'Septimus!'
'Sir?'
Cato indicated the nearest breach in the palisade. 'Take six men. Push them out, before it's too late. Move!'
The optio recognised the danger at once, and made for the breach, pulling men out of the line as he made his way along the rampart. As the legionaries approached the breach they formed up into a compact battering ram of flesh and metal, and charged home on a two-shield front, all that the narrow walkway permitted. They crashed into the enemy warriors and cut them down before the Celts recovered from the shock of the impact. The dead and injured were thrown down on top of the enemy still struggling to squeeze through the gap and up on to the rampart. Septimus and his men hunched round the crumbling earth and hacked at any enemy foolhardy enough to make another attempt at breaking into the Roman line. But beyond them Cato saw that the situation at the second breach was far more serious. The enemy had won some space on the rampart and were quickly feeding men into the gap. Turning round Cato shouted at the nearest man not engaged in the fight along the palisade.
'Run round that lot to Centurion Macro. Tell him he needs to drive them off the wall and plug the gap. I can't spare any men. Go!'
As the legionary half ran, half slithered down the slope Cato felt a dull vibration under his feet and, realising what it must be, he glanced towards the gate. Behind the rampart the reserves were hurrying forward to counter the impact as best as they could. In front of the rampart the enemy warriors had retrieved the battering ram, from where it lay amongst the bodies on the track, and were renewing their attack on the gate.
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.'