By the time they had covered a quarter of a mile, the Pompeians were closing fast. The cavalry were keeping their mounts reined in so that they didn't overtake the foot soldiers, but a swelling roar of anger could be heard from their ranks. These were men who had missed the whole day's fighting; no doubt their leaders had promised them the glory of winning the battle.

'Double time!' Atilius shouted. With an energy that scarcely seemed possible given their ordeal, he broke into a full run. In a clever move, the signifer was right beside him.

Battle madness, which had been lacking in the Twenty-Eighth all day, began to seize control of the men. Keeping silent as they'd been trained, they used the frenzy to push their tired bodies to the same speed as Atilius. It was at times like this when their mail shirts, helmets and scuta became as heavy as lead. Although the soldiers' muscles screamed for a rest, the cohort's standard meant nearly as much as the silver eagle. It could not under any circumstances fall into enemy hands. For it to do so would bring disgrace down on every man's head, a dishonour which could only be wiped away by its recovery.

Naturally, the other cohorts kept up with Atilius' men. With the safety of their comrades entrusted to their care, no one was prepared to be left behind. Caesar was watching.

The advancing Numidians were taken aback by the speed and ferocity of the Roman counter-attack. They had been told that after a long day of fighting, their enemies were exhausted and ready to break. Instead, they were confronted by the sight of six cohorts bearing down on them like packs of vengeful wolves. Foot soldiers against cavalry? Surely only madmen would take part in such an assault?

The cavalry slowed noticeably, and the light infantry did likewise.

Atilius saw the Pompeians' hesitation at once, and acted on it. 'Stay in close order! Keep your shields high,' he shouted, increasing his speed and raising his gladius. 'Remember, aim for their faces!'

Narrowing the gap between Sabinus and the man on his other side, Romulus gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles went white. His comrades were doing likewise, but their pace did not slacken. The Numidian cavalry were only about thirty paces away now, close enough for them to see the mounts' nostrils flare with nervousness at the line of approaching scuta. To pick out the features of individual riders, and the painted designs on the fronts of their shields. Charging a line of advancing horses was terrifying and Romulus gritted his teeth. If they failed, the remaining cohorts would be routed back to Ruspina. In that case, few men would survive. Everything depended on them.

The Pompeian officers did not react quickly enough to their men's indecision and their advance had slowed right down by the time the Caesarean troops hit. Screaming like maniacs to scare the horses, Atilius and his men barged into the Numidian cavalry. The faster-moving enemy riders broke open the front of the Roman lines, knocking soldiers to the ground, but most had lost their momentum. Shields slammed into the mounts' chests and gladii stabbed upwards at their riders. Like all light cavalry, the Numidians wore no armour and carried only a small round shield for protection. They were not the type of troops to meet a charge by heavy infantry head on, and their javelins were unable to punch through heavy scuta. In contrast, the legionaries' iron blades bit deep into men's thighs, bellies and chests, injuring and killing Numidians aplenty. Horses were slashed across the neck or stabbed in the ribs, causing them to rear up in terror, spraying blood over everyone within arm's reach. Ignoring their dashing hooves, Caesar's men darted into the gaps, disembowelling the steeds or hamstringing them. The next rank of cavalrymen looked panic-stricken at the sight of frenzied legionaries emerging from the slaughter with bloodied gladii and snarling faces. Instinctively, they reined in, and some tried to turn their horses' heads around. Of course their fear was obvious, and the baying legionaries redoubled their efforts.

Within the space of a hundred heartbeats, the enemy attack on the Twenty-Eighth had come to a standstill. Romulus could see that the Caesarean standards were all still roughly in a line, which meant that the Fifth's cohorts were achieving the same results. Pushing in behind came the other three units, which kept up their momentum. Exhilaration filled Romulus. After all the fear and setbacks of the day, it seemed that courage and determination were being rewarded at last. Already many of the horsemen were looking to the rear. All they had to do was keep up the pressure, and the Numidians would break and run.

Of course there were always leaders who could pull the fat from the fire. Screaming orders at his riders, an officer clad in Roman army uniform on a fine white stallion managed to drag the Numidians' rear sections away before the Twenty-Eighth had reached them. Galloping back three hundred paces, he rallied the panicked tribesmen before leading a stinging attack on the side of Atilius' cohort. Riding in at speed, the whooping cavalry threw their javelins in a thick shower and retreated, as they had all day.

The volley caused heavy casualties among the unprepared legionaries, whose shields were raised against attack from the front, not the side. At once the tactic was repeated, with similar results. Dozens of men were down now, and fear was mushrooming in the rest. It was a shining example of how the course of a battle could be turned around. Romulus watched the scarlet-cloaked Roman officer directing operations and cursed. If this went on, all their efforts would have been in vain.

'I know him,' shouted Sabinus. 'It's Marcus Petreius, one of Pompey's best generals.'

Romulus watched Petreius gallop off to the far flank, no doubt to emulate his success here. 'The bastard's got to be stopped, or they'll turn us over.'

'What can we do?' Sabinus retorted. 'He's out on the open battlefield on a damn horse and we're on foot.'

Romulus didn't answer, but a daring idea was coming to mind. Breaking rank, he trotted over to Atilius, who was directing sections of legionaries forward into the Numidian lines. 'A word, sir,' he shouted.

The senior centurion looked around, surprised. 'Make it quick.'

'Did you see the attack on the cohort's right flank a moment ago, sir?'

'Of course I did,' scowled Atilius. 'Now the prick has gone off to repeat the same with the rest of his cavalry.'

'I'll kill him, sir. Just give me two men,' Romulus pleaded.

He had all of Atilius' attention now. 'What will you do?'

'Make our way through the melee,' Romulus explained. 'Pick up some enemy javelins on the way. Somehow get close enough, and bring him down.'

'Causing panic in his men,' muttered the senior centurion. 'With luck, they'd flee.'

Romulus grinned. 'Yes, sir.'

Atilius scanned the open ground to their right. Apart from a few scrubby bushes, there was hardly any shelter. Waves of Numidian cavalry were sweeping back and forth across it to attack the Twenty-Eighth. 'It's a suicide mission,' he said.

'Maybe it is, sir. But if someone doesn't stop the whoreson, they'll soon break our attack.'

'True.' Atilius thought for a moment. 'Three men less in the cohort won't save our skins either. Do it.'

Romulus could hardly believe his ears. 'Sir!' He snapped off a crisp salute and pushed his way back through the press to Sabinus' side. Quickly he filled the dark-haired soldier in on his plan.

'Been praying to Fortuna?' Sabinus asked sarcastically. 'We'll need her guiding every step of the way to stay alive.'

'Are you with me or not?' Romulus demanded. 'We're defending the rest of the column, remember?'

Sabinus spat a curse and then nodded. 'Very well.'

'I heard what you said, comrade. Count me in too,' said a thick-set legionary wearing a bronze helmet with its horsehair crest missing. He stuck out his right arm. 'Gaius Paullus.'