Ferox’s gelding had always been willing, and went into a stuttering run, feet pounding across the spongy grass, its breath coming in gasps. Vindex was close behind. They saw a lone cavalryman still this side of the gully, bringing up the rear, the carriage turned frantically back and the confusion as the Batavians were shot down. Someone brought a moment of order, the troopers forming a line to protect the coach as it escaped. Ferox saw arrows skimming past them and wondered at that because bowmen were not common in Britannia, let alone here in the north, and these looked to be uncommonly good ones.

The cavalryman acting as rearguard saw them just as the coach toppled and the little line split apart. He gaped, raising his spear, but then he hesitated when he recognised the crest of a centurion.

‘He’s with me!’ Ferox shouted in case the fool mistook Vindex for an enemy. ‘Come on!’

The centurion pressed on the last few yards towards the edge of the gully, waving to the man to follow. On the far side the first of the troopers came over the lip, horse slipping for a moment. A warrior was behind him, spear held low to thrust upwards.

‘Kill him!’ Ferox called to the Batavian left as rearguard, pointing at the Briton, and the cavalryman saw the target, reached back and threw his own spear in one smooth motion. It was a heavy weapon, designed as much for thrusting as throwing, and the distance was a good thirty paces, but the throw was good. The leaf-shaped head dug into the warrior’s leg and he screamed and fell, rolling down the bank.

Ferox urged his tired gelding straight down the slope, not bothering to follow the gentler path. He drew his sword, felt the wonderful balance and the sheer joy that came from holding a good blade. The overturned carriage was close by, lying on its side, the heavy door twitching as someone tried to push it open, but that did not matter, for all he needed was enemies to kill until he had no more strength and they killed him in turn. It would soon be over.

A scream, a long and piercing cry of sheer agony, made him hesitate for it was a woman’s cry. With the sound of great effort the door of the carriage was flung open and a woman pulled herself up with both hands and scrambled out, tearing her pale blue dress slightly on the edge of the doorframe. She was slim, with golden hair tied back into a bun and pendant earrings clinking as she moved. There was another scream as she reached down, pulling at something, and then she saw him, recognising the helmet.

‘Help me!’ she yelled. ‘She’s hurt.’