Britannia

CHAPTER TEN

‘The centurion’s down!’ a voice cried out. ‘Let’s get the bastards!’

‘No!’ Cato called back, then blocked the retreat of two men trying to push him aside. ‘You and you! With me. Let’s go.’

He did not give them a chance to hesitate, thrusting them towards the gorge, then increasing his pace to take the lead as he made for the stricken centurion. Some of the other legionaries were already dragging their injured comrades out of the danger zone, and on the far side of the barricade, the enemy cheered at the spectacle of the retreating Romans.

Their cries were met with a thin chorus from those on top of the crags as they ceased their attack and the last of the rocks thudded on to the ground. All the same, Cato kept his shield up as he rushed forward to Crispus and crouched down beside him. Grunting with effort, he turned the centurion over and saw the misshapen ruin of his shoulder and the deep dent in the side of his helmet. Crispus’s face was covered with mud, and Cato wiped it away as best he could.

‘I’ll cover you,’ he told the legionaries. ‘You take his arms and get him away from here.’

As soon as they moved him, Crispus let out a gasp and then howled in agony as his head lolled back.

‘Keep going!’ Cato urged as they dragged the body through the mud towards the safety of the second line of legionaries. There was a shout from the enemy as they caught sight of the officer’s crest on Cato’s helmet, and three men scrambled over the barricade, jumped down and raced towards him. He drew his sword, raised his shield and placed himself between the enemy and Crispus and the legionaries. Two of the tribesmen were armed with spears, while the third, a short distance ahead of his companions, carried a sword and round shield. Their expressions were wild, eyes glaring and lips drawn back in snarls, as if they were intoxicated. This would be a short, savage contest, Cato realised as he braced his boots in the mud and held his sword ready. The sodden ground, churned up by the nailed boots of the legionaries, slowed the enemy down as they advanced, desperate to claim the head of a Roman officer for a trophy.

Cato held his ground, determined to buy time for Crispus, and gritted his teeth as the swordsman closed in. There was no pause, no sizing up his opponent. The tribesman punched his shield into Cato’s and brought his sword round in an arc in a bid to decapitate the Roman. Cato swung his shield out and up just in time to block the edge of the sword, and it glanced over his head. He made to thrust back with his own sword, but his foot slipped and robbed his attack of any power, the blade striking a winding blow on the furs over the man’s chest.

Both men recovered their balance at the same instant and made to strike a head blow. The blades clashed sharply and held as each tried to overpower the other. One slip in the mud would be fatal, Cato realised, trying to get as much purchase as possible on the slippery ground. His features twisted into a tight grimace as he matched his strength against that of the enemy, their faces barely a foot apart. Over the man’s shoulder he could see the spearmen edging out around their comrade in order to get a clear strike at the side of the Roman officer. There was no time for a man-on-man duel. Cato abruptly angled his sword to let the warrior’s blade slide sharply towards his shoulder, trusting to the armour to protect him. As soon as his own sword was free, he raised his right arm and hammered the butt of the handle down on his opponent’s head with a sharp crack. At the same moment, the edge of the warrior’s sword struck a numbing blow to Cato’s shoulder. The tribesman staggered back, blundering into the nearest of the spearmen so that he slipped in the mud and had to thrust his weapon into the ground to steady his balance. The swordsman fell, arms outstretched, knocking his comrade to his knees as he did so.

Cato swung quickly towards the other spearman and tried to advance his shield, but the blow to his shoulder had weakened his arm, and his head remained exposed. The man thrust at his eyes, and he tilted his head to one side and flicked the spear tip aside with the point of his sword. At once the weapon was snatched back ready for another thrust. The initial impact of the blow to his shoulder was fading, but Cato lowered his shield a little further to tempt the warrior to aim high again. The tribesman steadied his grip on the spear shaft and punched forward. Cato was ready for him. Dropping the shield, he snatched at the spear, just behind the leaf-shaped blade, and viciously wrenched the wooden shaft towards him. His opponent held on tightly and lurched forward, losing his balance as he stumbled towards Cato. The prefect’s short sword swung up, catching the warrior in the side and penetrating deeply into his vitals. Cato twisted his wrist from side to side and ripped the blade free, then thrust the shaft of the spear back towards its owner, who fell into a sitting position and hunched over his wound with a loud groan.

Cato saw that the remaining spearman was a youth, despite his matted hair and straggling beard. He glanced from the unconscious swordsman to his wounded friend, then lowered his spear and took a cautious step towards the Roman. Brandishing his sword, Cato filled his lungs and bellowed with all the rage he could muster, ‘If you don’t want to join ’em, then fuck off!’

The vehemence of the words carried ample meaning, and the tribesman recoiled a step, torn between pride and the prospect of fighting the man who had struck down two of his comrades in less time than it took to draw a handful of breaths. He carefully retreated another pace, keeping his spear up and staring hard at Cato.

‘That’s better,’ Cato nodded. ‘Now piss off like a good boy, eh?’

The youth retreated further, and Cato kept a keen eye on him as he bent down to retrieve his shield and cautiously edge back towards his own men. When he was sure he was no longer in immediate danger, he turned and trotted after the two legionaries dragging Crispus to safety. The men who had fallen back from the first assault were already re-forming about their standards at the rear of the cohort, while the injured were laid out to one side to wait for the surgeon and his medics to come forward to treat them. As the centurion passed through the ranks of the legionaries, they looked on in shock and anger at their stricken commander.

The two men released their grip on Crispus’s arms, and the centurion lay on his back, eyes fluttering as he moaned. Cato set his shield aside and knelt beside him. He saw the blood trickling from the centurion’s nose and mingling with the rainwater running over his cheeks.

‘Crispus . . . Crispus! Can you hear me?’

The centurion blinked and opened his eyes, staring straight up at Cato. He frowned and then licked his lips as he made to speak. ‘Lu . . . luck has nothing . . . to do with it.’

He grimaced, and his eyes rolled up as his body trembled. Cato looked up. ‘Surgeon! Over here!’

Pausinus and his bandage dressers were already examining the first victims of the boulders and those who had been wounded on the barricade. The surgeon swiftly tied off a strip of linen and hurried over. He hunkered down opposite Cato and laid his fingers gently on the crushed shoulder.

‘His days of soldiering are over, if he lives.’ He sensed the trembling and then noticed the dent in the centurion’s helmet. ‘Help me get this off.’

While Pausinus steadied the helmet in his hands, Cato undid the chin strap and eased the cheek flaps aside. Then the surgeon eased the helmet free, together with the felt skullcap. The latter snagged on something, and Crispus gasped as blood seeped out from under its rim. Before the surgeon could react, the wounded man jerked violently and the cap came free with a large flap of bloodied scalp and a jagged piece of bone to reveal the terrible damage done by the rock that had struck the side of Crispus’s head. Blood and brains slooshed out of the cavity opened up by the removal of the skullcap as the centurion writhed and shuddered and then went limp.

Cato looked down at him in horror.

The surgeon packed the felt cap against the wound and eased himself back. ‘He’s done for. Nothing I can do to save him, sir.’

‘Nothing?’

Pausinus picked up Crispus’s wrist and felt for a pulse, then let it drop. ‘He’s dead.’

Cato placed a hand on the centurion’s forearm but sensed nothing. No movement at all. He swallowed. ‘All right . . . Then see to the others.’

As Pausinus moved away, Cato gave the centurion’s forearm a last squeeze. ‘Rest easy in the shades, Centurion Crispus,’ he muttered. ‘You have earned it. Rest well with our fallen comrades.’

He took a calming breath, then rose to his feet and turned back towards the gorge. The enemy warriors were still cheering defiantly. All around Cato, the legionaries glared back. He sensed their bitter, angry mood and their thirst for revenge. The fire of battle burned in their veins, and they were keen to avenge their fallen comrades. That was all very well, he thought, but what could be done? The Deceanglians had chosen a fine position to mount their delaying action. Until the crags were cleared, there could be no further assault on the barricade blocking the gorge. And to reach the men who had broken up the attack would mean a steep climb, all the while exposed to yet more rocks tumbling down on the heads of the Roman soldiers. It would be murderous work.

He reluctantly concluded that there was no alternative but to find another route around the gorge. He went in search of Tribune Livonius and found him watching from the rise, with the mounted contingent of the Blood Crows.

‘Good to see you’re safe, sir,’ Livonius greeted him. ‘That was quite a trap the natives set us.’

‘Yes, it was,’ Cato said. ‘You’ve got your campaign map with you?’

‘Yes, sir. Over there.’ He gestured to where his servant Hieropates stood by their two mules laden with the mapping tools and the tribune’s campaign supplies.

‘I want to see it, now.’

Livonius glanced up into the rain. ‘But, sir, the ink will run.’

‘Not if it’s kept out of the wet. Get some of my men to use their shields as a shelter. Do it now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As the tribune hurried away, Cato turned to Miro. ‘Decurion, get down to the Fourth Cohort and find out the number of casualties. Tell Centurion Festinus that he’s in command. The optio of the First Century can take charge of the unit for the present.’

‘Yes, sir . . . Centurion Crispus?’

‘He’s dead,’ Cato responded bluntly. ‘Now get on with it.’

Miro saluted and trotted down the gentle slope as Cato made his way to where Livonius was ordering two of the Blood Crows to hold their shields steady overhead. Hieropates, leather tube tucked under his arm, moved into the makeshift shelter and removed a roll of vellum, holding it open for the tribune and Cato as they ducked under the shields. The route of the army had been clearly marked, with estimated distances between camps and notations concerning the lie of the land on either side of the route. Livonius tapped a blank area just beyond the previous night’s camp.

‘We’re roughly here. Of course, we won’t have a chance to update it until we make camp.’

Cato shot him an irritated glance. ‘Very helpful.’

He closed his eyes a moment as he recalled the day’s march. They had spent all of it struggling along the track that passed through the meandering valley. The slopes rose steeply on either side, broken by rocky outcrops. There had been no other obvious routes to take. He thought back to the site of the night before. There had been two further valleys that had led away from the spot where the army had halted. He pointed to the mark and the notes relating to the camp.

‘What about the other valleys? Is it possible we can use either of them to work round this position?’

Hieropates shook his head. ‘Not unless you want to lose two days, Prefect. I rode a few miles up each as the army was making camp. One turns to the north and bends back almost in the direction of Mediolanum. The other leads south towards Ordovician territory. But the country there was slightly more open.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘We could use that to bypass the gorge.’

‘Good.’ Cado decided. ‘If we can get round it, Quintatus can always send a small force back to clear the gorge from the other side and open our lines of communication back to Mediolanum by the most direct route. Of course, it’ll mean a delay while the army turns around and takes the southern route tomorrow.’

Livonius clicked his tongue. ‘The legate’s not going to be happy, sir.’

‘I can’t help that. Put the map away, Hieropates.’

As the slave carefully rolled it up and returned it to its leather case, Cato turned to take another look at the gorge. The enemy’s barricade did not look formidable, nor did the body of warriors behind it. It was the men occupying the impregnable crags who presented the real strength of the position. He hissed in frustration and mentally composed the report he would make to the legate advising him to turn the column around and march back the way they had come. The rank and file would feel bitterly resentful about retracing their steps through the mud. But then soldiers were wont to grumble even when things were going well. It was Quintatus who presented the real challenge. He had wanted to make a quick strike into the heart of enemy territory. Instead, the army had crawled forward at a slow pace, and now would have to turn around. The legate was sure to be furious, but Cato could see no way of forcing the gorge without very heavy casualties.

He was about to give Thraxis the details for a verbal report when there was a commotion a short distance back down the track, and over the heads of the men and beasts of the army who had been held up by the action in the gorge appeared Quintatus’s personal standard and that of the Fourteenth Legion.

‘It’s the legate,’ said Livonius. ‘Come forward to see for himself, no doubt.’

‘Then he’s saved me the trouble of finding him.’

They watched as the men on the track, cajoled by their centurions and optios, struggled aside to make way for the army’s commander and his senior officers. As soon as he caught sight of Cato, the legate reined in beside him and glared down.

‘Why has the column stopped? What are those men doing formed up?’

Cato pointed towards the gorge. ‘It’s the enemy, sir.’

Quintatus sat up in his saddle and stared briefly at the barricade and the warriors beyond. ‘That rabble? Just sweep them aside and get the column moving.’

‘We’ve made an attack already, sir. But they’ve got men up there on the crags, ready to bombard us with rocks. I lost a centurion and several legionaries. The position’s too strong to force without risking further losses. I suggest we fall back and find another way round, sir.’

‘What? Are you mad? Are you willing to let a handful of barbarians deflect an entire Roman army? Have you lost your senses? If we retreat from that motley bunch of barbarians, the enemy will ridicule us. Is that what you want, Prefect?’

‘Of course not, sir,’ Cato replied at once. He accepted that the legate had a point. If the army was forced to turn aside, the Deceanglians would score a moral victory over Rome, and the Druids would make sure that news of it spread rapidly across the island. But if confronting the tribesmen resulted in the loss of many Roman lives, they would be able to boast about the handful of their comrades who had defied a vastly greater force. Either way, the enemy would have cause to celebrate their humiliation of Legate Quintatus and his men.

He thought quickly. ‘We could bring forward some of the bolt-throwers and a catapult, sir. Give them a taste of our artillery and I’m sure they’ll turn tail and abandon the gorge.’

Quintatus considered the idea and shook his head. ‘The artillery is at the back of the baggage train, miles away. We couldn’t get it up here before the end of the day. We can’t afford to waste time. I want that gorge dealt with at once. That’s your job, Prefect Cato. You are in command of the vanguard. Your men are supposed to clear the way ahead for the rest of the army. See to it, at once.’

For a moment Cato was still, but inside his mind was seething with objections to the legate’s words. There was no contradicting a direct order, however, and he bowed his head in acknowledgement before turning away and striding back down towards the legionaries, who had re-formed a hundred paces away from the barricade.

‘Officers! On me!’

By the time the last of them had joined the small gathering grouped around Cato, he had already formed a plan in his mind. It was simple enough, since there was no alternative, and dangerous for precisely the same reason. He did not like the thought of losing any more of his men. He looked round at his subordinates and noted their grim expressions as the rain streaked down the polished metal of their helmets and dripped on to their shoulders and chests. They were good soldiers and too valuable to be wasted on another futile attempt to rush the barricade, he decided. He cleared his throat and spat to one side.

‘The legate wants us to kick the enemy out of the gorge without any more delay. I know that means braving those bastards on top of the crags again, and we’re likely to lose many more men before we can get over the barricade and tear into the enemy. Until we can force the barricade, we’ll be sitting ducks. Our best bet is to soften ’em up with javelins before forming the leading centuries into testudos as they enter the gorge.’

‘Testudos?’ Centurion Festinus scratched his nose. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s no bloody good. The men’s shields aren’t going to keep those rocks out. They’ll be knocking us down like skittles.’

‘Perhaps, but we’ll stand a better chance than if we go into the attack with nothing over our heads,’ Cato responded. ‘But let’s do this by the manual. Centurion Festinus, I want you to form the First Century into a skirmish line. The Second is to take all available javelins and feed them forward. Have the men throw them in volleys, and take as much time as you can in expending them.’

‘Sir? I thought we were supposed to do this quickly.’

‘As quickly as we can, but with as few casualties as possible. That’s the way I want it, Centurion. So you take your time with the javelins, and then the same again with forming the testudos and going into the attack. With luck, that should draw the enemy’s attention, as well as buying enough time for some of the Blood Crows to scale the crags and deal with the men above the gorge.’ Cato turned to the auxiliary officers. ‘Harpex, your squadron is going to climb the left side of the valley. Corvinus, your lads are going to the right, with me. Tell your men to leave their spears. They’ll need to sling their shields for the climb and use swords when we reach the top. Once you see us there, Festinus, you can begin the attack. By the time the first testudo reaches the barricade, I hope we’ll be giving the enemy a taste of their own medicine. See how they like rocks raining down on their bloody heads!’

The others growled with satisfaction at the idea. All except Harpex, who was staring up at the crags. ‘Going to be quite a climb, sir. At least two hundred feet.’

‘More than that, I think,’ Cato replied. ‘Be a good chance for them to stop standing around and getting cold in this rain. A little exercise will soon warm them up. All right, gentlemen. We know what we’ve got to do. Let’s make this work and let’s do it well. The legate’s watching us and the rest of the army is depending on us, and we’re not going to let them down. Brief your men and get them into position as soon as you can.’

He exchanged a salute with his officers before they turned to stride back to their units. Then he looked up at the crags again and swallowed nervously. They rose from the valley floor like giant decayed teeth. More like three hundred feet than two, he decided. Every inch of the way the rain would make the going slippery and perilous. And when they reached the top, exhausted by the climb, the enemy would be waiting for them, determined to hold the crags and send their bodies hurtling through the rain down on to the heads of their legionary comrades far below.

Cato felt his guts tighten as he tore his gaze away from the ominous towering masses of rock and strode over towards the auxiliary infantry filing out to each side of the valley. Before the day was out, he would have won the gorge for the army, or his shattered body would be lying with hundreds more of his comrades sprawled across the ground in front of the barricade and the triumphant faces of the enemy beyond.