'Helmets on!' Cato shouted and quickly fastened his chin strap, ducking down below the bulwark on the foredeck. Ahead, the trireme turned upriver and let the way pay off before dropping anchor. The first transport slipped under its stern and made for the river bank a hundred paces beyond. The slingshot continued to strike the vessel, but the boat crew and the legionaries crouched low enough to render the volley harmless.
'Easy on the oars!' the transport's captain bellowed and the men on the sweeps rested on their handles, waiting for the other transports to close up and form a line so that they would all reach the bank at the same time and not land their troops in a piecemeal fashion. Under fire from slingers and archers, the clumsy transports manoeuvred into position and waited for the trireme to commence bombarding the enemy massed on the river bank.
A sudden series of loud cracks split the air as the torsion arms of the bolt-throwers were released, and the heavy bolts shot towards the Britons on the bank. Swirls in their ranks marked the passage of the bolts, and the screams and shrieks of the wounded were added to the sound of their war cry. Moments later the auxiliary archers on the trireme began to add their volleys to the bombardment, and the scantily armoured among the Britons fell like leaves. As the support fire began to clear gaps on the bank, the captain of the lead transport gave the signal for the assault to begin and the crewmen bent themselves to their sweeps. The transports moved forward and the legionaries aboard raised their shields overhead against a hail of slings hot and arrows. The crew were afforded no protection, and as the lead transport neared the bank the port-side sweep dropped into the river as both of the crewmen went down; one hit by two arrows lay howling on the deck, while his comrade lay still, killed by a slingshot bursting through an eye into his brain. At once the drag on the port sweep began to pull the bows round. Seeing the danger, Cato dropped his shield and javelin and grabbed at the loose handle, dragging the oar blade from the river. Unused to the unwieldy sweep, he struggled to keep the prow of the transport in line with the bank, as slingshot rattled off the bow and arrows struck the deck with a splintering thwack.
He risked a look over the side and saw that the bank was close by; any moment the transport would ground and the assault would begin. A sudden dragging sensation indicated that the keel had made contact with the shallows of the river bed. The transport stopped moving forward and the captain ordered the crew to take cover. Cato dropped the handle and retrieved his shield and javelin, conscious that all eyes of the century were directed at him.
'Remember, lads,' he shouted, 'this one's for Macro… Ready javelins!'
The men rose to their feet and the first few moved up to the foredeck, ready to hurl their javelins.
'Release at will!'
The rest of the century fed their javelins forward to those on the foredeck and a steady fire brought down more of the enemy until the supply was exhausted. Cato looked round and saw that the trireme had ceased fire.
Now was the moment.
For an instant his mind began to weigh up the terrible risks and absurdity of what he was about to do, and he knew that if he delayed any longer his courage would fail him. He tensed and sprang over the transport's side, screaming for the others to follow him. The water was chest deep and his boots slipped into the soft silt of the river bottom. Around him the rest of the century splashed down and then they surged forward towards the bank.
'Come on! Come on!' Cato shouted above the din.
The Britons knew that this fight must be won before the Romans could secure a foothold on the bank, and plunged into the river to meet the attack. The two sides crashed headlong into each other, close to the transports. A huge man surged through the water making straight for Cato, spear raised high above his head, ready to strike. Cato threw his shield forward when the blow came, and knocked the spear to one side. The counterstroke was executed with a precision that would have made Centurion Bestia proud, and the dead centurion's ivory-handled sword plunged deep into the Briton's side. Cato ripped it free just in time to slash at the head of the next enemy. He fought his way to the shore foot by foot, teeth locked tight as an inhuman howl in his throat challenged all who stood in his way. The churned-up water flashed white and silver in the bright sunlight, and specks of crimson splashed up and sparkled like rubies before spattering down on the combatants.
The water about Cato's legs turned a muddy red as more Romans struggled through the shallows and attempted to link with legionaries who had landed moments before. Already the transports were being pushed back into the river and were making for the second assault wave as fast as the sweeps could be worked. Cato and the others were on their own until the next wave could join the battle, and the only thing that mattered was to live until that moment. He was only ankle-deep in the water now, and had to take care not to slip in the mud. He blocked with his shield and thrust with his sword in a steady rhythm, gritting his teeth against the pain from his burns. The rest of the century fought close by, forming a shield wall automatically as years of relentless training bore fruit. The initial mad scramble was over and the fight began to take a form more familiar to the Romans.
'Move left, with me!' Cato called out as he spied the nearest men from one of the other transports. Slowly, his century edged forward, onto the flattened grass of the river bank and began to sidestep towards their comrades. All the while the Britons hacked at their shields with sword, axe and spear. With a sharp cry the man next to Cato went down as the bloody tip of a wickedly barbed spear burst through his calf. With a vicious wrench the Briton at the end of the spear pulled it back and the legionary fell onto his back, screaming. The century closed up and moved on, their comrade's cries cut short as the Britons quickly butchered him. Little by little the small clusters of legionaries fell in with each other until they were able to form a solid line of four or five hundred men. And yet the Britons still swarmed around them in their thousands, desperately trying to push them back into the river.
'Steady, lads!' Cato shouted again and again as he cut and thrust at any faces and bodies that came within reach of his sword. The shield he presented to the enemy shuddered and thudded with the impact of their blows; a waste of effort and indicative of the poor training of these British levies who fought with un guided rage and simply attacked whatever part of the invader that fell before their weapons. But what the Britons lacked in quality they made up for in quantity, and although the ground was littered with their dead and dying, they came on as if they were possessed by demons. And maybe they were. A glance over their ranks revealed to Cato a scattered line of strangely garbed men with wild beards, urging the Britons on with arms raised imploringly to the heavens, and screaming savage curses. With a thrill of horror Cato realised these men must be Druids, tales of whose exploits were told to terrify Roman children.
But there was time for only the briefest of glances before he had to deal with the next crisis. A body of Britons, better armed and more determined than their comrades, suddenly confronted the Sixth Century and forced them back into the river. Several of Cato's men were down, some knocked over, others losing their balance in the slippery mud, and suddenly the shield wall was breaking apart. Before Cato could rally his men, he was aware of a presence at his side. He just had time to glance right and glimpse the snarling face of a black-haired Briton before the man slammed into his side and both men went tumbling into the shallows of the river.
A blinding flash of the sun. Then an instant of glittering spray and the world went dark before Cato's eyes. Water filled his mouth and lungs as he instinctively gasped for the next breath. The Briton was still on top of him, hands frantically fumbling for his throat. Cato had dropped his sword and shield as he fell; he grabbed at his attacker, trying to use the man to haul himself up out of the water, strangely devoid of the sounds of battle. But the Briton had a powerful physique, and firmly held him down. The agonised desire for air and the imminence of his death lent Cato a reserve of desperate strength. His hands groped for the man's face and his fingers thrust into the Briton's eyes. Abruptly the man released his grip on Cato's neck and Cato burst to the surface, spluttering water and gasping for breath. He kept his fingers clamped on the man's face and the Briton shrieked with pain, clawing at Cato's arms before some instinct made him smash a fist down at his opponent. The blow struck Cato's cheek and the world went white an instant before he was back under water with the weight of the man on top of him again.