He jumped over a corpse, this time of a naked Briton with his belly slit open and steam coming off the coiling streams of innards around him. He could hear nothing apart from his own yell and it was almost as if the sound came from someone else. The enemy waited, and one or two were trying to get back out of his way. He saw a tall man with limed hair pushing through the mass towards him, and recognised the Stallion, who must have lost his headdress, and then other men jostled and were in the way so that all he could see was a raised sword. The glimpse was enough. He thought of Fortunata, of the other victims butchered by this man, and he thought of what could have happened to Sulpicia Lepidina. The raw hate gave him strength and he wanted only to kill the priest before he was himself killed. It no longer mattered whether II Augusta came with him or not.

‘Mongrel!’ His incoherent yell became a word, and still no one came to meet him, so he reached the line, punched with his shield, knocking down a warrior’s little buckler, hitting the man in the face. The Briton staggered and the sword drove into his belly. Ferox twisted the blade free as the man fell, screaming, and a moment later he blocked a cut with his shield and slashed open the throat of a tattooed fanatic. He pushed into the ranks, and they all seemed to be slow and sluggish while he was as fast as a hawk. He punched again with the boss, felt the man’s jaw break, and then jabbed with the pommel of his sword into the face of another because he did not have time to bring it back ready to thrust. The man reeled away. Ferox flicked the blade back down and lunged into the man behind, the long tip piercing an eye. He slammed his shield forward again, pushing into the mass, going forward, always forward, and he felt a blow strike his right shoulder and almost lost balance. His arm still worked and he was standing. He cut back, carving into a warrior’s neck, the blade grating on a bronze torc before it reached the flesh. Blood spurted over him, and he pressed on, heading towards the Stallion who was close now. Something slammed into the side of his head, denting the helmet and cutting his forehead as the iron edge was driven into his skin.