Praxus saluted and strode down the slope to join the colour party of the Fourteenth, casually tying the straps of his helmet as he went along. Plautius watched him go, then turned to see the standards of the Ninth Legion emerging from the camp as the second assault wave moved forward to its starting positions. The general bowed his head as the Emperor’s image was carried by. A rather too flattering portrait of Claudius, he decided, and one whose noble features bore comparatively little resemblance to the twitching fool who had been catapulted on to the throne only three years before. The ranks of the First Cohort of the Ninth Legion filed by, and the general briefly acknowledged their salute before focusing his attention back on the enemy defences.

As soon as the palisade was badly torn up Plautius gave the order for the batteries to stop the barrage. After the last bolt-thrower discharged its missile, there was a brief pause and then the headquarters trumpets sounded the advance. The two lines of the Fourteenth Legion rippled forward, the sun glinting off the bronze and tin helmets of nearly five thousand men as they marched down the slope, crossed the narrow floor of the valley and started to ascend the far slope.

‘Any moment now . . .’ Plautius muttered to himself. But there was no response from the defenders. No volley of arrows, no rattle of slingshot. The enemy’s discipline must have drastically improved, the general mused. In the earlier battles he had fought, the Britons had let loose their first volley the moment they thought the Romans were within range, thereby wasting a great quantity of their ranged munitions, as well as the devastating impact of a closely co-ordinated volley launched at short range.

The front ranks of the first wave of legionaries dipped down as they reached the defence ditch. On the far side, on the rampart, the Britons waited impassively for the Romans to reach them, and Plautius found himself tensing as he waited for the two sides to close in a deadly mêlée. Out of the ditch came the front rank of legionaries, struggling up the earth rampart and then hurling themselves on the enemy through the gaps in the shattered palisade. Such was the savagery of the final charge that the first five cohorts swept through the defences and into the enemy camp without stopping.

Then there was silence. No war cries. No enemy war horns. No din of battle. Nothing.