Then there was a shout of triumph from behind as their pursuers reached the end of the track and caught sight of their prey stuck in the river mud. Without an instant's hesitation the Britons plunged after them, the torch bearer leading the way. The flickering red glow glimmered off the slick surface of the mud and threw the wavering shadows of Romans and Britons alike far and wide. Every sinew of his heart and body strained as Cato urged himself and his men on, calling on them to hold their shields to the rear in case their pursuers had any throwing spears.
The mud became more shallow and solid underfoot as they reached the three Britons guarding the boats. Cato struggled to get a firm footing in the slippery mud and he made for the nearest of them – an old man in rough clothes and carrying only a hunting spear. He made a two-handed thrust at Cato's body and the optio swiftly parried, deflecting the tip down into the mud, allowing the impetus of the thrust to overbalance the Briton, who was then perfectly positioned for a swift strike to his back. With a deep groan as the air was forced from his lungs, the man went face down into the mud and Cato slithered over the top of him towards the two remaining guards. They were only boys, and one look at the filthy Roman mauling for them with lips unconsciously drawn back in a snarl was more than enough. Clutching their spears they turned and ran, past the ranks of boats they were supposed to protect and off into the night. For the first time Cato could see the vessels clearly; they were small, wood-framed and skin-covered, and might hold three or four men each. They looked light and flimsy, but they were now the only chance the Sixth Century had of escaping annihilation.
Cato turned round, gasping for breath, and saw that his men were emerging from the deeper mud behind him. A short distance beyond, the British warriors came on, struggling almost knee-deep through the disturbed morass left by their quarry. The torch bearer was doing his best to keep his torch held high, and the flickering glare lit up the faces of the Britons in a terrifying red glow. One of the Romans had waded into deeper mud than his comrades and was being rapidly overhauled by his pursuers.
'Slash the sides of those boats,' Cato shouted to his men. 'But save ten for US!'
The legionaries pressed past him and set about the skin sides of the nearest boats, working quickly along the river bank. Cato stepped back towards the last Roman still struggling through the river mud, now identifiable in the mix of moonlight and the glow of the torch.
'Pyrax! Hurry, man! They're right behind you.'
The veteran glanced quickly over his shoulder as he strained to pull his leg from the mud, but the suction was too great and his last reserves of energy were nearly spent. He tried once again, cursing in accompaniment to his efforts, and with a loud sucking plop the foot came free and he planted it as far ahead of him as he could, shifted his weight and tried to extract his rear foot. But the effort required to make any further progress was too much for him and he stood for a moment, an expression of dread and frustration etched on his face. His eyes met Cato's.
'Come on, Pyrax! Move!' Cato screamed at him in desperation. 'That's an order, soldier!'
Pyrax stared a moment before his face relaxed into a grim smile. 'Sorry, Optio. Guess you'll just have to put me on a charge.'
'Pyrax… '
The legionary braced himself as firmly as he could in the mud, and twisted round to face the Britons who were several feet away but struggling forward ferociously to get at him. Appalled, Cato watched from a short distance, quite helpless to intervene, as Pyrax fought his last battle, stuck in the foul-smelling mud, screaming out his defiance to the end. In the orange cast of the torch, Cato saw the first Briton swing his sword at Pyrax's head. Pyrax blocked it with his shield, before thrusting back with his own sword. But the difference in reach between the weapons meant that he could not strike his opponent.
'Come on, you bastards!' Pyrax shouted. 'Come and get me!'
Two spearmen waded in range and thrust at the trapped legionary, aiming for the gaps between his shield and his body. On the third attempt one succeeded and Pyrax cried out as the tip was buried deep in his hip. His guard slipped, the shield dropped to one side and instantly the second spearman thrust into his armpit. Pyrax stood quite still for a moment, then his sword dropped from his hand and he slumped into the mud. He looked towards Cato one last time, head drooping, and blood spurted from his open mouth.
'Run, Cato… ' he choked.
Then the Britons closed in, hacking and stabbing at Pyrax's body as Cato stood frozen in horror. Then, recovering himself, he turned and ran for his life, slithering over the treacherous mud towards the handful of boats that the rest of the century had pushed into the river. He made for the nearest one, and splashed into the shallows as the first of the Britons pursuing him emerged from the deeper mud, screaming his war cry. Cato dropped his shield and reached for the side of the boat. He gripped it firmly, causing the flimsy craft to tilt dangerously. 'Careful, Optio! You'll have us over.'
He struggled to clamber over the side. The three men already in the boat leaned the opposite way to keep it level and only a little water spilled in as Cato rolled into the bottom, causing the craft to rock alarmingly. Suddenly another pair of hands grasped the side and the boat tipped again, revealing the snarling face of a British warrior, a triumphant gleam in his wild wide eyes. There was a swish through the air and a glint of moonlight on Cato's blade, followed by a soft crunch as the sword cut through the Briton's hand just below the wrist. The man bellowed with pain; the severed hand splashed into the river and he fell back with it.
'Get us out of here!' shouted Cato. 'Move!'
The legionaries thrust their paddles into the river', straining awkwardly to move the unfamiliar craft away from the river bank. Cato knelt in the stern, watching as the Britons plunged into the river behind him, but the gap between them widened and eventually the enemy gave up, shouting with enraged frustration. Some of the quicker-witted made for the remaining boats, before discovering the tears and rents in the sides that rendered them useless. The gap between Cato's small flotilla and the river bank steadily grew until the Britons were small figures milling about in the shrinking loom of their torch which cast a glittering trail of dancing reflections out towards the Romans.
'What now, Optio?'
'Eh?' Cato turned round, momentarily dazed by their terrible flight. 'Which way should we head, sir?'
Cato frowned at this formal mode of address. before it dawned on him that he was now in command of the century, and it was to him the men would look for order and salvation.
'Downriver,' he muttered, then raised his head towards the other craft. 'Head downriver! Follow us.'
By the light of the moon the string of little craft steadily paddled with the slow current. When the torch on the river bank was finally lost from view round the first bend they came to, Cato slumped down against the stern of the boat and let his head roll back, wearily gazing up at the face of the moon. Now that they were out of immediate danger, his first thought was for Macro. What had happened to him? The centurion had stayed and fought to save his men without a moment's hesitation, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. He had bought Cato and the others enough time to escape, but was that at the cost of his life? Cato looked back upriver, wondering if there was any way Macro might have escaped as well. But how? His throat tightened. He cursed himself and struggled to contain his emotions in front of the other men in the boat. 'Hear that'?' someone said. 'Stop paddling.'