The moment of surprise was over. The leader of the enemy war band shouted orders to his men and they turned towards the oncoming Romans and began to form a line. Cato saw that the opportunity to crush the enemy in the first charge was slipping from his grasp. If they could form up in close ranks and present their spears then there was every chance that they would stand firm against the horsemen. Yet it was vital that Cato and his men charged at the same time to ensure the maximum impact. In less than two heartbeats he weighed up the options in his mind, calculating the remaining distance, the time needed to strike, and the likelihood of his men being dispersed as their mounts galloped at different speeds. Snatching a deep breath, Cato stabbed his short sword towards the tribesmen and bellowed the order, ‘Charge! Charge!’

His cry was taken up by Macro, who gritted his teeth and drew his lips back in a feral grin as he waved his sword above his head and grasped his reins in his left hand. Trebellius and his squadron shouted their war cry and raised their spear arms ready to strike down at the enemy. Decimus brought up the rear, legs dangling almost to the ground as he urged his braying mule on, slapping its flank with the flat of his sword. Cato heard the roar of wind in his ears and the icy sting of the drizzle against his face and his heart pounded wildly as he clenched his thighs against the flanks of his horse and leaned forward slightly. The acrid tang of the animal’s pelt filled his nostrils and stinking spittle spattered his cheek. Ahead he saw some of the tribesmen stand their ground, bracing their feet as they crouched and lowered the points of their spears and swords towards the charging horsemen. Others had clustered together in small groups and a handful were running for the cover of the treeline as their leader hurled angry insults after them before turning to face the Romans with an enraged expression contorting his features. The man with the carnyx horn was blowing for all he was worth to lend courage to his comrades, and the stout hearts amongst them answered with a loud cheer of defiance.

A swift glance to either side revealed that the extended formation of horsemen had become ragged and Cato snatched a quick breath and cried out, ‘Hold the line!’

Only those nearest to him heeded, or heard, the order and tried to adjust their pace. But before Cato could do anything more about it they were upon the enemy. There was a blur of faces, etched with rage and fear, some with woad patterns painted on their skin, then a thud from Cato’s left as the first of the horses burst into a loose group of tribesmen, smashing into a shield. The horse let out a shrill whinny and its rider stabbed his spear down, piercing the neck of the man knocked down by his mount. Cato glimpsed the other tribesmen closing round the horse, thrusting with their swords and spears, then his attention snapped to the line of men directly ahead of him, and beyond them their leader, shouting encouragement to his warriors. These men seemed more disciplined than their companions, and were better armed with bronze-trimmed shields; some even wore helmets and armour, looted from the bodies of Romans.