'Make ready!' Cato bellowed, his nervous voice rising in pitch. 'Release!'
The front ranks of the Durotrigans went down in a rippling wave of stumbling and stricken men. But at once, those behind rushed over their dead and injured comrades, and threw themselves towards the oval shields of the Wolves.
'Draw swords!' Cato called out, wrenching his own blade free of its scabbard. The ridged ivory handle fitted well into his tight grip and he pushed his way into the second rank of Figulus' century. 'Keep those shields up and hold the line!'
The volley of javelins had done its job and the enemy crashed singly into the shield wall rather than engulfing it in one wave. The first score of Durotrigans to reach the Wolves were cut down the moment they tried to burst into the shield wall, killed by swift thrusts of short swords from every side. But then the main weight of the charge crashed into the thin line of the Atrebatans, and the cohort reeled back from the impact. Cato fixed his eyes on the savage expression of a huge warrior making straight for him, sword swinging up for a killer blow. The centurion didn't give him the chance, and threw himself under the man's arm, ramming his blade into his foe's throat. A sheet of warm blood gushed over Cato's arm as the warrior dropped to his knees, clutching desperately at the huge wound in his neck. Cato ignored him, quickly finding another target: an older man with a spear. This veteran was not as strong as the first, but more experienced and more wary. He feinted at Cato and, as the centurion made to block the blow, the old warrior dipped the spearhead under Cato's blade and thrust towards his chest. Only a wild twist saved Cato from the full impact. Even so, the glancing blow spun him round, driving the breath from his lungs. The veteran quickly drew his spear back to deliver the fatal thrust, but a shield boss crashed into the side of his head and he crumpled down.
'Sir!' Figulus shouted, risking a swift glance at his centurion. 'You hurt?'
'No,' gasped Cato as he snatched up a shield from one of his men lying dead at his feet, helmet cleaved in two by an axe blow that had shattered the skull.
Keeping the shield high, Cato glanced round to see that the line of his cohort had disintegrated and the men were lost amid a general melee of stabbing spears and swinging swords and axes. His ears filled with the thud of blows landing on shields and shattering bodies, the metallic clash of desperate parries and the cries and screams of the dying. Cato stepped back and looked over his shoulder. Macro's men had also been driven in by the ferocious charge, and in between the two sides of the desperate skirmish the three centuries that had faced the first charge were breaking, dropping their weapons and streaming back towards Calleva, running for their lives.
'Oh, no…'
A sudden shout from Figulus saved Cato as he turned, saw the axe blade biting through the air towards his face, and ducked just in time. The axe hissed through the air above Cato's head, clipping off the metal bracket that held his crest. As the red horsehair dropped to the bloody ground beside him, Cato swung his sword into the warrior's kneecap, smashing the bone and severing muscles across the joint. That one would never be able to fight again, Cato noted as he struggled back on to his feet.
'Cato's down!' a voice cried out nearby. 'The centurion's dead!'
'No!' Cato cried out. But it was already too late. The cry was taken up on all sides, and the remains of the cohort broke. For a moment Cato stood side to side with Figulus, shield up and sword ready to thrust, but the Durotrigans left them alone as they went for the unprotected backs of those who had turned and were trying to escape the carnage. It was the worst thing the Atrebatans could do. A man armed and facing his enemy was far safer than any who dropped his sword and shield and ran for his life. But the first victim of panic is always reason, and those who ran were driven by an animal instinct to flee and survive that was senseless and quite foolish.
'Let's get out of here!' said Cato. 'Keep close.'
The two Romans pushed their way through the loose mass of figures spread across the floor of the vale. As long as they kept their guard up, they were ignored as the Durotrigans went in search of easier prey. But as the mass of struggling men gradually dispersed Cato knew that the Durotrigans would turn their attention on them.
'Figulus.'
'Sir.'
'We'll have to run for it. When I give the word, drop your shield and follow me. But whatever you do, keep hold of your sword.'
'Yes, sir.'
A moment later, the way ahead of them cleared, and in the distance Cato could see the sprawling mass of thatched roofs of Calleva. He took a last look round, then shouted. 'Now!'
The two Romans threw their shields down and ran after the figures streaming back towards the safety of Calleva. In among them ran the Durotrigans, screaming with exultation as they ran their foes down and stabbed and slashed at those too slow, or too panic-stricken to escape their pursuers. Cato led his comrade in a straight line, crouching low and running as fast as his legs could carry him. Only a few of the Durotrigans paid them any close attention, and of these only a handful tried to stop them escaping. But singly, they were no match for two legionaries and were quickly cut down.
They had run for just over a mile when Figulus suddenly pulled Cato's arm.
'Listen!'
'What?' Cato turned round, chest heaving as he gulped for breath. The effort of running such a distance in his chain mail had exhausted him. Spread out around them were the survivors of the two cohorts, still flooding back towards Calleva. The Durotrigans had dropped back, and were busy looting and mutilating the bodies of their Atrebatan enemies.
'Look!' Figulus gasped as he pointed back towards the smouldering remains of the decoy supply column. 'Over there!'
A line of horsemen was galloping over the crest of the hill that had earlier concealed the Durotrigan ambush. As soon as they reached the bottom of the vale they spread out, lowered the tips of their spears and urged their horses on towards the scattered remnants of the Wolves and the Boars, still struggling towards Calleva's ramparts.
'Shit!' Cato panted, unbuckling his belt. 'Run! Don't stop for anything.'
The dreadful screams of those being ridden down in the long grass began as Cato struggled out of his harness and desperately wrenched the heavy chain mail over his head. He dumped it on the ground, snatched up his sword and ran after Figulus, already some distance ahead of him. He was halfway back to Calleva when the wound to his side began to make itself felt once again. He had thought it quite healed, but now the extreme exertions of the fight and rout caused a stabbing throb down the entire side of his body, so that every breath was agony. His heart pounded so much that it filled his ears almost to the exclusion of every other noise, and drowned out the screams of the dying, the exultant cries of the Durotrigans and the thrumming of horses' hoofs as the enemy charged to and fro amidst the panic-stricken men fleeing for their lives.