The enemy broke, turning down the slope in their desperation to get away from Romans and running back into their own lines, adding to the confusion and panic until the entire force was fleeing down the slope. From his vantage point, Vespasian saw in the vale at the base of the hill a small group of richly adorned nobles. As the attack disintegrated, the largest of the nobles, a tall man with fair hair, immediately began to send his companions forward to rally their troops. That, Vespasian decided, must be Caratacus himself, and the legate was surprised that the king of the Catuvellaunians had been foolhardy enough to risk such a frontal assault. It was not his usual carefully considered style of waging war. But there was no time to dwell on the enemy's mistakes, lest the legate should start to make mistakes of his own. The Roman counterattack had done its job and now there was the danger that the legionaries might get carried away.
'Sound the recall!' Vespasian ordered, and shrill brass notes blared down the slopes. Regular battle drills proved their worth as the men pulled up, reformed into their units and began to climb back to their initial positions. The legate glanced round at the bodies littering the crushed grass of the hillside and was relieved to see only a few red tunics amongst them. As the legionaries picked their way back through the tidemark of destruction wrought by their javelins they leaned down to recover any undamaged weapons that might be reused when the enemy dared to attack again. Most of the iron javelin heads had bent on impact, or the wooden pegs that bound them to the rest of the shaft had been shattered. But some were still intact and had to be retrieved to deny them to the enemy. As soon as the six cohorts had returned to their starting points their centurions hurriedly turned them about and reformed the units into an unbroken ring around the wagons on the top of the hill.
Cato had watched the charge with glee, and had, for a mad instant, even dared to hope that the Britons had been beaten. Now he felt like a fool, a raw recruit who had let his excitement overrule his reason. He looked anxiously for any sign of Macro and was relieved to see his friend emerge through the rear rank of his temporary command and shout an order for the legionaries to dress their ranks. Macro glanced round and gave him a quick thumbs-up before hurling a stream of curses at a hapless legionary who had not heard the order. To the front of the unit, Figulus stalked along the line of grounded shields and saw to it that any spare javelins were passed forward to the men closest to the enemy.
Down at the foot of the hill the Britons were already herding their scattered men back into formation around the brightly coloured serpent banners. With no breeze to lift the long tails in the stifling heat, their bearers had to wave the banners in loops to make them visible above the heads of the Britons. The heat wavering in the air made the banners shimmer and writhe like live things.
'Well done, men!' Vespasian called out. 'We taught them a hard lesson that time. But the javelins are spent. It's down to our swords. The fight'll be hand-to-hand from now on. As long as we keep our formation we'll survive this. I swear it!'
'And if you break your vow?' a voice called out, and the men laughed. For a moment Cato saw Vespasian frown. Then the legate saw the morale-boosting effect of the insubordinate remark and made himself play along.
'If I break my vow, then there's an extra issue of wine for every man!'
Even the most laboured of jokes is a welcome distraction in desperate circumstances and the men roared with laughter. Vespasian made himself smile benignly even as he watched the enemy begin to advance up the hill again. In the distance the second column crawled closer, and was now no more than three or four miles away – but still too far for the legate to identify the tiny black figures at the front. A thin screen of cavalry trotted ahead of the column. Down below, Caratacus was watching the approaching column and pointing it out to his nobles but whether from anxiety or jubilation it was impossible for the legate to tell. He turned back to his men and called out an order.
'Shields up!'
The last of the laughter and light-hearted chatter died away as the legionaries braced themselves for the second assault. This time the enemy came on in a more determined manner. There was no wild charge, but a steady approach in tight columns. When the Britons were halfway up the slope, the war horns began to sound, and slowly the enemy found their voice, shouts and war cries swelling up in their throats as they closed in on the Romans. As they reached the point where their first attack had been broken the last few javelins were hurled down from above, but this time they were simply swallowed up in the mass of the enemy and made no perceptible impact on the Britons. When they had advanced a short distance inside javelin range, the war horns gave a shrill blaring chorus to signal the charge and a roar of rage and excitement blasted the ears of the Romans as the warriors hurtled up the slope.
All around Cato there was the thud and crack of weapons striking the broad surfaces of Roman shields, and the sharper clang and clatter of blade on blade. The tight formation of the cohorts, and the advantage of being uphill of their attackers allowed the Romans to hold their ground. Where both sides were most tightly packed together there was little chance to fight, and Briton and Roman alike rammed their boots into the churned earth and heaved their weight behind their shields. In other places there was enough freedom of movement for intense duels to take place between individual legionaries and warriors; feinting and thrusting as each sought for the chance to deliver a lethal blow.
For half an hour the two sides struggled against each other, the Britons aiming for a breakthrough that would shatter the Roman line and turn the fight into an open melee where numbers counted for more than battle-drill and discipline. At length, under such relentless pressure, the Roman line began to buckle and bulge, and the ring of defenders turned into an ellipse, and then gradually into the shapelessness of a casually discarded belt lying on the floor.
When the enemy breakthrough came it was sudden and shocking.
'Centurion!' Mandrax called out, and Cato spun round towards the standard-bearer. Mandrax was jabbing his sword towards a section of the line behind the wagons. As Cato watched, the rearmost men were pushed bodily aside and the Britons burst through the Roman line. These were heavily armed warriors, bearing shields and helmets and many wore chain mail. As they found themselves opposite the wagons they gave a savage roar of triumph and surged forwards.
'Wolves!' Cato cried, snatching up his shield. He drew his sword and ran over to Mandrax, standing in front of the king's wagon with Cadminius at his side. 'On me!'
His men just had time to brace themselves for the impact before the enemy slammed into them. Cato was knocked back against the side of the wagon, the breath driven from him in an explosive gasp. A muscular warrior with a gallic helmet snarled at the centurion, spraying Cato's face with spittle. His arm rose high above and he slashed down at Cato's head. Cato cringed, waiting for his skull to be shattered, but there was only a deep thud as the end of the blade bit deep into the side of the wagon above him. The warrior looked at his sword and then glanced down at Cato, and both broke out in hysterical laughter. Cato recovered first, and kicked his boot into the man's groin. The mad laughter abruptly turned into a groan, and the warrior doubled up and vomited on to the grass. Cato punched the pommel of his sword on to the back of the man's neck and he went out like a lamp. On either side the Wolves were locked in a desperate struggle with the enemy, and a quick glance towards the legate revealed that Vespasian had seen the danger and was anxiously rounding up a small party of officers and men pulled from the rear of one of the cohorts to plug the gap. Cato knew he and his men must hold the enemy back for a few moments yet, if the battle was not to be lost.