Romulus saw the same emotion appear in the faces of the peltasts and thureophoroi facing him. An instant before, they had been about to annihilate the Twenty-Eighth. Now the tables had turned. It was a moment to seize.

'Come on,' he shouted. 'The whoresons are going to break and run!'

Hearing his cry, the legionaries close by redoubled their efforts. Behind them, although they could not see it, the Pontic cavalry had broken away to prevent their being enveloped from the rear. Free now to attack the main body of their foes, the centurions turned around their battered men and led them downhill into the fray.

Following closely came three more legions, led by Caesar himself.

The sight was too much for the Pontic infantry. They stopped dead in their tracks. Then, all along their lines, grim-faced legionaries slammed into them. Full of new confidence, the Romans used the full advantage of their higher position to hit the enemy like individual battering rams, knocking many warriors completely off their feet. Even the Cappadocians, who had been so close to winning the battle, were taken aback by the ferocity of the Sixth's attack.

All across the Pontic host, the soldiers' bravery evaporated, to be replaced by terror.

Romulus saw their change in mood. This was the moment in which defeat changes to victory. Exultation replaced all his fear and the pain in his head faded into the background. A single heartbeat is all it takes, he thought. Delighted, Romulus watched as the panicked peltasts and thureophoroi took to their heels and ran. Dropping their weapons and shields, they pushed and shoved past each other in the eagerness granted by pure fear. All they wanted was to avoid the avenging swords of Caesar's legionaries.

There was to be no mercy, though. Few things were easier in battle than chasing a fleeing opponent, downhill. It was a simple matter of keeping up the pursuit. Thousands of men were trying to get away at the same time, and any chance of rallying them was minute. Who would choose to stop and fight when none of his comrades were doing so? thought Romulus. Yet the Pontic soldiers' primeval attempt to survive was their own undoing. Killing them now was as easy as knocking lemons off a tree. Disciplined like no others, the legionaries followed their adversaries, slaying them in their hundreds.

They brought down the enemy warriors by slashing them across their unarmoured backs, or by hamstringing them. Those following then despatched the injured with simple thrusts of their gladii. Yet even this efficiency did not account for all the dead. Plenty of men fell on the steep slope, tripped by tufts of grass or a loose strap on a sandal. They had no chance to get up. The other peltasts and thureophoroi simply trampled them into the dust. Their terror had grown so great that sense and reason were lost. All the Pontic soldiers could do was run.

At the bottom, the killing continued. Romulus watched in horror as dozens of warriors were knocked from their feet in the press and then shoved under the water by comrades trying to cross the stream. Wading in up to their thighs, the legionaries slew the drowning men with casual blows from their swords, or even their scuta. Still there was no resistance on the enemy's part, just blind panic. Despite the slaughter, thousands managed to ford the watercourse, fleeing up the hill towards the safety of their fortifications.

Soon there were large numbers of Romans on the far bank. Under the calm instruction of their officers, they reassembled in good order and began marching up to the Pontic camp. The running warriors wailed with terror as they saw that their adversaries had not halted.

Romulus glanced back at the trumpeters, who were descending with everyone else. Would the recall be sounded? After all, the battle was won. Ominously, the bucinae remained silent. There was to be no let-up. 'On! On!' shouted the centurions. 'Up the slope! Their position has to be taken!'

Still full of battle lust, Romulus and Petronius charged after the foe. Little more than four hours after the battle had started, it was over. Pursued right up to their fortifications, the Pontic forces had been granted no chance to regroup at all. After a short but vicious clash, the ramparts were stormed and the gates opened. Thousands of legionaries poured in, intent on more slaughter. In the confusion, King Pharnaces had barely made off with his own life. Riding away with just a few horsemen, his escape only occurred because the victorious Roman soldiers had paused to loot his camp.

It scarcely mattered that Pharnaces was gone, thought Romulus as he stood with Petronius, looking across the valley. Both hillsides were covered with the bodies of the dead and injured. Only a small fraction were Roman casualties, and any of the enemy host who had survived were now prisoners. He gazed up at the clear blue sky, and the blazing hot sun which filled it. It was barely midday. How swiftly the gods had changed whom they bestowed their favours upon! The whole pantheon were smiling on Caesar and his army today. Romulus bent his head in silent worship. Thank you, Mithras Sol Invictus. Thank you Jupiter, and Mars.

'What a morning,' said Petronius. His face, arms and gladius were covered in spatters of dried blood. 'Who'd have thought we'd live through that, eh?'

Romulus nodded, unable to speak. As his adrenalin rush subsided, the pain from his head wound redoubled; it was becoming unbearable. He was swaying from side to side like a drunk man.

Petronius saw at once. 'Lean on me, comrade,' he said kindly. 'Let's head to the stream and get you cleaned up. Then we'll find a first-aid station where a surgeon can check that wound for you.'

Romulus didn't argue. He was just grateful for Petronius' steady arm. There was no one else to help. Like many others, the pair had become separated from their units in the frantic pursuit of the enemy. It did not matter for now: the battle was over, and the cohorts could reassemble back at the camp.

After a slow descent, they reached the brook, which was clogged with hundreds of corpses. Moving upstream to a point where the water still ran clear, the two friends stripped naked and climbed in. Plenty of other legionaries were doing the same, eager to wash away the sweat, dirt and encrusted blood which covered their bodies. Weak and wobbly, Romulus stayed in the shallows and let Petronius clean the wound on his head. Having cold water run over it dulled the pain somewhat, but Romulus was not well. His vision was blurred, and although Petronius was by his side, the veteran's voice came and went as if he were walking around him.

'Better get a surgeon now,' Petronius muttered as he helped Romulus on to the bank. 'You'll need a good sleep after that.'

Romulus grinned weakly. 'I want a few cups of wine first, though.'

'We'll find you a skin somehow,' Petronius replied, not quite able to hide the concern in his eyes. 'Good lad.'

'I'll be fine after a few days,' protested Romulus, reaching for his tunic.

'That's the spirit, comrade,' said a strange voice. 'Caesar's legionaries don't ever give up!'

'Especially those from the Sixth!' cried another.

There was a rousing cheer.

The two friends turned. Another group of soldiers had arrived, also intent on washing off the grime of battle. Romulus recognised none of them. With rusty, battered chain mail and notched swords, the men's arrogant ease spoke volumes. A number of them had flesh wounds, but none were badly hurt. These were some of the legionaries who, vastly outnumbered, had stopped the right flank from dissolving before the Cappadocian attack. The Sixth Legion.

Their leader was a strongly built brute with black hair. Several bronze and silver phalerae were strapped to his chest over his mail. Stepping closer, he eyed Romulus' long, gaping wound with a critical stare. 'A rhomphaia did that. Caught you unawares, eh?'