As soon as the scouts were aware of the approach of the column, they quickly stood up, mounted their horses, and crossed the ford. Cato ducked his head, turned towards Bedriacus and hissed. The hunter quickly met the centurion's eyes and nodded. Cato pulled his helmet on and clumsily fastened the ties with excited fingers before pressing himself down into the grass. He heard the voices of the scouts, chatting in cheerful tones in their lilting Celtic dialect, quite unsuspecting. Beneath the pitch of the voices was the distinct steady clumping of hoofs, and the breathy snorting of one of the mounts. As they came closer Cato felt his heart pounding against his ribs, and was momentarily surprised that the pain had gone from his side. He eased his sword from the scabbard and tightened his grip on his shield handle. The scouts sounded so near now that he was sure they must be only feet away. Yet time seemed to extend endlessly, and he watched a bee drone over his head, haloed by the orange glow of the sinking sun.

Then there were shadows darkening the longest blades of grass as the two Durotrigans started to cross the crest of the hillock. Surely they must see Cato now. Or if not Cato, then Bedriacus, or some sign of the hundreds of men lying further down the slope. But then Cato realised that his cohort was in the shadows. It would take a moment before the scouts' eyes adjusted to the gloom after the bright burnishing glow of the slope rising from the ford. He heard the scouts pass by him. They must be almost upon Bedriacus. Cato's mind raced. Why the hell didn't the hunter strike? What-

There was a gasp from the track, a horse whinnied, a man drew breath to shout and then there was the sound of a body thudding to the ground. By the time Cato had risen to his knees it was all over. Twenty feet away Bedriacus was easing one of the scouts from the back of his horse. The man was already dead: the handle of a knife protruding from under his chin, the blade punched up into his brain. His companion rustled in the grass for a moment, blood pumping from his slashed throat and spraying crimson droplets over the surrounding tussocks. Then he was still.

Bedriacus yanked his blade free of the scout's skull and wiped it clean on the man's long hair as he looked up at his centurion. Cato nodded his approval and pointed at the horses, nervous and a bit flighty at the shock of the hunter's sudden appearance. Moving slowly towards them Bedriacus whispered softly and gently ran his fingers across their silken flanks until his grip tightened on the reins.

'To the rear,' Cato whispered in Celtic.

The hunter nodded, clicked his tongue and led the animals down the track between the hidden centuries, and set them loose. Whatever magic he had worked on the beasts continued to have its effect and they calmly tore at the lush growth of grass beside the track. Bedriacus padded back to Cato to retrieve the wolf standard and took position beside his commander.

The rumble of chariot wheels on the other side of the ford was clearly audible now, and the moment Cato heard the first splashes he turned down the slope and, cupping his hands, called as loudly as he dared, 'Cohort! Stand up!'

Nearly five hundred men appeared from the long grass, silently rising to their feet, oval auxiliary shields tightly gripped. The splashing noises from the ford grew in volume as the infantry started across the river. They could no longer hear the noise of the chariots. They must have stopped, as Cato had guessed they would. The ford would make a perfect spot for the Durotrigans to camp for the night; largely hidden by the surrounding landscape, on dry ground with a river to water the horses and men.

'Draw swords! Make ready to advance!'

Cato turned back to Bedriacus. 'Stay here.'

The hunter nodded and Cato crept up the track, stretching his neck to catch sight of the situation at the ford. Half of the Durotrigan column was across. The chariot drivers were already unhitching their horses, while their warriors stood together at the edge of the river, clustered around a short, bull-like man with blond pigtails, who was evidently giving them their orders for the evening. As he looked round at his men, he suddenly froze, staring straight up the track in Cato's direction. He had seen the scarlet crest on the centurion's helmet, brilliantly illuminated by the rays of the setting sun.

'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!'

With a roar, the Atrebatan line broke into a run down the last stretch of the slope and slammed into the confused enemy mass with a clattering, crunching thud. Immediately the air was rent by screams of agony and the sharp ring of edged weapons striking each other. The centurion thrust his shield in the press of bodies, jabbing his short sword through the gap between his shield and that of the Atrebatan warrior to his right. The blade connected with something, began to twist, and Cato rammed it home. He heard the man grunt as the breath was driven from his body, and then the Roman wrenched the sword back, blood spraying past the handle and on to his arm. To his right the Atrebatan warrior was screaming his war cry as he smashed his shield boss into an enemy's face and finished the man with a thrust to the throat. For an instant Cato felt a surge of pride that all the intensive training of recent days was paying off and these Celts were fighting like Romans.

Cato stabbed again, felt his blade being parried, and threw himself forward behind the shield, conscious that the Atrebatan line was steadily pushing forwards on either side. Even so, he must keep up the momentum of the initial charge. Keep going forward and the enemy would be shattered.

'Forward, Wolves!' Cato shouted, his voice shrill, almost hysterical. 'Forward! On! On!'

Men either side took up the cry and drowned out the Durotrigans' cries of panic and terror. Cato sensed a body at his feet, carefully lifted his foot and planted it on the other side as he prepared to strike his next blow.