'Where's Macro?' asked Tullius.
'He's at the ford, preparing his defences.'
'Defences? He's going to make a stand?' Tullius raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
'Those were the orders given to the cohort.'
'Yes, but, sir, it's suicide.'
'Let's hope not, since we're going to join him.'
Antonius and Felix exchanged a look of surprise.
Cato edged forward. 'We'd better get moving, sir.'
'Indeed, Cato. All of you, get back to your units. We'll move at double time. No stopping for stragglers.'
The centurions were running back to their men as Maximius bellowed the order for the cohort to advance at quick pace. The column rolled forward with a fast, rumbling rhythm of tramping boots. Glancing to his side Maximius saw the runner Macro had sent him trotting back from the mounted scouts. Beyond him was a small plume of dust swirling round the figure of a man bent low over his horse. As the runner fell into step beside him to wait for orders Maximius glanced round, appraising his condition.
'You ready to run back to Macro?'
'Of course, sir,' the runner replied, his chest heaving as he strained for breath.
The cohort commander lowered his voice.'If he's still there when you get back to the ford tell him we're on our way as fast we can go. And, if he's not there, you come straight back and warn us. Understand?'
'Not there?' the runner said softly. 'Sir, do you mean-'
'You know what I mean,' Maximius snapped. 'Now go!'
The runner saluted and ran off along the track towards the ford. Maximius glanced over his shoulder and saw that the five centuries had all gathered speed and were moving steadily. He filled his lungs and then shouted the order to increase the pace to a slow run. The men had drilled for this many times and could keep it up for an hour at a time. By then they should have reached Macro. If there was time Maximius must let them catch their breath before throwing them into the fight if they were to perform well enough to make a difference.
Towards the rear of the column, Centurion Cato and his men followed the pace set by the century in front. Their equipment jingled and chinked as they ran along the track, accompanied by the laboured breathing of men who were heavily weighed down by their weapons and equipment. Now and then a centurion or an optio somewhere along the column barked out an order for their men to keep up, and followed it with a stream of abuse and threats of dire punishment to spur the men on. Cato swerved out to the side and slowed down until he was level with the middle of his century.
'Keep it up, lads! Macro's depending on us. Keep going!'
As he resumed running alongside, Cato kept glancing towards the far bank of the river. The dust cloud from Caratacus' army was more pronounced now, and although the barbarian host that had kicked it up was out of sight Cato realised the cohort would be facing odds of fifty to one. If Macro had to face them alone then the odds were more like three hundred to one, and as his mind did the calculations Cato knew they were doomed the instant the enemy gained the south bank of the river. And that would surely happen.
The heat and the effort of carrying his chain-mail vest, shield, helmet and weapons soon caused Cato's blood to pound in his ears. His breathing became fast and laboured. His lungs felt as if someone had fastened an iron strap around his chest, which was slowly being tightened. Soon every sinew of his body was screaming in torment. The desire to stop, to stop and vomit and gasp for breath, was almost impossible to resist. Had it not been for fear of the shame of being seen as weak in front of the men, and the fact that Macro was in danger, Cato would have dropped to the ground. As it was, he forced himself through the pain, one step at a time, with the same iron determination to fight on that had thrust him through every challenge he had faced since he had joined the legion.
So it was that in between bouts of harsh internal resolve, and strained cries of encouragement to his men, Cato looked up from the ground ahead and saw that Figulus had fallen back and was running in step beside him.
'Why are you out… of position?' Cato panted hoarsely.
'Did you hear it, sir?'
'Hear what?'
'Thought I heard horns, sir. British war horns. Just now.'
Cato thought back a moment, but could remember hearing nothing beyond the sounds of the column running.'You sure?'
Figulus looked uncertain for a moment, shamefaced at the thought that he had allowed his imagination to take hold of his senses. Then his face suddenly lightened.
'There, sir! You hear it?'
'Shut up!' Cato stopped and listened. There was the blood pulsing through his ears, his own panting and then… yes, a faint braying. A strident note from an overlapping chorus of war horns. 'I hear it. Get back in position.'
Cato ran forward, back alongside his century, as Figulus sprinted ahead. They must be close to the ford now, no more than a mile away. Cato stared ahead. The river was bending to the north, lined with scattered copses on either side. A small vista opened out on the north bank and between two small hillocks, half a mile off, he saw a dense mass of infantry marching parallel to the cohort.
'Keep going!' Cato called to his men. 'Not much further! Keep going!'
He steeled himself and drove every thought out of his head save the need to reach the ford in time to stop Caratacus and his army escaping – and to save Macro and his men from being annihilated.
Macro turned back to the north bank of the Tamesis as a fresh chorus of blasts sounded from the horns. With a roar the Britons swept down the track and into the ford, sending up a foaming white chaos of spray as they burst through the gleaming surface of the river.
'Close ranks!' Macro shouted above the din. 'Shields up!'
Either side of him the legionaries shuffled closer together and raised their shields to present a continuous line of defence to the enemy. The Romans shifted the grip on their javelin shafts as they waited for the order to loose a volley on the enemy thrashing through the current towards them.
'Easy now!' Macro called out. 'They'll reach the stakes any moment…'
Nearly eighty paces away the Britons charged forward, cheered on by the deep-throated roar of their comrades lining the river bank behind them. Suddenly, several of the men at the front of the charge jerked to a stop and doubled up. The men behind them surged on regardless and those that managed to avoid their stricken companions were impaled on the next set of obstacles. More men thrust on from behind until the charge broke down in a heaving tangle of bodies. Those at the front cried out in agony and fear, while those behind shouted in frustration and anger, not aware of the reason for the abrupt halt to their charge. All the time more men were pressing forward into the ford and crushing those at the front.
'A fine tangle!' Macro cried out gleefully. 'Couldn't be better.'
Either side of him the legionaries shouted out crude taunts and whoops of joy at the confusion opposite the island. For a moment the neat orderliness of the Roman line was disrupted, but Macro decided to let it go this time. Let his men have their moment of triumph – they would need every boost to morale they could get for the next enemy assault.
At length the enemy war horns cut across the confusion in the ford and sounded three flat notes. Slowly the Britons began to retreat, swelling up along the bank each side of the track. Those caught towards the front of the charge struggled to disentangle themselves, and limped back. A score of warriors were left behind: pinned on to the stakes, or crushed by the weight of men behind them. A few had stumbled, and had drowned under the crush of bodies above them. Almost all those left behind were dead, and the few wounded struggled feebly in the current that carried a thin red stain downriver.