Cato realised that the cohort was losing control of the fight. The timbers of the gate had been designed to control the movement of natives into and out of the marsh, not to withstand a determined assault. The enemy would burst through them soon enough. If that failed then they must eventually create enough gaps in the palisade that the legionaries couldn't defend them all. In either event, the cohort was doomed.
Overcome by bloodlust, some of the enemy who had hauled themselves up on to the rampart now spied the line of casualties along the base of the rampart and charged down upon them with whooping cries of triumph. Wounded and almost defenceless, the Roman casualties could do little to protect themselves as the Britons slaughtered them on the ground. But the temptation of an easy kill was their undoing, as it diverted them away from ensuring that they held on to the opening they had torn in the Roman defences. With as loud a roar as they could muster, Macro and half of his men were sweeping along the rampart from the direction of the redoubt, charging down and cutting through the knot of warriors who were desperately trying to hold the way open for the men struggling to feed into the gap. A moment's delay and the Celts would have had more than enough men through the palisade to hold off Macro's relief force. As it was, they were steadily killed, or pushed back, until the last of them was ejected from the rampart. Their comrades slaughtering the Roman wounded realised the danger, and struggled up the slope to fight for the precious stretch of bloody earth around the gap in the palisade. But they were too late and too few to make a difference, and they died before they even reached the top of the slope, tumbling back down to sprawl amongst the bodies of the men they had so mercilessly killed only moments earlier.
As soon as the rampart was secured Cato looked round to see what progress the enemy warriors were making on the gate. The slow pounding rhythm continued relentlessly, and then there was a splintering crash as the first of the timbers gave way. That was it then, Cato decided, with a heavy sinking feeling in his chest. A few more blows, then the gate would be shattered enough for the attackers to wrench the remnants aside, pour through the opening and tear the surviving men of the Third Cohort to pieces.
Then he was aware that the pounding had stopped, and looking both ways along the rampart he saw that more and more of his men were standing back, disengaged. They lowered their shields and leaned on the rims, exhausted and gasping for breath. Before them the Celts were falling back from the ramparts, streaming away towards Caratacus, still standing, feet astride, atop his chariot. Only, now, he was looking down the track, in the opposite direction to the Third Cohort.
'Sir!' Septimus pushed his way through the defenders towards Cato. 'Can you hear it?'
'Hear what?'
'Listen.'
Cato strained his ears, but all he could hear, above the pounding of blood through his weary body, was the panicked cries of the enemy warriors retreating from the ramparts, and jamming into a dense, immovable mass around their commander's chariot. Cato shook his head and Septimus thumped his fist down on the palisade.
'Just listen, sir!'
Cato tried again, and this time, there was something else, over and above the rising cries of despair and panic from the enemy: a distant clash and clatter of weapons and the thin tinny blare of a trumpet. And only one army on this island used trumpets that sounded like that. Cato grinned as a wave of pure relief washed over him and filled his heart with joy.
'It's the legate. It has to be.'
'Of course it bloody is, sir!' the optio laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder. 'Bastard had to leave it until the last moment, didn't he?'
As more of the legionaries became aware of the noise they looked round at each other in delight, and then started cheering and making obscene gestures at the fleeing enemy. The ferocious arrogance with which the native warriors had attacked the cohort earlier in the afternoon had evaporated the moment word spread through their ranks that a powerful enemy force had appeared behind them. Now their only thought was for escape and survival. Only Caratacus' bodyguard held firm – a small tight-knit unit of aristocrats and elite warriors that struggled to maintain a tight cordon around their king, contemptuously thrusting aside the frightened masses that streamed past them. Already, some of the enemy had realised that the marsh was their only hope of salvation, and they struck out from the track, wading out amongst the rushes, and struggling when they reached the expanse of mud beyond, stumbling through the ooze that clung to their legs and made every pace a test of strength and ultimately endurance.
'Not a pretty sight, is it?'
Cato turned to see Macro at his shoulder. The older centurion was staring sadly at the spectacle on the track. 'A broken army is a bloody pitiful thing.'
'As sights go, that one will do me nicely.'
'Heads up,' Macro said quietly, looking past Cato's shoulder. 'Here's Tullius…Congratulations, sir!'
'Eh?' Tullius looked anything but pleased, and Cato saw that his stare was fixed beyond the broken native force, towards the distant standards of the Second Legion, twinkling in the late afternoon sunlight. 'I wonder if Vespasian will be so quick to offer his congratulations.'
Tullius gave Macro and Cato a meaningful look before he turned towards the nearest troops. 'Get out of here!'
As soon as the legionaries had shuffled out of earshot Centurion Tullius faced his subordinates and spoke in a low, urgent tone.
'What are we going to tell the legate?'
Cato raised his eyebrows. 'Tell him? Sorry, sir, I don't understand.'
Tullius leaned closer and stabbed Cato's chest with his finger. 'Don't be fucking cute with me, lad. I'm talking about Maximius. How are we going to explain that one away?'
'Pardon me, sir, but there's nothing to explain away, provided we stick to our story. With Antonius dead, there's only you, Macro, me and Nepos who know what really happened.'
'Scratch Nepos from the list,' said Macro,jerking his thumb along the rampart. 'He's back there. Spearthrust went right through him. He didn't have time to find himself any armour before he got into the fight. Shame.'
'Yes, a shame,' Cato repeated slowly.'So only three of us left now, sir. All we have to do is stick with the story we gave out to Cordus. It's not perfect, but it's all we've got, and there's nothing anybody can prove beyond what we tell them.'
'What if Nepos was wrong? What if Maximius is still alive. Or Felix?'
'They're dead,' Cato said firmly.
'What if they're not? We should tell the truth. Tell Vespasian that Maximius was endangering the cohort. That we had to restrain him in order to save the men, and to catch Caratacus in this trap.' A sudden gleam of inspiration burned in the old centurion's eyes. 'We won this victory. We made it possible. That's got to count for something.'
'No.' Macro shook his head. 'No, it won't. If we tell the truth then we're admitting mutiny. You know what the general's like. Even if Vespasian spares us, Plautius bloody well won't. It'll be a nice chance to demonstrate what a fine disciplinarian he is. I won't be put to death for that bastard Maximius. The lad's right. We have to stick to our story if we want to come out of this alive, and hope that Maximius and Felix are dead.'
Tullius turned his gaze towards Cato and frowned. 'You seem pretty confident that they are dead.'
Cato returned his stare without any expression on his face, then replied, 'I don't see how they could have survived the villagers' attack. Nepos was sure they'd been killed. That's good enough for me.'
'Let's pray it's good enough for Vespasian,' Macro added softly.
Tullius stared over the rampart towards the approaching legion, still hidden from view by the bend in the track. He chewed his lip for a moment and then nodded. 'All right then…we stick by the story. But there's one last thing we can do to help our cause.'