‘Sound the recall!’ Vespasian ordered, and shrill brass notes blared down the slopes. Regular battle drills proved their worth as the men pulled up, reformed into their units and began to climb back to their initial positions. The legate glanced round at the bodies littering the crushed grass of the hillside and was relieved to see only a few red tunics amongst them. As the legionaries picked their way back through the tidemark of destruction wrought by their javelins they leaned down to recover any undamaged weapons that might be reused when the enemy dared to attack again. Most of the iron javelin heads had bent on impact, or the wooden pegs that bound them to the rest of the shaft had been shattered. But some were still intact and had to be retrieved to deny them to the enemy. As soon as the six cohorts had returned to their starting points their centurions hurriedly turned them about and reformed the units into an unbroken ring around the wagons on the top of the hill.

Cato had watched the charge with glee, and had, for a mad instant, even dared to hope that the Britons had been beaten. Now he felt like a fool, a raw recruit who had let his excitement overrule his reason. He looked anxiously for any sign of Macro and was relieved to see his friend emerge through the rear rank of his temporary command and shout an order for the legionaries to dress their ranks. Macro glanced round and gave him a quick thumbs-up before hurling a stream of curses at a hapless legionary who had not heard the order. To the front of the unit, Figulus stalked along the line of grounded shields and saw to it that any spare javelins were passed forward to the men closest to the enemy.

Down at the foot of the hill the Britons were already herding their scattered men back into formation around the brightly coloured serpent banners. With no breeze to lift the long tails in the stifling heat, their bearers had to wave the banners in loops to make them visible above the heads of the Britons. The heat wavering in the air made the banners shimmer and writhe like live things.

‘Well done, men!’ Vespasian called out. ‘We taught them a hard lesson that time. But the javelins are spent. It’s down to our swords. The fight’ll be hand-to-hand from now on. As long as we keep our formation we’ll survive this. I swear it!’

‘And if you break your vow?’ a voice called out, and the men laughed. For a moment Cato saw Vespasian frown. Then the legate saw the morale-boosting effect of the insubordinate remark and made himself play along.

‘If I break my vow, then there’s an extra issue of wine for every man!’