Someone handed him the ivory-handled sword bequeathed to him by Centurion Bestia, and Cato continued up the lane. The terror of another ambush weighed heavily against the desire to rush forward and yet he forced himself to run, determined not to let his men realise how much he felt like a scared little boy lost in the midst of a terrifying nightmare. Every shadow on either side of the lane ahead became the darkest depths of hell from which unspeakable horrors threatened to emerge.

Then the lane turned a corner, and there ahead lay the storage pits. The covers had been pulled back, and beyond the pits a handful of the enemy were still in view, weighed down by booty and struggling to catch up with their comrades who had placed good sense above greed.

‘Get ‘em!’ rasped Cato.

The legionaries ran forward in open order. This fight would be man to man — the shield wall would not be necessary. Shouting the legion’s battle cry, ‘Up the Augusta!’ they fell on the Britons as if they were hunting rats in a granary. Immediately ahead of Cato a Roman caught up with a Durotrigan warrior who was dragging a huge bundle through the snow. The Briton sensed the danger behind him and turned, raising an arm in terror as the short sword rose up above him. Cato found himself cursing the legionary’s lapse of training — the short sword was designed for stabbing, not cutting, and the man really should know better than to let his bloodlust overwhelm his training. Bad as a fucking one-day-wonder recruit. The expletive jumped unbidden into his mind, and shocked him for an instant, until he realised with a wry smile, just how far he had become immersed in the military world.

The Briton screamed as the short sword hacked through his forearm and shattered the bone so that the limb flopped like a freshly caught fish.

As Cato ran past the legionary, he shouted, ‘Use your weapon properly!’

The legionary nodded guiltily then turned back to finish off his shrieking victim with the point of his sword.

Cato passed more bodies sprawled in the snow, their booty scattered around them — dark bundles of cloth from which spilled silver goblets and plates, pieces of personal jewellery and, bizarrely, a pair of carved wooden dolls. A Durotrigan warrior no doubt looking for a gift to carry home to his children, Cato guessed. He was startled by the thought that the men who had wrought such terrible destruction on this settlement and were capable of massacring even its youngest infants might have children of their own. He looked up from the dolls and saw dim shapes slipping through the remains of the palisade, pursued by Romans panting hoarsely from the chase and excitement of battle.