'What the hell?' wondered Macro.
'They think it's us, sir! They think they've caught us asleep!'
With a savage shout of dismay the Britons realised their error and turned towards the legionaries lined up across the middle of the small clearing.
'Release javelins at will!' roared Macro.
The dark shafts arced in a shallow trajectory straight into the foremost Britons. Hidden by the night, the javelins tore into their victims before they were even aware of the danger; several of the attackers fell and were trampled by the feet of their comrades desperate to get at the Romans. There was barely time for the second volley to be released before the Britons were upon them, screaming their savage war cries. A sharp clatter and clash of weapons and shields rang out, accompanied by the shouts, grunts and cries of men fighting wildly in the darkness.
'Close up! Close up" Macro shouted above the din. 'Keep together!' Unless the legionaries could remain distinct from their enemies, there was every chance that Roman would attack Roman.
Just then the moon began to appear from behind a dark bank of clouds and a thin grey light was thrown on the scene. Macro saw to his relief that his men were managing to keep close enough together to hold off the wave of Britons hacking and slashing at the shield wall. But even as he looked round, a large warrior threw himself between the shields of the men, nearly knocking them to the ground, and hurled himself on the centurion. Macro had only an instant to react and began to roll back to absorb the coming impact.
'Sir!' Cato shouted from one side, and he swung his weight behind his shield and slammed the boss into the Briton's side. It was enough and the man crashed to the ground at Macro's side, badly winded. Macro drew back his sword arm and smashed the pommel up into the Briton's chin. The man went down with a single grunt, out cold.
Cato quickly helped his centurion back to his feet and then, shield to the fore, thrust his short sword into the mass of warriors confronting him. The tip of the blade struck home, a man cursed at the injury, and Cato pulled the sword free and struck again.
The moon was now clear of the clouds and beamed its melancholy light down on the writhing melee, reflecting dully on flickering blades, polished helmets and armour. Macro could see that he and his men were badly outnumbered and that even more of these fierce warriors were emerging from the path at the head of the clearing. The legionaries could not hope to last long against these odds and seemed doomed to the same gruesome fate that had befallen the Batavians.
'Fall back! Fall back to the far end of the clearing!' Macro bellowed above the din of the vicious skirmish. 'With me!'
He parried a blow to one side and retreated a step. To both sides his men rippled back and gave ground, slowly moving into the neck of the clearing. It was just as well, since they could not have held the full width of the clearing for much longer. Slowly, slowly they inched back either side of the path, forming a tight knot, three, then four, ranks deep, against which the superior weight of the Britons ceased to have a significant impact. Now it became the kind of dense hand-to-hand fighting in which Roman equipment and training excelled, and the thrusts of the short swords began to claim more victims than the unwieldy blades favoured by the natives. Even so, the sheer volume of enemy numbers would eventually guarantee a British victory. Macro glanced anxiously about the dwindling ranks of his men.
'Keep falling back! Back!'
By the time they reached the edge of the clearing the skirmish was being fought on a narrow front, and the surviving Romans instinctively compacted three shields across the path to provide a solid obstacle to the pursuing Britons.
'Rear five men stay with me!' shouted Macro. 'Cato! Get the others along that track as fast as you can. Head for the river and go downstream. '
'Yes, sir. But what about you?' the optio called out anxiously.
'We'll be along, Optio. Now go!'
As the rest of the century ran off down the path, Macro looked round at his companions' pale faces and grinned. He thrust his sword out into the mass on the other side of his shield. 'Right, lads! Let's make this one count. They'll not forget the Second Legion in a hurry.'
As he raced down the track, Cato tried not to step on the last man's heels. Every instinct drove him to flee as fast as he could from the sounds of the fight behind. Yet he burned with shame as well, and would have turned and run back to his centurion's side were it not for Macro's express order and the responsibility he now carried for these survivors of the Sixth Century. When the sound of the fighting had grown faint, Cato shouted out an order to halt, and quickly pushed through to the front of the century. He could not trust the man in the lead to pay heed to the location of the moon in relation to the river; he might just blunder off into the marsh.
Having got his bearings, and now no longer able to hear any sound of the centurion's last stand at the clearing, Cato ordered the century to follow him at the trot. It was dangerous to run in the dark, there were too many irregularities in the path and too many twisted roots. Far better to move at a pace they could sustain for a while yet. Jangling and chinking, the legionaries wound their way along the path in the pale moonlight and Cato was relieved to find that the track grew steadily wider and followed a generally straight line – evidence that the track was now manmade and therefore led somewhere.
A distant shout from the track behind them revealed that the Britons had taken up the chase. Cato extended his stride, snatching at breaths as he pounded along. He frequently glanced back to make sure the men were still with him. All at once he thought he heard what he was searching for: the sound of water rippling along the banks of a river. Then he was sure of the sound.
'The river, lads!' he shouted, gasping hard to draw in enough breath to be heard. 'We've made the river.'
The track twisted slightly to one side and then there it was, the great Tamesis, flowing seaward and glistening with reflected moonlight. The track abruptly gave out on to a smooth expanse of mud and Cato felt it giving way beneath his feet, sucking at his boots.
'Halt! Halt!' he cried out. 'Stay on the track!'
As the century waited, gasping in the warm air, Cato poked the ground ahead with his sword tip. The blade passed into it with almost no resistance. The shouts on the track were drawing nearer and Cato looked up in terror.
'What the fuck're we going to do, Optio?' someone called out. 'They'll be on us in a minute.'
'Swim for it!' someone suggested.
'No!' Cato replied firmly. 'There's no question of swimming anywhere. It'd be useless. They'd pick us off easily.'
He was gripped by a moment of paralysing indecision, before fresh shouting from the Britons stirred him. This time the shouting came not from the track but much closer, just along the river. He scanned the river bank until he saw a man shouting and jabbing a spear at them. Two more men squelched through the mud to join him. Beyond them, not fifty paces away, was a mass of large shell shapes hauled up from the river's edge.
'There! Boats! Let's go!' Cato shouted. He dragged his foot from the mud and planted it ahead of him where it sank past the ankle and into the grip of the foul, stinking mud. The rest of the century plunged after him and, grunting with desperate exertion, struggled towards the vessels Cato had seen. The slime squelched and sucked at their legs, and the more exhausted stumbled and were almost immersed in the filth. The three Britons watched their approach, shouting out for their comrades at the top of their voices. Glancing back, Cato saw the red glow of the torch weaving towards them and dragged himself on, forcing his legs to push their way through the mud.