‘Desperate measures, eh?’ Quintatus said. ‘Still, no time to waste. We must press our advantage.’
The legate turned to the nearest of his junior tribunes. ‘I want the flank cohorts up here on the double. Send word to Tribune Otho to reinforce us. The rest are to hold their position and cross the barricade when practicable. Go!’
The young officer saluted and turned to race back towards the breach.
‘Prefect Cato, take your cavalry up to the crest. You’ll cover our flank. You’ve had your fun, now leave the rest to the legions.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted but the legate had already moved on, striding up the slope to take his place behind the centre of the line. Macro watched him briefly and shook his head.
‘Fun, he says. I wonder what it’s like when things get serious.’
Cato shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps one day we’ll really find out. Meanwhile, well done, Macro.’
They exchanged a smile and then Cato gathered the remains of his cohort and led them back up the slope, behind the legionaries, to take their place on the crest. Miro, and a handful of the men he had rallied from his own squadron, joined them. The plateau had turned into a mass of fugitives. Fear and panic was spreading through Caratacus’s army and hundreds of his men had joined the flight of the wounded, women and children streaming towards the far side of the hill as they sought to escape the legions. Cato regarded them with pity. All they would find was the screen of auxiliary troops sent to cut off their retreat. Even if the gathering storm provided some of them with cover to get away, most would be taken prisoner and condemned to slavery as spoils of war.
As soon as the first two cohorts had passed through the breach and formed up, the legate gave the order to advance and the legionaries tramped forward as their optios called the time. The large rectangular shields, spattered with mud, faced the enemy, while the points of short swords glimmered in the gaps between shields. Behind, the men peered over their shield trims, only exposing a fraction of their faces as they paced across the slope towards their foes. Cato and his men covered the open flank as the formation moved along the line of the barricade.
Only a handful of battle-crazed warriors dared to stand their ground, wielding their swords, spears and axes more with rage than skill, before they were cut down and trampled into the mud as the legionaries passed over them. Caratacus remained out in front of his men, imploring them to stand, before he too had to move to avoid death or capture. With a last look of anguish, he turned his horse and trotted through his men towards the centre of the line.
The dark rain clouds had grown thicker, blotting out the sky, and a shadowy gloom closed over the mountainous landscape as the rain fell even harder and the wind strengthened with moaning gusts that swept over the hill, chilling Cato to the bone. His fear for the fate of the army had left him. Caratacus had gambled on fighting a setpiece battle and lost. Ahead, Cato could see the enemy melting away and then there was a sudden surge in the distance and the glimmer of helmets revealed that the Romans had forced their way through, or round, the enemy’s other flank and now they were caught, as if in an iron vice.
From his vantage point on the crest, Cato could see the centre of what remained of the enemy line. A body of armoured men with helmets and patterned cloaks still stood in formation a short distance back from the barricade. Above them flew the standard of Caratacus, rippling furiously in the wind. There were perhaps three hundred warriors in his bodyguard. Not nearly enough to retrieve the situation, Cato calculated. Sure enough, the formation did not move to engage the Romans, but instead began to climb the slope towards the camp, fending off those tribesmen hindering their progress. In the middle rode Caratacus and a small party of horseman, one of whom carried the standard, holding it steadily and keeping it aloft.
As they saw their commander falling back, the last of the men still holding their position along the barricade turned away and joined the rout. Soon nothing stood between the two Roman forces advancing towards each other and Quintatus ordered his men to make for the enemy general’s bodyguard, moving in for the kill that would finally place the seal on the conquest of the new province.
Then, as the bodyguards reached the crest, Cato saw three riders leave the formation and gallop towards the tents in the centre of the camp. The standard still flew above the men who had halted and turned to face the Romans closing on them from either side. But the ruse was clear to Cato at once. The three horsemen must be Caratacus and his closest lieutenants, determined to escape the defeat and keep their struggle alive. Once again he faced a dilemma. If he pursued them he would be overriding his orders and leaving Quintatus’s flank uncovered. Once again he knew what he must do.
‘Blood Crows! Follow me!’
He spurred his horse forward towards the heart of the enemy camp. His men followed at once, spilling out on either side as they raced after their prefect. Cato saw that Caratacus and his companions had made good use of their head start and would reach the tents first. That could not be helped, but there was a chance that whatever they sought there would delay them long enough for Cato and his men to catch up. Around them the plateau was filled with drenched figures running for their lives. At the sound of the approach of the horsemen under the dreaded banner of the Blood Crows they turned aside and fled from the path of the riders. Some, too badly injured, or too tired, to move aside were run down and trampled into the sodden earth.
Ahead, Cato could just make out through the pouring rain that the three riders had reached the tents. One slipped from his saddle and entered a tent, no more than two hundred paces away. Cato leaned forward in his saddle and slapped the flat of his blade against the flank of his mount, determined to wring the last measure of effort out of the blown horse. Saliva from its muzzle flicked back into his face as it pounded towards the tents. Then he saw the man emerge again, leading a small party of women and children. The other riders leaned down to help them up.
‘Miro!’ Cato called out. ‘Go left. Cut them off!’
‘Yes, sir!’ came the instant reply and several of the riders sheared off to prevent Caratacus escaping. Cato charged on towards the tents. The riders looked up anxiously as the Roman horsemen reined in and surrounded them, swords out, ready to rush their enemy the moment their prefect gave the word.
Cato’s chest heaved as he struggled for breath. Before him, not twenty feet away, he recognised Caratacus. At his side, clutching his arm, was a sturdy woman with dark hair. In her other hand she clutched the hand of a boy, no more than ten, Cato guessed. Behind her stood two teenage girls, with terrified expressions on their faces as they gazed at the Roman cavalrymen surrounding them. Caratacus snatched out his sword as he stepped forward to protect them. The other men dropped from their saddles, weapons in hand, to stand by their leader. From their features it was clear that they were related. Brothers, thought Cato, as he walked his horse forward and pointed his sword.
‘Lay your arms down and surrender, Caratacus!’
‘Fuck you, Roman!’ one of his brothers snarled in Latin. ‘Come and get them!’
Cato stared back in silence before he lowered his blade and spoke again. ‘You cannot escape. You either surrender or die.’
‘We can still fight, Roman!’ Caratacus lifted his chin defiantly. ‘You will not kill us before we have taken several of your men with us into the afterlife.’
‘And what of them?’ Cato pointed to the women and the boy.
Caratacus raised his spare hand and pulled a dagger from his belt and passed it to the woman with a brief exchange of words before he faced Cato again. ‘I have told my wife to kill my children and then herself once I have fallen. Your men shall not rape my daughters. You will not raise my son as your slave!’