Men were dragging the Stallion away. With a howl one of his tattooed followers leaped up, flinging himself bodily at Ferox. The centurion felt the wind knocked from him and he was falling to the ground, the heavy weight of the man on top. He lost his sword and shield. The man’s face was inches away from his, features contorted with hate as his hands felt for the centurion’s throat. Ferox tried to roll and push the man off, but he was heavy and now the fingers closed around his windpipe. He felt for his dagger, found it and pulled it free from the scabbard, but it was getting hard to breathe as the man’s hands tightened. He stabbed once, twice, and only at the third wound did the grip slacken. Ferox gulped in air, and stabbed the man again.

A trumpet sounded, then two more, and there were shouts. Ferox strained to slide the corpse off him. The pugio and his hand were sticky with drying blood, his mail bloodstained, but as he pushed himself up he saw that II Augusta were driving forward, killing the enemy as they ran. There were Roman cavalry riding among the Britons, the cloaks of the legate’s singulares streaming behind them. They had won on the far left, driving away the enemy horsemen after a hard fight and then they had begun to attack the flank of the infantry. The Britons held on for a long time because there were so many of them. Only slowly did they weaken, and at almost the same time the remnants of the first Roman line were going forward with their last strength and the Stallion’s great host collapsed.

Ferox’s eyes kept closing. He was breathing deeply, but was finding it hard to stand. Nearby Terentius knelt by Longus, weeping over his dying friend, as an archer staggered past, his right arm missing below the elbow. The snow turned to sleet that somehow seemed colder and the centurion began to shiver. Most of II Augusta had stopped, exhaustion claiming them, and over their heads Ferox could see the cavalry riding among the enemy, killing at will, but there were so many thousands of Britons even after all this slaughter and the cavalry were few. He saw the tall figure of the Stallion being supported by several warriors. They were past the main crowd, and none of the cavalry seemed to have seen them. There was a chariot waiting, and a dozen horsemen, and one of them had long white hair and even though it was so far away he knew that it must be the great druid. The men lifted the priest into the chariot and it drove off, protected by the riders.