‘Sir. Beg to report—’ Before the optio said anything, Ferox saw the alarm in his face and spun around. Two warriors were coming at him, eyes wild and teeth bared, although they did not scream a war cry. The first held a broken spear with only three feet of its shaft left and he lunged it underarm. Ferox swung his shield sideways so that the edge pushed the spearhead aside and lunged to take the man in the throat. The dying man’s eyes widened, looking more surprised than fearful as the centurion yanked his blade free.

The second warrior had a sword and shield and came with more care, until the wounded Roman reached out to grab his ankles. The Briton swayed, fighting for balance, looking down angrily and raising his sword to cut this nuisance down. Ferox took two paces forward and thrust his gladius into the man’s stomach.

‘Hoc habet,’ came a voice from behind him and there was a dull cheer from the legionaries at this cry from the arena. Ferox kept his shield towards the enemy and looked back over his shoulder.

‘Come on, then. That’s how to deal with these mongrels. Capricorns, follow me!’ He turned his head to the front, took a deep breath, vaulted over the wounded legionary and ran straight at the Britons. This was not what he had planned. He had wanted to get the knots of men from II Augusta, or at least the ones around the standard, to re-form into something more like a line so that they could fight better, and he had hoped to spur them to make one last effort.

There was no time, and he just had to hope that cutting two of the enemy down would stir them to follow him even though he was a stranger. He yelled as he charged and did not look back. They would follow him or they would not, and if they did not then he would most certainly die.