Perhaps Ostorius would relent, Cato hoped desperately. Perhaps he would issue the recall before it was too late, without Cato having to intervene. But there was no sign of movement from the officers gathered on the knoll a short distance away and Cato gritted his teeth, reined in his mount and slowed to a trot as he approached the general and his staff. A few faces turned at the sound of his approach but Ostorius’s attention was fixed on the men crossing the river. The leading ranks, uneven now, reached the remaining stakes and began to rise up from the water towards the bank.
Once again the Roman artillery ceased shooting and as the last bolts and stones fell to earth, the defenders rose up from behind the barricade and unleashed their own barrage of missiles into the faces of the fresh legionaries. This time the Romans knew what to expect and the officers gave the order for the front rank to present a shield wall, with the following lines raising their shields above their heads so that the entire formation was sheltered from the hail of stones, arrows and slingshot rattling off the curved surfaces. While the men were better protected, the formation was unwieldy and tiring to maintain for any time and the inevitable gaps between the shields meant that there were still casualties.
Cato eased his horse forward to the side of the general and forced himself to draw a calming breath.
‘Sir?’
Ostorius turned, a look of mild surprise on his face. ‘Prefect Cato, what are you doing here? You should be with your men back in the camp.’
Cato ignored the question and sat erect in his saddle as he addressed his superior. ‘Sir, you must call the men back.’
‘What? What did you say?’
‘General Ostorius, I respectfully suggest that you recall the Fourteenth and the Ninth.’
Cato was aware of the shocked glances that the officers around him were exchanging, as well as the darkening of the general’s expression. Ostorius’s nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply. ‘You forget yourself, Prefect. You dare to question my orders?’
‘Sir, I am urging you to reconsider. Before we lose any more men without result.’
‘You young fool, can you not see that we are on the cusp of breaking through? One more push and they will flee. They will break and run and it will all be over. We had victory in our hands before those fools threw it away.’ He gestured angrily at the men of the Twentieth slowly re-forming their units while the wounded, hundreds of them, were tended to by the legion’s medical orderlies. ‘It seems I was wrong to put so much faith in those men. But Quintatus and the second wave are made of sterner stuff. They won’t stop until they have broken through the enemy lines and taken the hill.’
‘They are still men, sir. The ground before them is a quagmire. They will tire long before they can defeat the enemy.’
‘Enough, Prefect! Return to your post. I will deal with you later.’
‘Sir-’
‘Begone! Now!’ Ostorius thrust his hand towards the camp.
Cato could see there was no further point to his protest. He had tried and failed. The men of the second wave were doomed to repeat the failure of their comrades. And if, by some miracle, the army survived the day, Cato would be subjected to the wrath of his commander. He had challenged his authority before witnesses. There would have to be a punishment.
He saluted stiffly and turned his horse around and cantered back to the camp. By the time he had returned to Macro’s side, the Fourteenth had closed with the first barricade and the two sides were locked in combat. Macro looked at his friend with a concerned expression.
‘I take it the general wouldn’t listen to reason.’
Cato shook his head. ‘I had to try.’
‘Of course you did.’ Macro smiled sadly. ‘And I bet you pissed him off.’
‘Oh yes.’
There was nothing more to say and they turned their attention back to the hill. The fighting was ferocious, with the more frenzied of the native warriors leaping on to the shields in a bid to smash gaps in the Roman line. But the legionaries held their discipline and steadily forced their way through the gaps in the line created during the first attack. Inch by inch they pushed Caratacus’s men back. Then, as the horns sounded, the enemy broke off and clambered up towards the upper defences.
‘That went better than last time,’ Macro commented.
‘There’s still the slope to deal with, and more mud than ever this time. And more on the way.’ Cato pointed towards the top of the hill. The sunny interlude was about to come to an end. More clouds were edging in from the west, dark and threatening further rain. The first drops were already falling by the time the native warriors had reached the second barricade. Cato saw that their ranks had been thinned out by the fighting and their leaders were pulling the men in from the flanks to oppose the Romans struggling up the slope towards them. Even as he watched he saw small parties of men abandon the rocky outcrops and crags that towered either side of the contested ground, which seemed to provide the only practicable route for an attack on the hill.
A fresh barrage of missiles struck the leading ranks of the Fourteenth as the shadow of the clouds cut off the sun so that the gleam of their armour dulled. A fine veil of drizzle swept down the hill and covered the enemy and a moment later the legionaries who had reached the point where easy footing gave way to the glutinous mud. Yet still they advanced, clawing their way up towards the waiting Britons. There was no further doubt in Cato’s mind. This attack would fail just as certainly as the first. Caratacus had massed all of his men behind the barricade to make sure of it. Ostorius would be defeated, his men spent, and when the news spread across the province, every native who still nurtured a hatred of Rome would rejoice. Many would be encouraged to take up arms, and those tribes whose neutrality hung in the balance might finally join Caratacus’s alliance. The consequences appalled Cato.
His mind worked feverishly as he surveyed the battlefield. Then he saw it, the faint trace of a path away to the left, beyond the crags that flanked the battlefield. He felt his pulse quicken as he framed his plan. It flew in the face of common sense and his duty to obey his orders. If he failed, then he would be killed. If he survived it was likely that he would be ruined and discharged from the army. But neither of those possibilities took into account the likely defeat of Ostorius’s army. If that happened then Cato and his men would die anyway.
He made his decision and turned to Macro.
‘Have the men form up outside the south gate at once. I want the Blood Crows with their mounts.’
Macro stared at him in astonishment. ‘Cato, what are you doing?’
‘At the moment, nothing. Nothing to prevent the disaster that’s going to happen over there.’ He jerked a thumb towards the hill. ‘But there is something we can do that might make a difference. Get the men formed up. That’s an order.’
‘Your orders are to guard the camp, sir.’
‘Macro, I’m doing this on my own authority. There’s no time to waste. Trust me and do as I say.’
Macro rubbed his bristly jaw and then nodded. ‘All right, you fool. The gods protect us!’
He turned and hurried to the ladder and a moment later Cato heard him bellowing orders for the officers to summon their men. Cato took a last look at the hill. The Fourteenth were no more than a hundred and fifty paces from the upper barricade and the rain was falling hard. There was still time to make a difference to the outcome, but only just. He thrust himself away from the wooden rail and descended from the tower and raced to his horse.
The two cohorts of the escort detachment stood formed up outside the camp in the hissing rain. Cato noticed the curious and anxious expressions on many of their faces. Just over two hundred soldiers in all. Barely enough for the task he had in mind, but these men were battle-hardened, veterans all, and if anyone could turn defeat into victory, they could.