferox could see no sign of a centurion anywhere along the front, which meant that the report must have been right. He saw a soldier by the standards. The man’s shield was gouged by two big cuts, the calfskin outer layer peeled back to show the boards underneath. The man had no staff, and his segmented armour was bent and dented on the shoulders, but a red feather stood up high on one side of his iron helmet and the stub of another showed that there had once been a second feather on the other side, marking him out as an optio.

‘I am Flavius Ferox, princeps posterior of the third cohort, currently on detached service, and I am taking command. Optio, report!’

‘Sir.’ The man straightened slightly, but did not attempt any more formal show of respect.

‘Water. Please, for the love of Diana, give me water,’ the wounded soldier begged. Ferox still ignored him.

‘Call that a salute, man!’ Ferox was trying to get their attention, and was pleased to see a brief flash of anger before the optio raised his right arm, sword still in his hand. The blade was bloody.