Inside the circle of wagons the death toll had risen inexorably. Metullus had fought as well as he could, husbanding his men, waiting till the last moment to close any breach that the attackers had gained, but each counter-attack stepped over the bodies of fallen comrades; each success in repulsing the enemy had been bought at the expense of casualties, diminishing a force that was already too weak in numbers. The wounded had fought alongside those who could still walk, well aware that death would follow defeat and in the background, above all the shouting, cursing and clash of arms they had heard trumpets, Roman trumpets ordering manoeuvres that they prayed were to aid them.

Metullus had pulled his men back just as collapse was imminent, when three sections of his wall of wagons had been breached so that the last thirty surviving soldiers had formed a shield around the wagon that contained the personal baggage of Aulus and his family. Inside that shield crowded every one of the non-combatants of the army. Some had wailed, others cried silently, a few looked so shocked as to be unaware of what was happening, but most, men and women, Romans in the main, had stared at the enemy with undisguised contempt and had prayed to Fortuna, the Goddess of Fate.

‘Lady Claudia, it is my duty to offer you the use of my sword.’

Claudia had looked into the blood-covered face of Metullus, at the gashes on both arms from sword cuts, as well as a great slash across his forehead that had left a flap of skin hanging over one eye. Dust had coated the blood, as well as the rest of him, armour included. Claudia had whipped off the embroidered linen shawl that covered her head, and pushing that filthy flap of skin upwards, had wrapped it round Metullus’s head so that he could see properly.

‘You need your sword to defend us, Gaius Metullus.’