Teeth flashed in the darkness as men smiled wolfishly. They stamped their feet in anticipation.

‘Once through their lines, we double time it until I say stop.’

‘That won’t be long then, sir,’ piped up Gordianus from the safety of the ranks.

There was muffled laughter at his joke. Beside the fit, lean legionaries, Darius was a portly figure.

The senior centurion had the grace to smile. ‘I can run when needs must,’ he answered.

Romulus was pleased. This was more like the leader he was used to.

‘We wait for no one,’ said Darius fiercely. ‘Anyone who falls is to be left behind. Including me. Is that clear?’

Everyone nodded.

‘Good.’ Darius strode into the middle of the men, his guard by his side. ‘Form up outside the gate.’

Making as little noise as possible, the legionaries walked out of the fortlet. Without fuss, they positioned themselves into a large V-shape, with Romulus and Brennus at the apex. Not even Novius had protested when the pair demanded this honour; he did not realise it was to show the other soldiers that the two friends were no cowards. The wedge was a useful attacking formation and with men like these at the front, it had more chance of success. Once moving, it was extremely hard for an enemy to stop. But the point was also the most dangerous place to be. Being killed was very likely.

By now, their eyes had adjusted to the dim light. Past the scattered corpses, it was possible to make out the shapes of sleeping men around a few small fires nearby. Groups of hobbled horses stood behind, moving gently from foot to foot. Steam rose from the beasts’ thick coats. Still not a sound reached them from the Scythians.

Romulus grinned. Just like Darius’ refusal to believe in his vision, these warriors could not imagine an attack in darkness. It would be the reason for their death.

‘Ready pila,’ whispered the senior centurion from their midst.

Silently they obeyed.

‘Forward.’

Caligae crunched slowly on the frosty ground, but soon picked up speed. In a few heartbeats, the soldiers were at a trot. Icy air rushed into their faces, chilling their nostrils and throats with each inhalation. No one spoke a word. Every man knew his task, had practised it a thousand times before on the training ground. Shields held high to protect their bodies, they grasped their javelins loosely in their right hands, ready to stab downwards. The charge was all-important. If they broke through, freedom beckoned. Failure would mean death.

Momentarily forgetting the threat from Novius and his comrades, Romulus bared his teeth.

It was thrilling.

Terrifying.

Within fifty paces, they were on the enemy.

Preparing himself, Romulus drew back his pilum. Stooping low, he plunged it into the side of a sleeping form, and jumped over without checking to see if the Scythian was dead. Right now, injuring was good enough. Beside him, Brennus kept pace, stabbing the man’s companion in the chest as he went by. Two more warriors were dispatched similarly and then they were past the first fire and on to three terrified sentries. Dark eyes opened wide with shock. The trio, who had been muttering quietly to each other, were suddenly confronted by an armoured mass of running legionaries, bloodied javelins in hand.

Screams of terror filled the air. They were rapidly cut off, ebbing away into bubbling whispers. But the noise woke the other Scythians. Wrapped in their thick cloaks and blankets, most had been sleeping comfortably. Waking to the sounds of men dying, the startled warriors jumped up and grabbed for their weapons. All was confusion and disorder.

There was no need for silence any longer. Brennus threw back his head and let out a blood-curdling battle cry; in response, the legionaries yelled a deafening roar of defiance.

The element of speed and surprise was vital, thought Romulus as they pounded on. The Scythians were still half-asleep and unable to fight back properly. It must have seemed as if demons had descended upon their encampment. They simply did not have a chance. Hobnailed caligae stamped down on upturned faces, breaking noses and splitting lips; pila stabbed down into soft, unprotected flesh, and were ripped free to use again. Legionaries used the iron rims of their scuta to smash down on enemy heads. It was most satisfying to revenge themselves for the deaths of the unfortunates in the fortlet. Nonetheless, they kept running.

Seeing the Scythians’ horses reacting uneasily to the screams and cries, Romulus had a brainwave. ‘Throw your javelins,’ he cried, pointing left. ‘They’ll panic!’

The men immediately on his left needed no urging. Slowing down, they drew back and released their pila at the milling mounts. Romulus did likewise. It was impossible to miss: all of the missiles found a target. Rearing up in pain from the metal barbs buried deep in their backs, the injured horses kicked out with their front feet, spun in circles and barged their companions. That was enough. Ripping up the pegs which had tethered their lead ropes to the ground, the group of terrified horses turned and fled into the darkness.

Romulus whooped with glee. Now the Scythians could not pursue them.

‘Good thinking,’ cried Brennus.

Pleased, Romulus knew more still awaited. This was only the start – but it was a good one.

Soon the wedge had forced its way through the enemy camp. In its wake, it left utter mayhem. Scores of warriors lay in blood-soaked blankets, slain before they had even woken up. Others had belly wounds that would take days to kill, or badly cut limbs which completely disabled. Some had even been trampled by their own mounts. Those who were uninjured stood dazedly looking after the Romans, unable to respond.

Not a single legionary had been killed or wounded.

Romulus could not help but be proud. What other soldiers were capable of such a fast-moving manoeuvre in the dark? But this was no time to clap themselves on the back. They had to make as much ground as possible before dawn, and whatever fate that delivered to them.

Darius was in no mood to linger either. There was a moment to wipe their bloody pila on their cloaks and take a gulp of water, and then Darius bellowed, ‘Double time!’

Romulus and Brennus took off, followed by their comrades. In case of pursuit, no change was made to the wedge for the moment. Thanks to the bright stars, following the track west was not difficult. The stones had been beaten down from the regular passage of legionaries, forming a wide, easily discernible stripe across the landscape.

They ran for a long time, until it felt as if their lungs would burst.

Behind them, the sky began to lighten. As the sun climbed into view, it finally became possible to make out their surroundings. Nearby was an inscribed stone tablet.

They were exactly two miles from the fortlet.

Horseless, the Scythians had no chance of catching them now. Roman legionaries could march twenty-four miles in five hours, carrying full kit. Without their heavy yokes to slow them down, the patrol would probably reach the safety of the main fort in less than four.

‘Halt!’ cried Darius, his sweating face purple with effort. To give him his due, the senior centurion had kept up with his men. ‘Down shields. Take a breather.’

The delighted legionaries smiled at the command. Everyone had seen the mile marker and done the maths. They had earned a brief rest. As ordered, their scuta clattered down. Keeping the wedge formation, the soldiers sank to one knee, breathing heavily. Gulps were taken from leather water carriers, helmets and felt liners lifted to dry hair that was wringing with moisture. No one could complain of being cold now.

Romulus grimaced as he scanned the low slopes around them.

‘Not happy?’ asked Brennus under his breath.