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saw that the battle was almost done. The travellers had given a good account of themselves. Somehow they’d gotten three wagons on the sides of a square, cutting loose the mules, which might well panic. There hadn’t been time to bring the fourth around, it stood off where the robbers must have led it, but a crude little fort existed. While three guards held fast at the open side, their comrades and certain of the other men repelled foes who sought to climb over the vehicles or crawl underneath.
    Yet they could not long keep off assailants whom Gratillonius estimated to number thirty. As he guessed at once, they were still alive—some of them—only because the bandits lacked proper training and discipline. After being cast back with losses, the outlaws milled around, none wanting to be the first to meet that steel again. They tried to bargain. Gratillonius learned afterward that the bishop had strengthened the will to resist, calling on divine help, while he cleverly strung the talk out. At length the brigands lost patience and made a fresh charge. It failed likewise, though at heavy cost to the defenders.
    After that, the attackers had resorted to slings. Kept up, the bombardment would have done its job. The travellers took wounds and a couple more deaths. However, they had enough protection to be difficult targets, and eventually the supply of missiles was exhausted. Yet the defense was now so weakened that the bandit leader could egg his men on to a third assault. It broke through and was in among the wagons when the legionaries arrived.
    Gratillonius took his troop toward chaos. The outlaws were Gauls, in ragged, filthy garb, pieced out with hides or old blankets or whatever else came to hand. Hair and beards were matted, greasy manes, out of which glared faces gaunt, scarred, weatherbeaten. Shoes were agape, rudely mended, or mere bags of skin stuffed with grass. The barbarians who raided Britannia were better off. Weapons were spears, knives, pruning hooks, firewood axes, a few swords acquired somehow. The wielders screamed hatred and defiance at the Romans. At the same time, those on the fringe were pulling back, making for the trees, in disorderly fashion. They knew that if they stood their ground they’d be butcher’s meat.
    Which was exactly what they ought to be. “Right and left!” Gratillonius called. “Circle them!” He leading a detachment, Adminius its mate, his men hastened to bag as many as they could.
    Those inside the laager could not readily disengage from opponents who, heartened, fought furiously. It had never been a proper battle at all, but more like a riot. It pushed combatants apart, flung them against their fellows, sent them tripping over each other. Somebody fallen but alive might grab at an ankle or cling to a spearshaft. Wrestlers on the ground further impeded everyone.
    First from the soldiers went the terrible flight of javelins. Meant for use against shields, here they struck unprotected flesh. Men fell, writhed, shrieked. Those who tried to help them to safety were themselves delayed. And then the legionaries were upon them.
    A fair-haired youth with downy whiskers attempted to dodge past Gratillonius. The centurion gave him the sword between rib cage and pelvis, forcing the blade right and left to make sure of the liver. Flesh resisted softly, heavily, helplessly. The lad went down. Before Gratillonius could pull his weapon free, a full-grown man was at him, weeping, howling, belly wide open as he swung his arms back for an ax blow. Gratillonius rammed the boss of his shield into the solar plexus. Breath whooped from the Gaul. He dropped his ax and fell to his knees. Gratillonius crashed the bottom rim of his shield against the man’s temple. The Gaul crumpled.
    Gratillonius had delivered a knockout blow he hoped wasn’t fatal. He wanted prisoners to bring to Juliomagus for beheading, or whatever the judgment would be—examples. He withdrew his sword. Blood pumped forth. A