'Roman!' Bedriacus cried out right behind him, and Cato felt the torso turn against the back of his calf. He just had time to glance down and saw the bared teeth of the Durotrigan warrior as he pushed himself up from the ground, and the arm drawing back a dagger. Then the man shuddered, grunted and collapsed as the spiked end of the wolf standard burst through his chest, just below the collarbone.

There was no time to thank the hunter, and Cato pushed on, driving the Durotrigans back towards the ford. Over their heads he caught sight of the other cohort as it piled into the rear of the Durotrigans' column, scattering the mounted warriors and cutting them down before they had the wit to try and escape.

Suddenly a huge shape burst out from among the Durotrigans in front of Cato: an older warrior, wearing chain mail over a light tunic. His sword arm was raised over his head and the long blade flashed in the sun as it reached the top of its arc. Then, as it slashed down, Cato threw himself into the man's body, punching his short sword into the chest. It caught on the chain mail, not penetrating, and the man gasped explosively as the blow drove the air from his lungs. His own blow faltered slightly, but because Cato had leaped inside its sweep the blade passed over his shoulder and instead the pommel caught the centurion a shattering blow on the side of his helmet, flattening the horsehair crest. Cato's jaw crashed shut on the end of his tongue as his vision exploded into a dazzling white for an instant and he fell back on the ground.

He heard a cry, he blinked and his vision cleared. The enemy warrior sprawled beside him, skull cleaved in two. Cato looked up and saw Artax standing over him. Their eyes met, and the Atrebatan noble's sword rose towards Cato's throat. For an instant Artax's eyes narrowed and with a cold chill of certainty Cato knew that he would strike and have his revenge here in the heat of battle where Cato's death would be easily accepted. Just as Cato tensed himself to try to dive out of the path of Artax's blade, the Atrebatan smiled and wagged the point mockingly. Then he turned and was gone, lost in the press of men determined to crush the Durotrigans.

Cato shook his head, clambered back to his feet, and pushed forward. He was aware of the splash of water, and realised that the charge of the Wolf Cohort had carried them as far as the ford. One last effort and the fight was over. He could even hear Macro now, bellowing in triumph and battle-rage as he cut through the rear of the enemy column. Already Cato could see the red auxiliary shields and tunics of the other cohort through the shattered ranks of the Durotrigans before him. One of them suddenly looked at Cato, threw his sword into the river and kneeled down, pleading. Before the centurion could respond the Atrebatan warrior to his right thrust his sword into the man's chest. Cato looked round and saw that more and more of the enemy were foolishly lowering their weapons and trying to surrender. But the blood-crazed Atrebatans continued to strike them down where they stood.

'Stop!' Cato desperately shouted above the din. 'Wolf Cohort! Halt! STOP!'

When the warrior to his right made to strike down his next victim Cato whacked him on the arm with the flat of his sword, knocking the blade from the man's hand.

'Enough!'

Slowly sense returned to the Atrebatans as their Roman officers bellowed orders to end the carnage. The surviving Durotrigans were cowering on the ground or had retreated into deeper water, to escape the savage short swords, and waited for their fate, up to their chests in the bloodstained current.

'Cato! Cato, lad!' Here was Macro, beaming face spattered with blood. Beside him, holding the Boar standard was Tincommius, with a gash on his upper arm. 'We did it!'

But Cato was looking down-river, where a small band of the Durotrigans was escaping along the bank.

'Not yet, sir. Look there!'

Macro followed where Cato pointed. 'All right, get your men after them. I'll tidy up here.'

Cato turned away, splashing back to the edge of the ford, taking care not to stumble over the semi-submerged bodies. On the track he dragged Bedriacus clear of the melee and cupped a hand to his mouth.

'Wolves! Wolves! On me!'

The commanders of his centuries obediently came trotting over, but the Atrebatans had started mutilating the bodies of their enemies.

'Wolves!' Cato shouted again.

'What the hell are they up to?' muttered Figulus. 'Oh, no…'

Cato turned round and saw one of his men standing above a dead enemy, holding the hair in one hand as he hacked through the last few tendons of the neck with his short sword. Looking round, Cato realised they were all at it. He glanced back at the escaping Durotrigans.

'Centurion Cato!' Macro bellowed from the ford. 'What the hell are you waiting for? Get after them!'

Cato ran back down to his men, grabbed the nearest warrior by the arm and shoved him towards the Durotrigans. 'GO! MOVE!'

Some of the others looked up, saw what he was gesturing at and started after the enemy, tucking the severed heads under their arms.

'For fuck's sake!' Cato exploded. 'Leave the heads until later!'

They ignored him and started the pursuit along the riverbank. Cato stopped one man, and, with a grimace, pulled the head out of his hands. The Atrebatan warrior growled a warning and raised his sword threateningly.

'Tincommius!' Cato shouted, keeping an eye on the warrior. 'Get over here!'

The Atrebatan noble pushed his way through the men of the cohorts and approached Cato.

'Tell 'em to leave the heads alone.'

'But it's a tradition.'

'Fuck tradition!' Cato yelled. 'The Durotrigans are getting away. Tell our men to drop the heads and get moving.'

Tincommius shouted Cato's order to the cohort, but the only reaction was an angry muttering. By now the Durotrigans had a lead of nearly a quarter of a mile and were fading into the gathering dusk.

'All right,' Cato continued desperately, 'tell 'em they can keep the heads they're already carrying. We'll come back for the rest, I swear it.'

Contented by their commander's compromise, the Wolves left the mangled corpses, and few remaining prisoners, in the care of their comrades of the Boar Cohort. With heads jammed under arms, they began to chase after the Durotrigans, Cato leading the way and Bedriacus right at his heels.

The surviving Durotrigans were mainly from the chariots, and weighed down by their equipment. Despite their head start, slowly the distance closed as Cato sprinted after them, constantly looking back to make sure that his men were keeping up. Those unburdened by gory trophies stayed with him, anxious to win their share of the final glory of the skirmish. The rest struggled manfully with shield, sword and one or more heads.

There was no track on the riverbank and the Durotrigans scrambled along, fleeing for their lives, their pigtailed leader among them. Some were injured and began to fall behind.

At last Cato had almost run down the rearmost man. His heart pounded as he pushed himself to move faster, and he prepared to sink his sword in between the man's shoulder blades. When no more than ten feet separated them the man glanced back and his eyes widened in fear. So he missed the small gap where part of the riverbank had crumbled, and tripped, sprawling on the ground at Cato's mercy. The centurion paused long enough to run him through and continued after the others.

Several more of the stragglers were dispatched, and the men of the Wolf Cohort remorselessly closed on the last group of Durotrigans as the light of the dying day cast long shadows of running men across the grass of the riverbank. In the end the enemy realised the game was up and their leader shouted an order to the surviving members of his band. They stopped running, turned to face their pursuers, and closed ranks, chests heaving for breath.