'Easy, lad!' Macro comforted. 'It's just a smell. Try not to think about what's making it. We'll be out of this place soon enough.'

Cato wondered that Macro could be so unmoved by the charnel chaos surrounding them. But then he saw his centurion swallow nervously and realised that even this hardened veteran was not unaffected by the foul consequences of battle. The column hurried through the ruined camp in silence, broken only by the jingle of equipment and the nervous coughs of those most afflicted by the unholy stench. Once over the far ramp and back into the open countryside Cato breathed deeply to expel every last breath of the foetid air from his lungs.

'Better?' asked Macro.

Cato nodded. 'Is it always like that?'

'Pretty much. Unless we fight in winter.'

The British camp was behind them now and the air was filled with fresh country scents that brushed away the memory of the stench of the dead. Even so, traces of the running fight between the Britons and their pursuers littered the track as far as the eye could see in the direction of the Tamesis. Spent weapons, dead horses, overturned chariots and sprawling bodies lay strewn across the trampled ground. The air hummed with the sound of flies whirling in small speckled clouds over the dead. A dull haze hung above the track, kicked up from the passage of the legions marching to join the auxiliaries and the cavalry in their pursuit of the enemy.

Cato felt the first of the day's warmth flow over him. Later, he knew, the growing heat would make conditions intolerable under the load of cumbersome equipment that was designed for efficiency in battle, with little thought to the wearer's comfort on the march. Already his exposed burns were causing him torment beyond imagination. But he knew the pain would last for some days yet and since there was nothing to be done about it, he would just have to bear it, Cato reflected with a grimace.

As the sun eased its way high into a clear azure heaven the shadows of the tramping legionaries shortened, as if themselves withering in the growing heat, and the cheerful conversation of dawn dwindled to the odd murmured comment. As noon drew near, the legion approached the crest of a low ridge and the legate ordered a halt. Shields and spears were laid down at the side of the road before each legionary slumped down and gratefully sipped from the leather canteens filled before first light.

The Sixth Century found itself near a small circle of bodies, some Roman, most Britons, silent testament to a bitter skirmish fought the day before. Today, no sound of fighting disturbed the muted talk of the men of the Second Legion, not even a far-off trumpet or horn. It was as if the battle of the previous two days had withdrawn like some fleeting tide and left the land strewn with its broken and bloody flotsam. Cato felt a sudden desire, tinged with panic, to know more about how things lay between the legions and their enemy. He stilled the urge to ask Macro what was unfolding since the centurion knew as little as he did and could only offer a veteran's best guess at the situation. As far as Cato could work out, the legion had marched eight or nine miles beyond the Mead Way, and that meant a similar distance lay ahead before they encountered the Tamesis. Then what? Another bloody river assault? Or were the Britons retreating too quickly to form an organised defence this time?

The grassy downs gave way to dense gorse thickets that crowded the track on both sides and through which little runs twisted out of sight. If this was the nature of the terrain ahead, reflected Cato, then the next battle was going to be a very different affair, a mass of skirmishes as both sides negotiated their way through the tangled undergrowth. The kind of battle that a general could do little to control.

'Not the best of battlefields for us Romans, eh?' Macro had seen his optio glancing anxiously into the gorse thickets.

'No, sir.'

'I shouldn't worry, Cato. This stuff's as likely to hamper the Britons as it is us.'

'I suppose so, sir, But I'd have thought they'd know their way about the local tracks. Could cause us problems.'

'Maybe.' Macro nodded without too much concern. 'But I doubt it will count for much now they haven't got a river and a rampart between them and us.'

Cato wished he could share his superior's equanimity about the situation, but the tactical claustrophobia of the soldier at the very end of the chain of command preyed upon his imagination.

A shrill blast on several trumpets abruptly split the air, and Macro was on his feet in an instant. 'Up! Up, you lazy bastards! Get your kit and form up on the track!'

The orders echoed down the line and moments later the men of the Second Legion had formed a long, dense column with every shield and javelin held ready for action.

Where the track rose ahead of the century, Cato could see the command party on the crest of the ridge. A mounted messenger was addressing the legate and waving his arm over the terrain on the other side of the ridge. With a quick salute the messenger wheeled his horse and galloped out of sight, leaving the legate to turn to his staff officers and issue the necessary orders.

'What now?' grumbled Macro.

The Eagles Conquest

The advance to the Tamesis was rapidly running out of control, Vespasian decided. The pursuit of the Britons had been badly mishandled by the Batavian cohorts. Rather than concentrate on clearing the line of march through to the next river, the auxiliaries had fallen victim to the blood lust so typical of their race. And so the cohorts were dispersed over a wide front, running down every Briton that came in sight, as if the whole thing was just some great stag hunt.

Below the hill crest, the dense undergrowth dipped down to merge with yet another of the marshes that seemed to comprise rather too much of this landscape. Dotted among the gorse thickets were the crests of helmets and the odd standard as the Batavians, their thirst for blood evidently not yet slaked, pushed their way through the gorse, struggling along narrow paths in pursuit of the hapless Britons. The marsh stretched out, dull and featureless, before it gave way to the wide gleaming expanse of the great Tamesis coiling its way into the heart of the island. The track the Second Legion was marching along went straight down the slope, and on to a crude causeway that ended in a small jetty. A matching jetty lay on the far side of the river.

Vespasian slapped his thigh in frustration at the nature of the task ahead. His battle-trained horse ignored the sound and grazed contentedly at the luscious grass growing alongside the track. Irked by the beast's ignorant complacency, Vespasian yanked on the reins and wheeled the animal round to face back down the line of the legion. The men stood still and silent, waiting for orders to move. A dark writhing mass some miles off revealed the progress of the Fourteenth Legion approaching the Tamesis from a roughly parallel track a few miles upstream.

According to Adminius there should have been a bridge lying before the Fourteenth but Vespasian could see no sign of it. Caratacus must have had it destroyed. If there were no other bridges or crossing points, the legions would have to march upstream in search of an alternative way across, all the while extending the tenuous lines of supply back to the depot on the coast. Alternatively, Plautius might chance an opposed landing. Away to the east where the Tamesis broadened towards the distant horizon the distinct forms of ships were visible as the fleet strove to retain contact with the advancing legions. Even though Adminius claimed that the Britons had no fleet to oppose the Romans, General Plautius was not taking any chances. The sleek silhouettes of triremes shepherded the low broad-beamed transports struggling to keep in formation. Only when these ships had rejoined the army could a river assault begin.