Cato nodded and strode off to join the auxiliaries of the First Century of Fernandus’s cohort. They had formed up in a blunt column, eight abreast and ten deep, in close order. Cato had left his spear and Hannibal in the hands of one of the walking wounded and drew his sword as he took his place in the front rank of the century. The commander of the cohort looked at him uncertainly.

‘Sir, I should be leading this attack. These are my men.’

‘And it is my order they are carrying out. I will not ask them to risk a danger I wouldn’t face myself.’

Fernandus shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

Cato nodded. ‘Get back to the rest of your cohort. Something tells me the enemy won’t wait much longer before they come on again.’

The centurion bowed his head and turned to trot back towards his men, lined up to the right of the legionaries who were holding the centre, while the replacements intended for the fort held the left. Beyond that there were barely ten men in each of the remaining Thracian squadrons at the end of each line. They would hold Caratacus and his horde back for the first charge, but after that it was in the lap of the gods. Cato cleared his mind and shifted his shield round in front of his left shoulder and drew his sword level.

‘Advance, at my pace!’ he ordered. The auxiliaries tensed around and behind him, faces set in determined expressions. They knew as well as he that their survival and that of their comrades depended on them breaking through the barricade and then holding the breach open long enough for the rest of the column to retreat along the track between the pine trees.

‘One! Two!’ Cato intoned repeatedly, and the tight formation tramped forward towards the line of stakes less than a hundred paces ahead. Beyond, the enemy warriors lining the makeshift defences brandished their weapons and dared their enemy to come on and do battle. Behind him Cato could hear the blast of war horns and a great roar as the rest of the Silurians rushed towards the thin Roman line covering the retreat.

Step by step the auxiliaries made their way along the track towards the enemy and then Cato saw a man clamber atop the barricade and whirl a leather thong above his head.

‘Shields up! Form tortoise!’