‘Careful, lad!’ Macro called out. ‘We’re right by the mules!’

Cato’s foot splashed into the animals’ blood and he felt the rasp of mule hide against the back of his calf. On either side of him, men of the Sixth Century were backing up against the bodies of the mules, too hard pressed by the Durotriges to clamber round or over them. With a roar of defiance Macro stabbed the tip of his sword into an enemy’s face. As the man fell, he seized the chance to scramble over the flank of the mule.

‘Come on, Cato!’

For a moment the optio stood facing two Britons, young men like himself, but thicker set with hair limed into crazy white spikes. One carried a broad-leafed war spear, while the other had armed himself with a short sword he had snatched up from a Roman body. Both of them made a feint, hoping to distract the optio enough for a fatal thrust, but he kept his shield moving, presenting it first one way, then the other, his eyes darting from spear to sword and back again. He dared not try to get over the dead mule while the two warriors waited for his guard to slip. Suddenly the spear tip flickered forward. Cato instinctively swung his shield to counter the threat, sending the tip glancing down. Seizing his chance, the other Briton leaped forward and thrust at Cato’s stomach. A rough hand grasped Cato by a harness strap and bodily yanked him over the mule’s body. The sword missed him and Cato sprawled on the ground, winded and gasping.

‘They nearly had you there!’ Macro laughed and jerked Cato back to his feet. Struggling to draw breath and clutching at his chest, Cato could not help wondering at the way his centurion seemed to exult at the prospect of imminent death. A strange thing, this madness — this euphoria — of battle, Cato reflected. Shame he would not live long enough to consider the phenomenon more fully.