They were not the only men with death staring them in the face, thought Romulus, remembering the infantry running behind the chariots. The surviving centurions were of similar mind. 'About turn. Re-form your ranks,' the nearest one cried. 'Quickly, you useless bastards!'

Romulus spun around at once. He wished he hadn't.

Waving their swords and spears, the peltasts and thureophoroi were closing in fast. Battle cries and screams rose as they came. The Roman shield wall was still in disarray and many legionaries flinched. Memories of these men's ferocious kinsmen in Alexandria were still strong. With the cavalry closing in from behind, and a horde of fierce infantry about to attack the gaps in their line, their doom seemed certain.

Romulus felt like a piece of metal lying on an anvil with the smith's hammer raised high above him. When it came down, he would be smashed into smithereens. Despairing, he raised his eyes to the clear blue sky. As usual, he saw nothing. Since having a terrible vision of Rome when in Margiana, Romulus rarely tried to use the soothsaying skills which Tarquinius had taught him. On the rare occasions that he had, the gods seemed to mock him by revealing nothing. Damn them all, Romulus thought. Who needs to divine now anyhow? A fool can see that we're going to die.

Whether they thought the same or not, the centurions did not panic. Veterans of numerous campaigns, they were the epitome of discipline, and the backbone of the legions at perilous times like this. Chivvying the men together, they closed the gaps left by the chariots. Romulus swore aloud with relief as he understood their purpose. The centurions had realised that one tiny crumb of advantage remained to the Twenty-Eighth: that of height. It gave them a little time. Because the enemy foot soldiers had to run uphill, their charge was a lot slower than the chariots had been.

Romulus' resolve stiffened, and he glanced at Petronius.

The veteran gave him a clout on the shoulder. 'This is what it's about, lad,' he growled. 'Backs to the wall. About to die, but with our comrades around us. Can't ask for more than that, can we?'

There were fierce nods from the men who heard his comment.

Their acceptance brought tears of pride to Romulus' eyes. None knew his history as a slave, but they had seen his courage at first hand and now he was one of them. The rejection that he and Brennus had suffered at the hands of other legionaries in Margiana had left a deep scar on his soul. Here on a barren Pontic mountainside under the hot sun, the soldiers' recognition was a powerful and welcome balm. Romulus' chin rose with new determination. If he had to die, then he would do so among men who took him for one of their own.

'Elysium awaits us,' shouted Petronius, lifting his pilum high. 'And we die for Caesar!'

A loud, defiant cheer followed his cry. The word 'Caesar' was repeated along the line like a mantra. It visibly strengthened the shield wall, which had been wavering before the crushing numbers of enemy troops rushing up the slope. Even the legionaries who were about to be struck by the Pontic cavalry joined in.

Romulus' spirits were deeply stirred. Since being press-ganged into the Twenty-Eighth, there had been no real chance for him to gain an understanding of the soldiers' unswerving devotion to their general. He knew that Caesar had earned his troops' loyalty the hard way – by leading from the front, by sharing their hardships and rewarding their fealty well, but he had not really seen it for himself. The night battle in Alexandria had been a shambles, and the decisive victory over Ptolemy's forces soon after had not been a hard-fought struggle. Romulus had heard over and over how amazing a leader Caesar was, but neither of these clashes had provided him with the evidence that he desired. If he was to serve in one of the general's legions for the next six years or more, then he wanted to believe in him. Now, that conviction was taking seed in his heart. To see that men retained faith in Caesar as their death approached was truly remarkable.

All chance of thinking disappeared as the peltasts and thureophoroi rushed in. Romulus had not really appreciated the variety of nationalities which made up Pharnaces' army until that point. Unlike the Roman legionaries and Deiotarus' men, who armed and dressed in much the same manner, no two of the warriors charging uphill looked alike. Attracted by mercenaries' high wages and the chance of plunder, they had come to Pontus from far and wide. There were Thracian peltasts like those Romulus had seen in Alexandria: unarmoured and carrying long-bladed rhomphaiai and oval shields with spines. There were different varieties of peltast too – men armed with javelins and curved knives. Some individuals wore padded linen armour while others carried round or crescent shields made of wicker and covered in sheepskin. A few, no doubt the wealthier men, had shields with polished bronze faces.

Plenty of the approaching infantry were thureophoroi from Asia Minor and further west. Bearing heavy oval or rectangular shields faced with leather, they had Macedonian crested helmets with large cheek pieces and rounded peaks over the eyes. Like the peltasts, few wore any armour, just simple belted tunics in an array of colours – red-brown like the legionaries, but also white, blue or ochre. Most carried javelins and a sword, but some were armed with long thrusting spears.

The enemy's left flank was made up of thousands of Cappadocians, fierce bearded tribesmen in pointed fabric hats, long-sleeved tunics and trousers, and carrying hexagonal shields. They bore longswords similar to that which Brennus had owned, as well as javelins or spears.

On their own, none of these variety of troops would have caused a Roman legion much difficulty. The trouble was, thought Romulus, there were just too many of the whoresons. Even with the rest of the army, any victory would be hard won. The fate of the Twenty-Eighth was sealed, but afterwards how could even Caesar prevail?

Petronius laughed, startling him. 'We've got two things to be grateful for,' he said.

Romulus strained to read his mind. 'They're sweating their guts out to reach us, while we just stand here waiting?'

'And our pila will be far more effective thrown downhill.'

The enemy officers were thinking the same thing. While they had to hit the Twenty-Eighth before the remainder of the legions emerged, there was little point throwing winded soldiers at a rested foe. They halted their men a hundred paces away, well outside pilum range. All the legionaries could do was mutter prayers and try to ignore the terrible sounds from the rear as their comrades battled to hold back the Pontic heavy cavalry. The more inventive officers there were ordering their men to stab their pila at the enemy riders as had been done at Pharsalus, but the ploy was only partially working. Holes were being punched in the Roman ranks, which threatened to split the Twenty-Eighth apart. If that happened, Romulus thought, they'd all be dead even sooner than he'd imagined.

Acid-tipped claws of tension were now gnawing away at his belly. Thankfully, he would have no time to brood. The approaching peltasts and thureophoroi would reach them soon. Despite the agonising effort of climbing the hill, the enemy infantry regained their wind fast. Perhaps twenty heartbeats went by before they charged forward at the Romans like hunting dogs. There was no tight shield wall like the legions used, just a heaving mass of screaming men and weapons. The eager Cappadocians were a few steps ahead of the rest of the Pontic troops, but it would only be moments until battle was joined all along the front. A few fools threw their spears as they ran; they barely flew more than fifteen paces before skidding on to the rough ground, harming no one. Obviously following orders, most held back until they were much closer.