‘My horse!’ Plautius called out, the first dreadful doubt forming in his mind. What if Caratacus knew about the trap the Romans had prepared for him and refused to be taken captive? What if he persuaded his men that Rome would show them no mercy? After all, no mercy had been shown to those whose lands they had laid waste throughout the summer. Plautius felt sick. Had he gone too far? Had he convinced Caratacus that the only way left to defy Rome was suicide?

‘Where’s my bloody horse?’

A slave came running over, leading a beautifully groomed black stallion. The general snatched the reins and placed his boot on to the interlaced fingers of the slave. With a quick heave he swung his leg over and dropped on to his saddle. Plautius wheeled the horse towards the enemy fortifications and galloped down the slope. Some of the rear ranks of the men in the Ninth saw him coming and shouted a warning to their comrades. A path quickly opened up through the dense mass of legionaries and the general swept by, his sense of dread deepening with every beat of his heart. He urged his horse on, steering a path through the rear cohorts of the Fourteenth as he rode up the far slope. Plautius reined in at the ditch and swung himself down to the torn-up earth. He ran down the ditch and scrambled up the far side, then up on to the rampart.

‘Out of my way!’ he shouted at a group of his men standing quietly in a breach in the palisade. ‘Move!’

They hurriedly stepped aside and revealed the Britons’ camp beyond. Scores of dead campfires smouldered in the space behind the ram-part. But there was no sign of the enemy. Plautius looked along the ruined palisade and saw hundreds of crude straw figures knocked flat by the artillery barrage, or trampled down by the first assault wave.

‘Where are they?’ he asked out loud. But none of his men would meet his eye. They no more knew the answer than did their general.

There was a sudden commotion and Praxus emerged on to the ramparts dragging a Briton with him. The man, obviously roaring drunk, slumped down at the general’s feet.

‘This is the only one I could find, sir. When we got into the camp I saw a small band of them riding off towards the river, that direction.’ Praxus nodded towards a serpent standard propped up against the palisade. ‘They must have been the ones blowing the horns and waving the standards.’

‘Yes,’ Plautius replied quietly, ‘that makes sense . . . That makes sense. Question is, where are they now? Where’s Caratacus and his army?’

For a moment there was silence, as Plautius looked south towards the river. Then the drunken Briton started singing, and the spell was broken.

‘Shall I send the scouts out, sir?’ asked Praxus.