text: The barbarian line gathered itself to pounce, the mass of shaggy-haired warriors baying for blood as the Tungrian cohorts waited grimly for their assault. Frontinius's voice rang out over the din, his command the last Marcus would have expected.
  
  'Tungrians, on the ground! On the ground!'
  
  The line went to the ground after a second's bewildered pause, the brighter soldiers realising what it meant and twisting to look back to their rear as they fell. The barbarian line wavered at the sight, as a line of hard-faced soldiers, fresh and unblooded, came out of the smoke. These men were different to those in the Tungrian line, their armour fashioned from overlaid plates rather than chain mail, their javelins topped with slender iron shanks sprouting viciously barbed points. Scarface and the 2nd Cohort watch officer exchanged looks of amazed glee.
  
  'Legionaries? Fuck me, it's the Sixth, or what's left of 'em. They must be gagging to get into this lot.'
  
  The watch officer nodded as he hugged the blood-sodden grass.
  
  'They do look a tiny bit pissed off.'
  
  'Halt!'
  
  Prefect Licinius's voice was authoritative above the warband's din, all urbanity lost in the harsh command. The newcomers' force stretched all the way across the small battlefield behind the Tungrians, three lines of men with spears held ready to throw. More men were advancing out of the smoke behind them. A lot more men.
  
  'Front rank, throw!'
  
  The advancing soldiers took an unhesitating three-step run-up and launched a volley of spears into the warband's front rank.
  
  'Front rank, kneel! Second rank, throw!'
  
  Another rain of spears showered on to the barbarians.
  
  'Second rank, kneel! Third rank, throw!'
  
  The warband shuddered under the third volley, hundreds of men having fallen in the previous few seconds. Licinius's voice hardened.
  
  'Sixth Legion, on your feet. Form line for attack.'
  
  The legionaries were on their feet with their line dressed and ready in seconds, a wall of shields and swords suddenly presented to their amazed enemy.
  
  'Sixth Legion, for the honour of your fallen dead …'
  
  The hairs on the back of Marcus's neck lifted with the emotion in the prefect's voice. A sudden silence descended on the battlefield as the warband grew quiet with apprehension, their presumed easy victory suddenly impending disaster. Only the cries and moans of the wounded broke the silence. Licinius growled into the hush the last command that would be needed to start the slaughter, his harsh voice audible from one end of the line to other.
  
  '… no … prisoners!'
  
  The depleted legion's centurions echoed the command, ordering the surviving cohorts forward in a deliberate advance. Their determined tread took them over and past the Tungrians, the supine bodies trampled by men fixated with the view to their front. As the warband's front rank quailed at their remorseless advance, unable to retreat owing to the sheer mass of men packed in behind them, the legionaries closed the gap between them and started their slaughter with ruthless efficiency and barely restrained fury.
  
  'Find the officers!'
  
  Marcus recognised the voice, and stood up in the shelter of the legion's line.
  
  'No need, Prefect, we're here.'
  
  Licinius nodded impassively, then switched his gaze to stare out across the valley.
  
  Through the smoke's dying efforts Marcus could just make out a mass of men emerging from the cover of the wood to their right, a cohort at the least. The thick column kept on coming, pouring on to the slope like a monstrous armoured snake. Julius, staring at the mass of troops with eyes that seemed unfocused, pulled off his helmet and scratched his sweaty scalp.
  
  'How many?'
  
  The prefect smiled grimly.
  
  'Six thousand. That's the entire Twentieth Legion. And to our left is the Second, the other half of the nutcrackers. These barbarian bastards are going to pay in blood for what they've done today.'
  
  From the cover of the wood's other arm another tide of men was washing down the other slope, another legion in full cry. On the crest above them the cavalry's armour still glittered in the morning sun, but as Marcus's eye found them they started to pour down off the hill, the Petriana on the move at last, seeking targets for their lances. The warband, in severe danger of being encircled by the legions, shivered under the shock of their sudden appearance on its flanks, then broke into hundreds of family groups, falling over each other in their haste to escape the battlefield. Marcus bent over, putting his hands on his knees to provide support for suddenly weak limbs, and was abruptly, violently, sick.