Thirty yards out from the heaving mass of the enemy line, Hortensius ordered the cohort to halt.

‘Front ranks! Ready javelins!’ Those who still had a javelin to throw after the fight in the settlement swept their right arms back, planting their feet apart in readiness for the next order. ‘Javelins, release!’

In the dying light it appeared as if a fine black veil rose up from the Roman ranks and arced down onto the milling mass of the Durotriges. A shattering clatter and crash was quickly followed by screams as the heavy iron heads of the Roman javelins punched through shields, armour and flesh.

‘Draw swords!’ bellowed Hortensius above the din. A metallic rasp sounded from all sides of the box formation as the legionaries drew their short stabbing swords and presented the tip to the enemy. Almost at once the harsh blare of war horns sounded from behind the Durotriges and with a great roar of battle rage they swept forward.

‘Charge!’ Hortensius cried out, and with shields held firmly to the front and swords held level at the waist, the Roman front lines threw themselves at the enemy. Cato’s heart pounded against his ribs and time appeared to slow — enough for him to imagine being killed or terribly wounded by one of the men whose savage faces were mere feet away. An icy sensation flowed through his guts before he filled his lungs and gave vent to a wild cry of his own, determined to destroy everything in his path.

The two lines hurtled against each other with a rolling clatter of spear, sword and shield that sounded like a huge wave crashing on a stony shore. Cato felt his shield jar as it thumped into flesh. A man gasped as the air was driven out of his lungs and then again in agony as the legionary next to Cato drove his sword into the Briton’s armpit. The man dropped and Cato kicked him to one side as he in turn thrust towards the unprotected chest of a Briton wielding his axe above Macro’s skull. The Briton saw the blow coming and threw himself back from the point of Cato’s sword so that it merely tore open his shoulder instead of dealing a mortal blow. He did not cry out as blood poured down his chest. Nor did he cry out when Macro rammed his sword in so ferociously that it went straight through and burst bloodily from the small of the man’s back. A startled expression flashed onto his ruined face, then he fell amongst the other dead and injured littering the churned-up snow, now stained with blood.

‘Press forwards, lads!’ Cato shouted. ‘Keep it close, and stick it to ‘em!’