‘Shit!’ Cato angrily slapped his sword against his thigh. He rose to his feet, plainly visible to the men down by the ford now. A ripple of alarmed shouts passed through the ranks of the Durotrigans. The men still in the ford stumbled to a halt at the sight of the figure on the crest of the ridge, sunlight glittering off his silvered armour.

‘Cohort!’ Cato roared out the order. ‘Advance!’

The six centuries of Atrebatans marched up the slope, trampling down the long grass in their path. As they reached the crest they moved out of the shadows and formed a brilliant line of scarlet along the top of the hillock, with the gilded wolf’s head sparkling on top of its standard, as if it were on fire. Down by the ford the leader of the Durotrigans had quickly recovered from his shock and was bellowing orders. Already the chariot drivers were desperately trying to replace the harnesses and traces on their horses. The infantry column stumbled forward again, spilling out along the far bank of the ford as they anxiously watched the approaching line of shields.

Beyond the ford Cato saw movement along the treeline of the forest, and then Macro and his cohort spilled down the slope and started forming up across the track, sealing the Durotrigans in the trap. At first the Durotrigans did not notice the new threat, so rapt were they by the vision of the red lines of Cato’s men sweeping down the slope towards them. Then there were shouts, arms pointed and more and more heads turned to look back across the ford. A groan of despair and terror rose up from the disorganised mass of men with their horses and chariots.

Cato slowed his pace until he fell into a gap in the front line of his cohort, with Bedriacus directly behind him. The Durotrigans were no more than twenty paces away now, a mass of dark shapes silhouetted against the glittering sweep of the river. Straightening his shield in front of him, Cato raised his sword into the thrusting position.

‘Wolves! Charge!’