‘Advance!’ Vespasian called out, clearly audible in the sudden expectant hush. As the centurions relayed the order the cohorts marched down the slope, shields to the front and swords held at the hip, ready to thrust forward. Before the Britons could recover the legionaries fell upon them, finishing off the enemy injured and then battering their way into the mass of troops milling beyond the carnage caused by the javelins. At first some of the Britons tried to resist, but they were too disorganised to stop the Roman advance. And as soon as they were cut down, or fell back, any spirit to carry the charge up the hill crumbled. The initiative had passed wholly to the defenders, and now it was their turn to attack. The legate ordered his trumpeter to sound the charge. Urged on by the curses and cries of encouragement from the centurions the legionaries threw themselves at their foes, using their broad shields to smash the tribesmen down, and thrusting their short swords into the packed ranks before them.

The enemy broke, turning down the slope in their desperation to get away from Romans and running back into their own lines, adding to the confusion and panic until the entire force was fleeing down the slope. From his vantage point, Vespasian saw in the vale at the base of the hill a small group of richly adorned nobles. As the attack disintegrated, the largest of the nobles, a tall man with fair hair, immediately began to send his companions forward to rally their troops. That, Vespasian decided, must be Caratacus himself, and the legate was surprised that the king of the Catuvellaunians had been foolhardy enough to risk such a frontal assault. It was not his usual carefully considered style of waging war. But there was no time to dwell on the enemy’s mistakes, lest the legate should start to make mistakes of his own. The Roman counterattack had done its job and now there was the danger that the legionaries might get carried away.