command to kneel. ‘But first, we have one last battle to fight.’ In a single movement he leapt on to her back and manoeuvred her behind the centre of the Batavian position.
On the far side of the clearing Nuada urged the exhausted Dobunni warriors to a last effort. He had watched in frustration and fury as Togodumnus launched his forces in one futile bull-headed charge after another, allowing the Romans to harvest his men the way a scythe harvests a field of corn. Now he drew Togodumnus to one side. Caratacus’s brother had the look of a man caught in a nightmare. His eyes flickered as if he were seeking an avenue of escape, but they never rested in one place long enough for him to identify it. If he didn’t win this battle, he knew he was finished. If his brother didn’t kill him, the Dobunni survivors would.
‘You have one opportunity,’ Nuada hissed, gripping the king by his cloak where a large golden brooch held it closed at his neck. ‘Do you understand me? One opportunity. Your warriors will follow you, but only if you lead them. This is what you must do.’
XXXIII
Caratacus’s brain felt as if it were about to explode. How could one man cope with so many different problems? How could a single mind deal with the myriad divergent dilemmas created by an army on the brink of defeat? Had he underestimated the threat to his right flank, from where Nuada had failed to return with word of Togodumnus’s position? He had been betrayed by Epedos, that was clear, but who else was about to betray him? He had been certain the left flank could be held — now he was certain Bodvoc would be overwhelmed unless he was given aid. He tried to feel the ebb and flow of the battle around him, but there was only chaos. His people were dying and he was helpless.
‘Lord?’ Ballan’s voice pierced his despair. ‘Lord, you must act. There is still time.’
He blinked and his mind cleared. He saw Ballan staring at him. Saw the trust in the Iceni’s eyes. Beyond him, Scarach stood with his enormous son, waiting. There was still a chance. One chance.
‘Lord Scarach, take your Durotriges, the Trinovantes and the lesser tribes. Join with Bodvoc and smash the forces facing him. One attack. Every man you can gather on the way.’ Scarach stared at him.
He had been waiting all day for a fight and at last he was going to get one. And what a fight. But he understood the implications of Caratacus’s order.
‘That will leave you with-’
‘I know. It is the only way.’
The Durotrige hesitated; did his honour require a refusal? He saw the certainty in Caratacus’s eyes and knew it did not. He nodded and turned away, shouting his orders, but Caratacus had one final instruction. ‘Scarach, you must control your forces. Don’t let them off the leash. When it is done bring them back here. I promise I will leave you more Romans to kill.’
Scarach laughed. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep my dogs to heel. We’ll rip a few Roman faces off and slaughter so many of the bastards they won’t stop running until they reach the ocean. I’ll leave Bodvoc to clean up like the housewife he is and then come back and show you how it’s done.’
With a last salute the king of the Durotriges ran from the hill and Caratacus again turned his attention to the legionaries pouring from the three narrow bridges. There were hundreds now, already linking the three bridgeheads into a single entity. Soon there would be thousands. His strategy had failed. There was no question of sucking Plautius into a trap, for the trap was already sprung. He must stop the three legions where they were and buy time for Scarach to defeat the force on his left.
He waved his war chiefs forward. It was now or never.
‘Catuvellauni!’ he roared. ‘Attack. Kill them! Kill them all!’
The vast warrior host had been waiting in the lee of the hill since long before sunrise, tormented by and taking casualties from the catapult missiles landing in their midst. Caratacus had dispersed them as widely as he dared, but rocks the size of a bull’s head bounced and skipped and ricocheted over the hard ground, turning men to red ruin in an instant, removing arms and legs and heads. But the British warriors knew nothing of their king’s despair. They had not fought, so they did not consider defeat. They knew the Romans were on the other side of the slope with their backs to the river. The invaders. The enemy. The Catuvellauni were blood-crazed and battle-ready and they charged with all the unstoppable power of a mountain avalanche.
With a surge of pride, Caratacus watched them as they breasted the hilltop in one screaming mass and accelerated down the slope with their fearsome champions in the lead, leaping ahead, tall and powerful and showing their contempt for the enemy by their nakedness. He felt his heart lurch when they reached the bottom of the shallow slope and slowed in a gigantic splash of disturbed water, all their momentum lost in an instant. He had known it would happen. How could he not? The water-filled bog which had been such a key part of his strategy was now the bane of his own people. It was they who were forced to struggle through the glutinous, feet-deep mud to reach the enemy. Moving towards the river, they didn’t have to fear the underwater obstacles he had placed to delay the Romans still further, but the slow-moving mass trapped in the swamp was a target even a blind legionary couldn’t miss.
His eye was drawn to a warrior in the forefront of the British assault. The man was a giant and Caratacus recognized him as Arven, champion of one of the clans who made up the Catuvellauni. Even from a hundred paces away on the hilltop he could see the man’s muscles bulge as he forced his way through the thigh-deep water. He looked magnificent. Immortal. Mighty Arven was screaming defiance at the Romans forming up by the river when his abdomen sprouted six feet of wood and metal. He stopped abruptly, before folding, almost gently, into the bog to be trampled deep into the mud by those following. He was the first of many. Caratacus saw water stained with blood indeed, but it was not the blood of his enemies.
He wanted to turn away, but he forced himself to watch the suffering of the Catuvellauni. This was his responsibility, no one else’s. His plan, that now depended on ten thousand of Britain’s finest warriors throwing themselves to their deaths against the spears and the swords of three Roman legions. Could he have done anything else? Did he expect anything else? The answer to both questions was no. How he wished it were otherwise. When he had sent the Durotriges to aid Bodvoc, he had known the only way to slow the main attack would be with the flesh and bone of his own people. He felt a twitch in his cheek, just below his left eye, and gritted his teeth. He would not weep.
Something had changed, he realized. When the fighting began he had been surrounded by his aides and his under-chiefs and those who wished to supplant them in the hierarchy of the tribe; each more eager than the one before to give him advice or offer unlikely support. Now he found himself alone in the centre of a ring of men who looked at him with either fear or compassion, as if he were suffering from some contagious disease. Even his personal bodyguard kept a respectful distance.
He knew what it was. They could scent defeat. He came to a decision.
‘Ballan.’ The squat Iceni scuttled to his side. ‘You have eaten and rested?’
Ballan nodded. Caratacus knew it was a lie, but exhaustion and hunger were minor privations on this day of days. He dropped his voice. ‘I wish you to return to the encampment and gather the women and the children, the sick and the old, and furnish them with enough supplies to reach Scarach’s fortress at Mai-den.’ Ballan’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but Caratacus silenced him with a shake of the head. ‘Your scouts will provide an escort. The day may yet be won, or it may be lost. If we are victorious I will send a rider after you. If not…’ He didn’t have to complete the sentence. If not… it would not matter, because he would be dead.
Ballan knew better than to argue. He left without another word and Caratacus turned his attention once more to the bridges, fearful of what he would see. But an unfamiliar feeling caught his chest as his eyes roved over the battle below. Hope. The three landing areas between the river and the swamp were so crammed with legionaries they barely had room to swing their spear arms. All along the Roman line a huge press of British warriors was hacking and cutting in a bid to breach the wall of shields that protected the bridgeheads. The flow of Plautius’s men over each bridge had slowed to a crawl and the far ends were crowded with units waiting their turn to cross. It was working. The sacrifice of the Catuvellauni was not in vain.
By now Bodvoc and Scarach would have destroyed the threat to the army’s left. Soon he would recall the Durotriges and together they and the Catuvellauni would throw the Romans back into the river. He began to make his plans for the attack that would finish the Romans once and for all.
