'Why don't we attack?'

'Because we haven't been ordered to,' Macro replied harshly. 'And we sit tight until told otherwise.'

'But, sir, look at them. The Ninth are getting massacred.'

'I can see what's happening well enough, boy, but it's out of our hands.' Lying on their stomachs in the long grass growing along the crest of the low ridge, the skirmish line of the Sixth Century watched helplessly as the Britons smothered the Ninth's attack. For the inexperienced optio this was an unbearable agony. Barely a mile away his comrades were being slaughtered as they attempted to storm the earthworks. And yet not a hundred yards behind him the men of the Second Legion sat in silent concealment in the shadows of the trees. With one simple order they could sweep down the slope, catching the Britons between the two legions, and crush them totally. But the order had not been given.

'Here comes the legate.' Macro nodded back down the slope towards the trees. Vespasian came running up towards them, helmet tucked under his arm. A few yards short of the skirmish line the legate dropped down and crawled up beside Macro.

'How's the Ninth doing, Centurion?' 'Doesn't look good, sir.'

'Any signs of movement from the enemy's reserves?' 'None, sir.'

Behind the British lines sat several thousand men, calmly waiting to be called into action. Vespasian smiled with grim admiration of the enemy general's coolness. Caratacus knew the value of keeping a fresh reserve in hand and had firm control over his coalition of Trinovantes. The selfish pursuit of tribal glory had led to the destruction of more than one Celtic army in the past. Caratacus had even resisted the Batavian bait offered up by Plautius. Just enough men had been released to repulse the Roman auxiliaries and hold them back against the river. There, in the distance, beyond the earthworks defending the ford, a loose milling of men and horses revealed the plight of the Batavians.

Vespasian turned away from the spectacle. Compassion for his comrades urged him to order his legion to charge to the rescue. But that temptation had been foreseen by Aulus Plautius, and the general had stressed that his orders must be followed to the letter. The Second was to remain concealed until Caratacus had committed his reserves to the defence of the fortifications. The attack would be signalled by the massed trumpeters from the general's headquarters on the Roman bank. Only when the Britons were fully engaged would Vespasian be permitted to launch his attack. Only then.

Vespasian noticed that the optio was giving him a bitter look, and to emphasise the point the boy gave an almost imperceptible nod toward the slope. The insubordinate gesture was quite deliberate, but it was understandable and Vespasian forced himself to let it pass.

'Keen to get stuck in then, young Cato?'

'Yes, sir. As soon as we can, sir.'

'Good lad!' Vespasian clapped him on the shoulder before turning to the centurion. 'The command post is just inside the woods there.' He pointed to where the legion's colour party was failing to look inconspicuous at the edge of the trees. 'If anything develops down by the river, send a runner to me immediately.'

As the legate scrambled back down the slope, he felt the eyes of the entire Sixth Century follow him with the resentment all common soldiers feel for senior officers who seem to sacrifice their men needlessly. Of course it was unfair – Vespasian was under orders and could not do anything about the situation. He shared Cato's angry helplessness and would dearly have liked to explain the general's battle plan and demonstrate why the men of the Second had to sit and watch while their comrades died. But to share such confidences with a mere optio was unthinkable.

The colour party moved even more indiscreetly towards the edge of the trees as their legate approached.

'What the bloody hell are you doing?' he shouted angrily. 'Get back out of sight.' When they were once more among the trees, the legate called the senior officers of the legion over to him.

'I want the legion moved up to within twenty paces of the ridge there.

They're to be formed up ready for battle, and to move forward the instant I give the order. Colour party with me.'

As the tribunes and senior centurions dispersed to pass the word to the rest of the legion, Vespasian led the colour party up to the spot indicated and a battle line was quickly marked out with the small red pegs designed for the task. Leaving the staff officers to their duties, the legate rejoined the Sixth Century and was horrified to see the new mounds of Roman bodies littering the wrong side of the ford's defences. On the far bank of the river another legion, the Fourteenth, was quickly marching down towards the shallows to support the Ninth. As its First Cohort plunged into the slack current, passing the column of wounded streaming back to the Roman lines, Cato stirred in the long grass beside the legate, craning his neck to see better.

'Down, you fool!'

Cato instantly obeyed, and then timed to his legate. 'Sir! Did you see? The river's getting deeper.'

'Deeper? Nonsense! Unless the tide… '

The legate quickly looked up and stared hard at the river. The optio was right, it was deeper. Vespasian could see that the incoming tide was threatening to make the ford impassable. By the time the Fourteenth had crossed, the water would be too deep to permit a retreat. With cold dread he realised that this was something no one had considered the previous night when the general had gone over his plan. Surely he must see it now. Surely he must order the recall before two Roman legions were caught in the killing ground on the British-held side of the river. But there was no trumpet call, no shrill blaring of the bucinas to save the men of the Fourteenth from sharing the fate of the Ninth, Instead, the legion waded on, chest-high in the quickening current.

'Poor bastards!' muttered Macro. 'They'll be crucified.'

The uneven ranks of the Fourteenth struggled across the river. Men were almost up to their necks in the churning water now, and the watchers on the hill could well imagine the fear of the men crossing, And still no recall.

Behind the enemy line word had been passed of the new threat approaching their fortifications and the tribes surged forward to the crest of the ridge to watch the approach of another legion. Any sense of order their chiefs had struggled to maintain quickly dissolved as the Britons poured through the crude gateways, making for their comrades defending the palisade.

Vespasian watched as dense columns of his men emerged from the forest and moved into position. A few more moments and all would be ready. His ears strained for the first sound of the trumpets ordering the Second into action. But the air remained thick with the sounds of the battle below, unbroken by any trumpet call By the time the Second Legion was formed up and ready to advance, the defenders on the palisade had been swelled by thousands more screaming to get their share of the promised bloodbath. And still no trumpets.

'Something's wrong.'

'Sir?' Macro turned to him.

'We should have heard the headquarters trumpets by now.'

Then a dreadful thought occurred to Vespasian. Maybe he had missed the signal. Maybe the order had been given already and the men down by the river were desperately searching the ridge for any sign of relief. 'Did either of you hear anything while I was back at the command post? Any signal?'

'No, sir,' Macro replied. 'Nothing.'

The Eagles Conquest