The worst of it was yet to come, Cato knew, as the last four cohorts became entangled with the retreating men from the first wave. More legionaries stumbled and slid back until the entire legion was swiftly turned into a leaden mass of armoured men flailing in the mud. The enemy pressed their advantage home, thrusting the Romans down the slope, falling on any legionary who had tumbled to the ground and hacking him to death without mercy.
Macro thrust his arm out towards General Ostorius and his command party watching the battle from the calm refuge of the near bank. ‘For pity’s sake, why doesn’t he sound the call?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cato muttered. ‘I don’t know.’
All semblance of cohesion had disappeared. There was no hope of forming up around the standards or centurions as the legion was pressed back relentlessly. Then, at last, the shrill call ordering the retreat sounded from the cornus to one side of the general and his officers. The men of the Twentieth responded to the signal at once, clambering down the hill to the river. As they fell back, a roar of triumph welled in the throats of the native warriors pursuing them. Small knots of legionaries kept their face to the enemy and tried to hold some semblance of a line as they covered their comrades.
As the first of the men reached the riverbank they picked their way through the remaining stakes in the shallows and began to wade to safety, no longer even able to hold their shields overhead to save them from the water. Some were lost as the current tore them from the exhausted grip of their owners and they sank from sight, tumbling over and over in the river, occasionally throwing an edge above the surface before being rapidly born away again. The first men began to stagger up on to the near bank and collapse on the wet grass, gasping for breath. Others helped wounded comrades to make the crossing before slumping down beside them as soon as they reached solid ground. Gradually the bank filled up, like a vast casualty clearing station, and still more men dragged themselves out of the river.
On the far bank the enemy had pushed the Romans back beyond the lower barricade and were pursuing them all the way to the river. Several groups of Romans still managed to fight on, shield to shield as they retreated off the slope and into the water.
The sudden crack of the ballistas made Cato flinch. He had been so absorbed by the scene that he had not noticed the crews making their weapons ready to resume the bombardment. Iron bolts shot across the river, over the heads of the scattered legionaries churning through the water. The missiles fell amongst the enemy, slamming men into the ground, pierced through. The catapults joined in, lobbing lethal rocks into high arcs that added to the enemy’s casualties. A moment later the war horns sounded and the enemy began to break off, scrambling back up the slope to the cover of the first line of defences. Soon the last of them had gone to ground and the side of the hill lay almost still. Only the wounded still moved, writhing pitifully amid the glistening mud, tussocks of grass and grey rocks. Cato could see that there were still some Romans alive there who had somehow escaped the attentions of the enemy during their wild charge.
The fighting had stopped and the last men of the Twentieth made their way back to the near bank. The ballistas and catapults kept up their work for a little longer before being ordered to cease shooting. Then an awful stillness and quiet seemed to hang over the scene, as if both armies were giant fighters, bloodied and bowed, breaking away from each other a moment to draw breath. A handful of figures broke cover on the far side of the river and scurried out to retrieve their wounded, and cut the throats of any living Romans they encountered. They were too few and too far away for accurate shots from the ballistas and were permitted to go about their work unhindered.
Cato felt the nervous tension that had gripped his body during the attack begin to drain away and he found that he was sweating heavily and he felt a sudden tiredness. He lowered his head and closed his eyes for a moment, relieved that the disastrous attempt to take the hill with a frontal assault was over. At length he took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked up. The last men from the Twentieth had returned across the river. But they had not been allowed to rest. A staff officer was riding along the edge of the water shouting orders and waving his arm frantically. The legion’s officers began to stir the men to their feet and march them away from the crossing.
‘What’s going on there?’ asked Macro. ‘I hope it’s not what I think it is.’
Cato did not reply. He had guessed the general’s intention, but prayed that he was mistaken. As they watched, the men drew aside, leaving an open stretch of ground in front of the combined cohorts of the Fourteenth and Ninth Legions. When the way before them was finally cleared, General Ostorius raised his arm and held it aloft for a moment before dipping it towards the hill. The artillery crews sprang to their weapons and the quiet that had settled over the battlefield was broken by the crack of the ballistas and the crash of the catapults’ throwing arms.
The cornus sounded the advance and the order was echoed along the lines of fresh legionaries facing the river crossing. Then, sunlight gleaming off their helmets, they tramped forward, as neatly as if they were performing a drill on the parade ground.
‘What does the fool think he’s doing?’ Macro hissed. ‘What the fuck is Ostorius up to?’
Cato shook his head. ‘Madness. .’
Cohort after cohort descended the gentle slope down towards the river and from the far side came the jeers and challenges of the enemy, sounding more defiant than ever to Cato’s ears. Abruptly he turned from the rail and strode towards the ladder leading down to the ground.
‘Sir!’ Macro hurried after him and caught up with Cato as the prefect swung himself on to the topmost rungs of the ladder. Macro stared down at him. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Someone’s got to try and put a stop to this,’ Cato replied firmly. ‘Before Ostorius turns defeat into a full-blown disaster.’
CHAPTER TEN
Before Macro could protest further, Cato rapidly descended the ladder and trotted over to where Thraxis was holding his horse. Cato snatched up the reins and swung himself up into the saddle. With a kick of his heels he turned Hannibal towards the gate and urged the animal into a gallop. The hoofs echoed off the wooden confines of the tower and then he was pounding over the bridge across the ditch and down the slope towards the general and his officers. Cato resolved to do whatever he could to prevent Ostorius repeating the first, futile attack and sending more men to their deaths needlessly.
The leading centuries of the Fourteenth were already wading into the river, with Quintatus at their head. The legate drew his horse up in the shallows and swung himself down from the saddle to splash in the current. Handing the reins to a servant he took a shield from one of his men and drew his sword and fell into step alongside the colour party carrying the legion’s standards aloft, where all the men could see them. At the rear Cato caught sight of Tribune Otho astride a white horse, sword drawn as he waved it above his head in a circle, shouting encouragement to his men. They advanced in an earnest silence, fully aware of what lay in store for them. Thanks to the slope down to the river and the hill opposite, not a man amongst them had missed what had happened during the first attack. Now they were marching in the footsteps of their beaten comrades. Cato could not help marvelling at the discipline of soldiers who obeyed their orders without question, without the least sign of hesitation or dissent. The very qualities that made the men of the legions so effective in battle rendered them little better than lambs being led to the slaughter when under the command of foolhardy generals.