The blinding white that had exploded through his head when he struck the ground faded into a cloud of swirling white sparks. Then it cleared and Cato was staring straight up, the grey sky fringed with dark blades of grass. He couldn’t breathe and his mouth opened, lungs straining for air. There was a ringing sound in his ears, and when Figulus leaned over him, with a concerned expression, Cato could not comprehend what the optio was saying to him at first. Then the words quickly became audible as the ringing died away.

‘Sir? Sir? Can you hear me? Sir?’

‘Stop . . .’ Cato wheezed, and tried to draw another breath.

‘Stop? Stop what, sir?’

‘Stop . . . bloody shouting . . . in my face.’

Figulus smiled, then reached an arm round Cato’s shoulders and eased the centurion up into a sitting position. Scattered along the track were bodies and splashes of blood. Several horses were down, some still writhing feebly. The others had run off, riderless. Only one remained on its feet, nuzzling the body of the Batavian commander.

‘The last one?’ Cato turned back to Figulus.

‘He got away. He’ll be heading back to the legion as fast as Mercury himself.’

‘Shit . . . how many did we lose?’

Figulus’ smile faded. ‘A third, maybe a half of the men. Killed and wounded. Some of the wounded will die, or we’ll have to leave them. Comes to the same thing.’

‘Oh . . .’ Cato suddenly felt very cold, as the post-battle shock gripped his body, as it always did, and he trembled.

‘Come on, sir,’ said Figulus.’On your feet. We’ll sort this lot out and find somewhere safe to rest, until it gets dark.’

‘And then?’ Cato wondered aloud.

Figulus grinned. ‘Then we’ll roast some horse-meat!’

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The army of General Plautius broke camp the next day. Vespasian watched the activity from the watch-tower on the Second Legion’s ramparts south of the Tamesis. He had risen early and leaned on the wooden rail, looking on as a multitude of tiny figures packed away their tents in the vast fortified camp that sprawled across the landscape on the far side of the river. Already a haze of disturbed dust had blended with the dispersed smoke of the campfires and hung over the scene, bathed in the diffuse glow of first light. Small detachments were busy removing the palisade and collecting the spiked iron caltrops from the ditch at the foot of the rampart. Once they had finished, other men laid into the rampart with their picks and shovelled the earth into the ditch. In the space of a few hours the marching camp would have been completely dismantled and would leave nothing behind that could serve the interests of the enemy.