The first sounds of battle, the trumpets blowing, shouted commands that sought to organise the defence of her husband’s Praetorian Guard, had been just a precursor of the confusion that followed. Claudia’s father had told her, many times, of the madness of battle, of the fog that surrounded everyone from commander to common soldier, that for a successful soldier luck was often more vital than skill. She had thought him indulging in modesty but that day Claudia Cornelia learnt the truth. Disobeying the request to stay in her litter with the curtains drawn, she had alighted to see what was happening, it being too exciting to miss. The army had been strung out in a long shallow valley, the Roman legions ahead, Italian auxiliaries to the rear, struggling to form up against a mass of tribesmen rushing downhill to engage them. With a father kind enough to indulge an intelligent daughter, she had known enough about tactics to be aware that the general who held the heights held the advantage. That did not lie with Aulus, but such was her faith in the superiority of Roman arms and the skill of her husband that it had never occurred to her that the legions could lose.

Metullus, the centurion in command of the praetorians, had yelled furiously at the muleteers to get their wagons into a circle then arm themselves and it was only then that Claudia realised how great the gap had become between the baggage train and any support from Aulus’s army, the forward elements of which were barely visible. It had been the same to the rear, for marching in line had allowed the tight formation of the morning to extend itself, leaving the centre section, her and the baggage, isolated.