The humidity of the last few days, and the proximity of the marsh and river combined to produce a particularly thick mist that lay most densely in the shallow vale between the two armies. Long before the sun came up and tinted the milky wreaths with orange, the legionaries had dressed and fed and were marching to take up their positions for the coming battle. From either side of the Praetorian cohorts came the mechanical clanking of the bolt-throwers as the artillerymen strained at the torsion levers and the ratchets dropped across cog teeth. Small braziers gleamed as incendiary missiles were made ready. Far to the right the elephants stuck closely together, thoroughly unnerved by the pallid wisps of mist that hemmed them in on all sides.
From a small grassy mound just outside the Roman camp, the Emperor and his staff waited for news of the battle preparations. Below them the mist blanketed most of the Roman armY and only vague snatches of shouted orders, drumming hoofbeats and the clatter of equipment indicated the presence of thousands of men. A continuous stream of messengers went to and fro as Plautius struggled to co-ordinate his invisible army. Fortunately, he had foreseen the rising of the mist and during the night had ordered the engineers to layout pegs to mark the start position for each unit. Even so, dawn came and went and the sun was well above the horizon before he was satisfied that the army was in position and ready to attack.
'Caesar, the eagles await your orders,' he announced finally.
'Well, let's g-get on with it, shall we?' Claudius replied, irritated by the delay; it had not been a part of his battle plan.
'Yes, Caesar.' Plautius nodded to his signals tribune to launch the attack. The massed trumpets of the headquarters staff blasted out across the vale, slightly muffled in the clammy air. Almost at once the British war horns began to bray out their defiant response, and swelling through the noise came cheers and jeering from the British warriors on the ridge. Down in the mist a sharp rhythmic clatter reached the ears of the Roman staff officers. The noise grew in volume and extended down the entire length of the Roman front.
'What is that racket?' snapped Claudius.
'Just our men announcing themselves, Caesar. They're hitting their shields with their javelins. It makes them feel good and scares the enemy.'
'They d-don't sound too scared to me.' Claudius nodded across the vale.
'Well then, it'll just have to be for the benefit of our men, Caesar.'
'It's a bloody nuisance!'
A loud series of cracks sounded from within the mist and a volley of fire-bolts whirred across the British defences in blazing arcs before crashing through the palisade. Sparks, fragments of wood, sods of turf and bits of men flew in all directions as the heavy bolts stuck home. There was a sudden end to the battle cries from the British, but someone on the other side knew the danger of sitting and taking such punishment in silence. One by one the war horns took up their battle cry once again and they were quickly joined by the shouts of the warriors behind the defences.
From their position just outside the ditch of the Roman camp the men of the Second Legion were in a good position to view the bombardment. The artillery kept up a steady fire and the air above the British defences was continually scored by flaming bolts and dark smoke trails. Already a series of small fires had broken out and thick smudges of smoke billowed up on the far ridge.
'Poor sods.' Macro shook his head. 'Wouldn't like to be over there right now.'
Cato looked sidelong at his centurion, surprised at this evidence of empathy for the enemy.
'You've never seen what an artillery bolt can do, have you, lad?'
'I've seen the consequences, sir.'
'Not the same thing. You have to be on the receiving end of those things to fully appreciate the effect.'
Cato looked at the flames and thick black smoke on the opposite slope, hoping the Britons had the good sense to turn and run. In recent weeks he had come to value most the battles that delivered the least number of dead and wounded at their conclusion. But today he no longer cared. After the previous night's sighting of Lavinia his heart was in the grip of a cold despair that made life seem quite pointless.
The Britons were a game lot and raised their serpent-tail banners above their defences. The lack of any breeze meant the bearers had to sweep their banners to and fro to fully reveal the tails and in the distance they looked like frenzied worms twisting on a hot plate.
'There go the Praetorians!' Macro pointed down the slope. Just emerging from where the mist began to thin marched an uneven line of uneven white crested helmets. Then came their white tunics as they drew free of the mist. When the first wave was clear, they were halted and the officers dressed the line, then with perfect military precision the Praetorians moved up to the first line of defences: a series of ditches. already the second line was emerging from the mist. The fire from the bolt throwers slackened and finally stopped as word reached the artillery crews that the Praetorians were nearing the enemy.
As soon as the Britons were aware that the danger from the bolts had passed, they swarmed back up to their palisade and began raining down arrows and slingshot on the Romans as they struggled up the steep face of the first ditch. Small gaps opened in the lines of the leading cohorts but the relentless discipline of the Roman army proved its worth as the line instantly dressed itself and the gaps were filled. But the banks of the ditches were already dotted with the white uniformed bodies ofthe fallen. The first line clambered out of the last ditch, re-formed under intense,'ire. and began mounting the final slope to the palisade. Suddenly, all along the palisade, smoke spilled up into the air, and moments later great blazing bundles were raised with the aid of long pitchforks and lobbed oyer. They bounced down the steep slope, showering sparks in all directions before slamming into the Roman lines, scattering the Praetorians in all directions.
'Ouch,' Cato muttered. 'That's a nasty trick.'
'But effective. For the moment. However, I wouldn't fancy being a Briton when those Praetorians get in amongst them.'
'Just as long as they spare enough to sell for slaves.'
Macro laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. 'Now you're thinking like a soldier!'
'No, sir. I'm just thinking like someone who needs money,' replied Cato briefly.
'Where've those bloody elephants gone?' Macro strained his eyes to try and detect any movement out on the far right of the Roman line. 'Your eyes are better than mine. You see anything?'
Cato looked, but nothing disturbed the white bank of mist hanging over the marsh, and he shook his head.
'Bloody daft, using elephants.' Macro spat on the ground. 'Wonder which prat came up with that idea.'
'It has the touch of Narcissus about it, sir.'
'True. Look! In go the guards!'
The Praetorians had reached the palisade and managed to break down a few sections. As Cato and Macro watched, the thin slivers of their javelins rained down on the defenders before they drew swords and forc.ed their way into the breaches.
'Up, Praetorians, and at ' em!' Macro shouted, as if his words would carry across the vale. 'Get 'em!'
The centurion's excitement was shared by those on the grassy mound.
Officers craned their necks to try and get a better view of the distant assault. The Emperor was bouncing up and down in his saddle in unrestrained glee as the Praetorian cohorts charged home. So much so that he had forgotten the next phase of his own battle plan.
'Caesar?' Plautius interrupted. 'Oh, what is it now?'
'Shall I give the order for the legions to move up?'
'What?' Claudius frowned before he recalled the necessary details. 'Of course! Why h-h-hasn't it been done already? Get on with it, man! Get on with it!'
The order to advance was sounded, but the mist obscured any evidence of its being carried out until, at length, the front ranks of the Ninth Legion appeared as spectral shapes gradually emerging into view on the far slope. Cohort after cohort negotiated the ditches with painful slowness, or so it seemed when viewed from the mound. Some of the officers were nervously exchanging quiet words as they surveyed the advance. Something was wrong. The rear ranks of the Praetorian cohorts were still in view on top of the palisade. They should have advanced further by now but seemed to have been stopped dead by something not visible from this side of the ridge. The foremost legionaries of the Ninth were already in among the rear ranks of the Praetorians, and still the waves of the succeeding cohorts emerged from the mist and advanced up the slope.
'Won't there be something of a t-tangle if this carries on?' asked the Emperor.
'I fear so, Caesar.'
'Why isn't somebody doing something about it?' Claudius looked round at his assembled staff officers. Blank-faced to a man. 'Well?'
'I'll send someone to find out the reason for the delay, Caesar.'
'Don't bother!' Claudius replied hotly. 'If you want something done p-p-properly you just have to do it yourself.' Grabbing his reins tightly, he dug his heels into his horse's flanks and plunged down the mound towards the mist.
'Caesar!' Narcissus called out desperately. 'Caesar! Stop!'
When Claudius rode on heedless, Narcissus swore and quickly turned to the other officers, who were watching events in amazement. 'Well? What are you waiting for? There goes the Emperor and where he goes his headquarters follows. Come on!'
As the Emperor disappeared into the fog, his staff officers streamed after him, desperately trying not to lose sight of the ruler of the Roman Empire as he raced into danger.
'What on earth is going on?' asked Vespasian. He was standing by his horse at the head of the six cohorts of his legion. With no warning the Emperor and his entire staff had charged from the mound, and what looked like the tail end of a horse race was melting into the mist. He turned to his senior tribune, eyebrows raised.
'When you've got to go, you've got to go,' suggested Vitellius. 'Most helpful of you, Tribune.'
'Do you think we should follow them?'
'No. Our orders were to stay here.'
'Fair enough, sir.' Vitellius shrugged. 'The view's better in any case.' Vespasian stood and watched the far slope where the succeeding waves of attackers had become hopelessly mixed up before any officers had a chance to halt the advance and reorganise their men. 'This could turn into something of a disaster if we're not careful.'
'Hardly an edifying spectacle, is it, sir?' Vitellius chuckled.
'Let's just hope that's the worst that will happen today,' replied Vespasian. He glanced up at the clear sky from where the morning sun now shone brightly, and then down at the mist. 'Would you say it's lifting?'
'What was that, sir?'
'The mist. I think it's lifting.'
Vitellius stared at it for a moment. The white threads of mist were definitely thinner at the edges and already the dim outline of the forest away to the left was showing through.
'I believe you're right, sir.'
That the Emperor survived the mad dash right through the middle of his army Narcissus could only put down to some kind of divine intervention. In the dense white mist it was almost impossible to keep up with Claudius. Men scattered to the left and right at the sound of approaching hoofbeats and watched in astonishment as Claudius galloped by, closely pursued by General Plautius and his staff officers. As the Roman lines became more congested, Claudius was forced to slow down, and at last the others caught up with him and fought to clear a path through the packed ranks. As they climbed the slope out of the mist, the full scale of the disorganisation became clear. Across the entire front men were being crushed together. It was worst by the ditches, where those unfortunate enough to be caught in the bottom were wedged in tightly, and any who stumbled and fell were trampled to death on the ground. Only by using the brutal force of their mounts did Claudius and his staff at last gain the palisade and understand what had gone wrong.
Caratacus had foreseen everything. The ditches and the palisade were just a screen before the real defences laid out on the reverse slope. For hundreds of feet on either side ran a system of concealed pits with spikes at the bottom – the 'lilies' so beloved of Julius Caesar – and finally a deep trench and yet another turf rampart defended by a palisade. With no artillery fire to support them, the Praetorian units had been forced to advance into this deathtrap alone, with the Britons fighting them every step of the way.
All across the slope were the bodies of Praetorians impaled on lily spikes or crippled by concealed caltrops, whose vicious iron points went right through the soles of their boots and into their feet. There were only a few paths through the spikes and the Praetorians had been funnelled into these tight spaces where they were kept at bay by a handful of Britons while their flanks were exposed to merciless fire from small redoubts rising above the traps all around. The anival of yet more troops had made the situation progressively worse as the Praetorians were forced even further into the trap.
Claudius gazed upon the disaster in horror; Plautius was in a cold rage. Without waiting for imperial approval he shouted out his orders. 'Get a messenger to each legate. They're to withdraw their men immediately. Make for their start markers and wait for further orders. Go!'
As the staff officers fought their way back down the slope, Claudius came out of his frozen state and responded to the orders his general had just given. 'Very good, Plautius – a tactical withdrawal. Very s-s-sensible. But first, let's make good use of this d-diversion. The second can advance r-round the ridge and catch them in the flank. Give the order r-r-right now!'
Plautius stared at his Emperor, dumbfounded by the sheer idiocy of the order. 'Caesar, the Second is the last body of formed-up legionaries we have left.'
'Exactly! Now give the order.'
When Plautius didn't move, the Emperor repeated the order to Narcissus. At once the chief secretary glanced round for someone to ride to Vespasian.
'Sabinus! Over here!'
As Narcissus gave the order, there was a growing roar from the enemy and word passed down their lines that the Roman Emperor himself was within striking distance. Slingshot and arrows from the British lines began to thud down around Claudius and his staff, and the imperial bodyguard hurriedly placed themselves round their master, raising their shields to shelter him. The rest of his companions had to dismount and take shields from the dead as the volume of missiles increased. Looking out from under the rim of a British shield, Narcissus caught sight of a ripple of crimson cloaks in the mass of Britons swarming before them, and the roar in the throats of the enemy reached a fanatic pitch as Caratacus' elite warriors swept towards the Roman Emperor.
'Now we're for it!' Narcissus muttered, before he turned back to Sabinus.
'Understand this. If your brother doesn't move his men up in time, thc Emperor will be lost and the army will be slaughtered. Go!'
Sabinus stabbed his heels into his mount and the beast reared before surging back through the packed ranks of legionaries. Behind Sabinus the roar of the Britons converging on the Emperor's position drowned out the other sounds of battle.
Desperate and confused faces flashed before him as he urged his mount on, brutally clearing his way through the dense mass, heedless of the cries of those men knocked down and trampled by his mount.
At last, the crush of legionaries thinned and he spurred his horse into a gallop up the slope towards the Roman camp. Through the mist his eyes anxiously sought for the first sign of his brother's legion. Then the spectral shapes of the standards appeared directly ahead. Suddenly, the mist cleared and, with a shout, Sabinus steered his horse round beside his younger brother, and breathlessly passed on the Emperor's order.
'Are you serious?'
'Quite serious, brother. To the right of the ridge and sweep round into their flank.'
'But there's a marsh over there. Where the elephants went. Where the hell did they end up?'
'Doesn't matter,' Sabinus said breathlessly. 'Just carry out the order. We might yet win the battle.'
'Win the battle?' Vespasian looked up across the thinning mist to where the other legions were crowding back down the slope. 'We'll be lucky if we aren't massacred.'
'Just carry out the order, Legate!' Sabinus said harshly.
Vespasian glanced at his brother, and then looked again at the battlefield before he made the decision all his instincts and military judgement told him to make.
'No.'
'No?' Sabinus repeated, eyes wide. 'What d'you mean, no?'
'The Second is staying here. We're the reserve,' explained Vespasian. 'If Claudius throws us away in some hare-brained attack then there's nothing left to meet any surprise the Britons throw at us. Not while the other legions are in that mess.' He nodded across the vale. 'We stay here.'
'Brother, I beg you. Do as you are ordered!'
'No!'
'The Britons have already sprung their surprise on us,' Sabinus argued desperately. 'And now we – you – can surprise them.'
'No.'
'Vespasian.' Sabinus leaned forward and spoke with quiet intensity. 'Do it! If you stand here you'll be accused of cowardice. Think of our family name. Do you want the Flavians to be remembered as cowards for the rest of time? Do you?'
Vespasian returned his older brother's stare with equal intensity. 'This is not about posterity. This is about doing the right thing. By the book. While the army is disorganised, we must have a standing reserve. Only a fool would disagree. '
'Quiet, brother!' Sabinus glanced round nervously in case Vespasian's intemperate words had been overheard. Vitellius stood to one side and casually raised a hand in greeting.
'Vespasian-'
But the legate was no longer listening. He was staring at the forest, more clearly visible in the thinning mist. Unless his eyes were playing him false, there was movement down there. From under the boughs of the trees at the edge of the forest, briar thickets were slowly emerging in dozens of places. What dark magic was this? Could those devils the Druids conjure up the very forces of nature to aid them in their fight against Rome?
Then the briars were thrown to one side and the true genius of Caratacus' plan became clear. From deep within the forest charged a column of chariots. The thunder of hooves and rumble of wheels was audible even up by the Roman army's camp. The heavy British chariots burst out into the open and charged down upon the artillery positions on the left flank.
The legionaries manning the bolt-throwers had no time to react to the threat and were cut down where they stood, trampled and ridden over by the chariots, or speared by the warriors riding on the chariot beds. In the wake of the chariots swarmed thousands of lightly armed men carrying pikes. They streamed across the rear of the attacking force like grey ghosts in the thinning mist. They paid no attention to the still cohorts of the Second Legion as they rushed to close the trap on Claudius and the main body of his army. More Britons appeared all along the edge of the forest and threw themselves upon the legions' tangled flank. The ferocity of the attack compounded the effect of the surprise and the Britons carved a deep swathe through the disorganised Roman lines. Panic welled up and swept ahead of the British onslaught and some legionaries backed away, while others simply turned and ran to the right of the line.
'Dear gods,' said Sabinus. 'They're trying to drive us into the marsh.'
'And they'll do it,' said Vespasian grimly, 'unless we intervene.'
'Us?' Sabinus looked horrified. 'What can we do? We should guard the camp, so the survivors have somewhere to run.'
'Survivors? There won't be any survivors. They'll run all right, straight into the marsh and drown, or be stuck in the mire and cut to pieces,' Vespasian reached over and gripped his brother's arm. 'Sabinus. it's down to us. There's no one else. Do you understand me?'
Sabinus recovered his self-control and nodded.
'Good!' Vespasian released his arm. 'Now go into the camp and fetch the other four cohorts and any auxiliary troops you can find. Get them formed up as quickly as you can and attack straight down the hill. Make as much noise as you can. Now go!'
'What about you?'
'I'll take my chances with what I've got here.'
Sabinus wheeled his horse and spurred it up towards the main gate the camp, bent low across the beast's neck as he kicked his heels in.
With a last glance after his brother, Vespasian wondered if they would ever meet again in this world. Then he pushed the grim thought from his mind, and steeled himself for what he must do if the army and his Emperor were to be saved. He turned to his tribunes and called them over. The young men listened intently as he delivered his instructions as crisply as he could and then galloped away to deliver the orders to the senior centurions of the six cohorts. Vespasian dismounted, handed the reins to a a groom and asked for his shield to be brought to him. He undid the clasp on his scarlet cloak and let it slip to the ground.
'Make sure that is taken back to my tent. I'll need it tonight if it gets cold.'
'Yes, sir.' His personal slave nodded with a smile. "I"ll see you later then, master.'
Having checked the chin strap of his helmet and made sure that his shield grip was dry, Vespasian drew his sword and rapped it on the rim of his shield. He glanced over his cohorts to make sure that all was ready. The men were standing to, silently formed up and intently following the action down in the vale as they waited for the order.
'The Second will advance, on the oblique!' he shouted out, and the order was quickly relayed along the line. He counted three before the execution phase of the order and then filled his lungs. 'Advance!'
At a steady pace the six cohorts moved forward and started down the slope towards the shouts and screams of the desperate battle being fought in the vale. The mist was rapidly thinning and starting to reveal the full scale of the disaster facing Claudius and the other three legions. Caught out of formation and sent reeling by the surprise attack from the forest, the rear ranks had broken and were blindly fleeing across the battlefield towards the marsh. Scattered pockets of resistance showed where a centurion had managed to show sufficient resolve and presence of mind to gather men to face the British pikemen. Ranged behind their closely aligned shields, small groups of legionaries fought their way towards each other but they were getting the worst of it because of the reach of the enemy's pikes.
The standards of the Fourth Cohort bobbed up and down with the rhythmic pace of their bearers and Cato's eyes were automatically drawn to them as their gilded decorations caught the sun and glowed with a fiery burnish. The cohorts were marching in two lines of three centuries, with the Sixth Century positioned on the right of the rear rank. Cato had a clear view of the line of advance. The tall oaks of the forest loomed up ahead and to the left of the Second Legion, wide trails leading into their shadows clearly visible now that the briar screens had been discarded. Ahead and to the right bodies were strewn across the trampled grass, which was still wet with dew that drenched his boots. The cohort passed over the remains of the left flank artillery battery. Most of the weapons had been knocked over, and the bodies of their crews lay crumpled all around. Cato had to sidestep the corpse of a centurion, and glancing down he felt the bile rise in his throat at the sight of the bloody gristle and severed tendons in the side of the officer's neck where a sword blow had nearly taken his head off.
They kept on moving and left the carnage of the battery behind. As they advanced, Cato saw that at last some of the enemy were responding to the cohorts' approach. The nearest of the pikemen had turned to face the threat and were shouting warnings to their comrades. More and more of them turned to attack the Second Legion, screaming their war cries as they levelled their pikes.
'Halt:' Vespasian bellowed.
The cohorts drew up one pace on, hands tightening round their javelins in anticipation of the next order.
'Prepare javelins!'
The legionaries of the front line of centuries hefted the shafts of their javelins and stretched their throwing arms back. The British charge faltered. With no shields to protect them, the pikemen well knew how vulnerable they were to a volley of javelins.
'Release!'
The legionaries' arms flew forwards, releasing a ragged belt of dark lines that arced up in the air towards the Britons. As they reached the highest point of their trajectory the javelins seemed to hang for an instant, and the war cries of the Britons abruptly died in their throats as they braced themselves for the impact. The tips of the javelins dropped, and the volley plunged down into the British ranks, tearing into and through the unprotected bodies of the pikemen. The charge collapsed at once and the Britons who survived the first volley glanced fearfully towards the cohorts as Vespasian called the second line to readiness. But there was no need for another shower of javelins. Almost as one, the Britons backed away, not willing to brave another volley and join their stricken comrades lying dead and wounded amongst the jagged hedge of javelin shafts whose heads had buried themselves in bare flesh and soil.
'Advance!' Vespasian shouted, and the cohorts moved forwards once more, retrieving unspoiled javelins and finishing off enemy wounded as they passed through the destruction they had wrought. The left flank of the legion was close to the edge of the forest now and Vespasian called for a realignment of the advance. The legion stopped and steadily altered its facing until they were opposite the left flank of the British pikemen, cutting them off from the forest, in a neat reversal of positions. Now it was the Britons who would be forced towards the marsh – for as long as the six cohorts could maintain the momentum of their counter attack.
Unless Sabinus threw in the weight of whatever units he could lay his hands on soon, the outcome of the battle was still very much in doubt. Vespasian spared a quick glance back up the slope towards the Roman camp, but there was no sign of any help from that quarter yet He ordered his legion forward, and as they stepped out towards the heaving melee sprawling across the vale, Vespasian started striking the rim of his shield with his sword. The rhythm was picked up by the men around him and quickly spread to the other cohorts as the double line closed on the pikemen.
They were now passing over the bodies of their comrades from the other legions and a firm resolve to exact a full and bloody revenge filled their hearts as they raised their shields and prepared to engage the Britons. The triumphant war cries of the pikemen died away as the Second Legion swept in towards them, and beyond the Britons the hard-pressed knots of other legionaries rallied with a cry of hope.
Vespasian halted his men one last time to release the remaining javelins, and then the Second charged home with a savage cry of battle-crazed exultation on the lips of every man.
Surrounded on all sides by wild-eyed legionaries, Cato surrendered to the moment and released the tension and aggression that had been building up within him during the advance. He screamed out a meaningless cry as he was caught up in the charging press of men racing towards the waiting enemy. With a crash of spear and shield the Second Legion smashed into the British line and the momentum of the charge carried them through the broken mass of British spearmen who only moments before had been screaming triumphantly as they swarmed around the disorganised turmoil of the trapped legions.
Cato lowered his head and pushed his way forwards into the dense press of men hacking and stabbing at each other. To his immediate right he was conscious of Macro bellowing encouragement to the rest of his century and waving his short sword up in the air to rally his men around him. Cato found himself confronted by a snarling Briton who was holding his pike in both hands and swinging it round and down towards his stomach. Cato chopped at the spearhead, knocking it to the right, and then charged inside the Briton's grip. The man had but an instant to register his surprise before Cato's sword spitted him high in the chest. He fell back, spluttering great gouts of blood as Cato wrenched his blade free, knocked his opponent to the ground with his shield and turned to look for another enemy.
'Cato, to your left!' Macro shouted.
The optio ducked his head instinctively and the broad blade of a spear glanced off the top of his helmet. The blow momentarily blinded him as his vision exploded with white. It cleared instantly but his head was reeling and he was knocked flat as the pikeman slammed into his side, sending them both sprawling in the blood-soaked grass. Cato was aware of the Briton's fierce breathing, the stench of his body and a vivid blue tattoo on the man's shoulder, which writhed before his eyes for a moment. Then the man grunted, gasped and was rolled to one side as Macro pulled out his sword and stood over Cato. 'Get up, lad!'
The centurion covered their bodies with his shield and watched for any attack as Cato clambered to his feet, shaking his head to try and clear his dizziness.
'All right?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good. Let's go.'
The impetus of the charge had run its course and now the men of the Sixth Century closed ranks and advanced behind a shield wall, cutting down any enemy that stood in the path of their steady advance. The British ranks were tightly packed now, so much so that they were no longer able to use their spears effectively, and they were gradually being cut to pieces. From further up the slope the legions that had so nearly been defeated now turned on their foe, and savagely meted out their revenge. The triumph in the cries of the British warriors died away and changed to fear and panic as they tried to escape the wicked blades of the legionaries' short swords. In the tight press of bodies the short sword was the most lethal of weapons and Britons fell in great numbers. Those who were wounded and slipped to the blood-stained grass were trampled underfoot, their bodies crushed by the men fighting over them, and then by more bodies so that some suffocated horribly.
Cato thrust out his shield, stepped up to it and stabbed with his sword in a steady rhythm as he advanced with the rest of the century. Some of the men were filled with blood lust and surged ahead of the line, hacking and slashing at the enemy, exposing themselves to danger on all sides. Many paid the price for this loss of self-control, and their freshly slaughtered bodies were clambered over by their comrades. Cato was aware of the danger underfoot and placed his feet carefully as he advanced, in cold dread of stumbling and being unable to rise again.
'They're breaking!' Macro shouted above the din of clashing weapons and the grunts and cries ofthe combatants. 'The enemy line's breaking!' From the right, above the seething mass of bodies and weapons, Cato could see more Roman standards closing in from the direction of the Roman camp.
'It's the camp guard!' he cried out.
The destruction of the enemy spearmen was sealed once the remaining cohorts of the legion and a scratch force of auxiliary cohorts charged into their rear. Hemmed in on three sides by an impenetrable wall of Roman shields, they were killed where they stood. On the only open side they dropped their weapons and flooded towards the marsh in a a desperate attempt to seek salvation in that direction. At first the Britons caught in the armoured vice of Roman legionaries tried to resist even as they were forced to give ground. Then they suddenly disintegrated as a fighting force and became a torrent of individuals running for their lives, pursued by a merciless enemy.
Shouting with glee, the men of the Sixth Century charged after them a short distance, but their heavy armour and weapons forced them to give up the chase. They leaned over their grounded shields, breathing heavily, many only now aware of the wounds they had sustained amid the frenzy of battle. Cato was tempted to slump to the ground and rest his aching limbs, but the need to set an example to the rest of the men kept him standing erect and ready to respond to fresh orders. Macro pushed his way towards him through the tired legionaries.
'Hot work, eh, Optio?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Did you see' em run at the end?' Macro laughed. 'Bolted like a bunch of virgins at the Lupercal! Don't think we'll be seeing much more of Caratacus before we take Camulodunum.'
A piercing sound, unlike anything Cato had ever heard, carried across the battlefield and every head turned in the direction of the marsh. It came again, a shrill trumpeting scream of terror and pain.
'What the fuck's that?' Macro looked around, wide-eyed.
Over the heads of the other legionaries Cato could see the low knoll on which the right-hand battery of bolt-throwers had been positioned. Like their comrades on the left wing they had been quickly ridden down by the British chariots. The Britons were still there, and had turned a handful of the weapons round to face the marsh. And there in the marsh stood the elephants, stuck in muddy slime up to their loins, frantically being urged on by their drivers as the Britons used them for target practice. Even as Cato watched, a bolt arced in a low trajectory right into the side of one of the elephants.
It had already been struck in the rump and a bloody smear ran down its back legs from the bolt which protruded from its wrinkled skin. As the second bolt struck, the elephant whipped its trunk up into the air, bellowing and shrieking with agony. The force of the bolt carried it right through the thick hide and buried the head deep within the animal's vitals. With the next cry of agony came a thick crimson spray from the end of its trunk, which hung in the air like a red mist before dispersing. Thrashing wildly in the mud, the animal rolled onto its side, dragging the driver down with it. More bolts slammed into the other animals stranded in the marsh and one by one the British charioteers picked off the remaining elephants before the nearest Roman infantry could reach the knoll. The Britons bounded onto their waiting chariots and with a loud chorus of shouts and cracking of reins the chariots rumbled diagonally up the slope, past the Roman camp, and escaped round the edge of the forest.
'The bastards,' Cato heard a legionary mutter.
An appalled stillness hung over the vale, made more unbearable by the terrible cries of beasts in their death throes. Cato could see British spearmen skirting the edge of the marsh as they took full advantage of the pause to escape. Cato wanted to point them out and yell out an order to pursue the enemy, but the screams of the dying elephants mesmerised the Romans.
'I wish someone would silence those bloody animals,' Macro said quietly.
Cato shook his head in astonishment. All across the vale lay bleeding and butchered men, hundreds of Romans amongst them, and yet these hardened veterans standing around him were perversely fascinated by the fate of a handful of dumb animals. He banged a fist down on the rim of his shield in bitter frustration. As the British spearmen fled, their comrades up on the ridge realised that the trap had failed. Uncertainty and fear rippled through their ranks and they began to give ground to the legions, slowly at first, and then more steadily, until they melted away in large numbers. Only Caratacus' elite band of warriors stood firm until the army had safely withdrawn.
From the crest of the hill the Emperor slapped his thigh with glee at the sight of the enemy in full retreat. 'Ha! Watch him f-f-fly with his tail between his legs!'
General Plautius coughed. 'May I pass the order for the pursuit to begin, Caesar?'
'P-pursuit?' Claudius's eyebrows rose. 'Certainly not! It would be nnnice if you fellows in the army would leave a f- few of those savages left alive for me to rule.'
'But Caesar~'
'But! But! But! Enough, G-g-general! I give the orders. As well I should. My very f-first effort at command and I win a resounding victory. Is that not proof enough of my military b-b-brilliance? Well?'
Plautius looked towards Narcissus imploringly, but the chief secretary shrugged with a slight shake of his head. The general pursed his lips, and nodded towards the retreating Britons. 'Yes, Caesar. That's proof enough.'