Britannia

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘First Century! Halt!’ Festinus shouted. The rain had eased to a slight drizzle, and patches of blue sky were starting to appear. Small comfort to the drenched men standing up to their ankles in the churned muddy ground in front of the gorge. The legionaries, formed in a single line, stopped some thirty paces from the barricade, shields to the front as they grasped their javelins in their right hands. The auxiliaries were positioned on the flanks of the line, and from the right, Cato could see that the enemy was watching the fresh Roman advance warily. As the line halted, so their jeering died away as they waited to see what would happen.

‘Ready javelins!’

The legionaries adjusted their grip and drew their throwing arms back. At once, a warning was shouted by one of the warriors, and the cry was quickly repeated as they ducked down behind the rim of the barricade. Cato saw something splash into the mud a short distance in front of the legionaries, then again, and realised that the warriors on top of the crags were trying the range with smaller rocks.

Festinus glanced along the line to ensure that every man of the First Century was ready, then bellowed, ‘Loose javelins!’

The dark shafts rippled into the air as the men grunted from the effort of throwing the heavy missiles. The first volley reached the top of the arc, most of them plunging down on the far side of the barricade. A handful fell short, clattering off the boulders and rocks sheltering the enemy. Cato heard the sound of the impacts: the splintering rattle of iron heads striking shields and the dull thud as flesh was pierced. Festinus, according to his orders to slow the pace of the attack, waited several heartbeats before issuing the follow-up order.

‘Pass javelins to the front!’

The men of the Second Century handed their comrades fresh weapons from the bundles that each man carried. Once the legionaries were ready, Festinus gave the order to prepare the second volley. Once again, those warriors brave enough to show their faces at the barricade dropped out of sight. Cato turned to Corvinus and the twenty Blood Crows of his squadron and waved them forward.

‘Now’s our time, lads. Follow me!’

He set off at a trot towards the scree slope stretching up the side of the valley. On the other flank, Harpex had been watching his commander lead his men forward and now did the same with his squadron, making for the base of the crags to the left of the gorge. As they reached the loose stones, Festinus gave the order for the second volley to be loosed, and a moment later another chorus of impacts echoed off the sides of the gorge.

Cato began to climb, testing his grip on the slippery shifting stones as he hurried on as swiftly as he could. Behind him the auxiliaries scrabbled and cursed with laboured breath. As he reached more stable ground at the top of the scree, he paused and looked up at the jumble of rocks and stunted trees that lay ahead of them. It was going to be a difficult climb up the narrow angle between the crags and the rock-strewn side of the valley, he decided, just as Festinus gave the order to loose another volley. Soon the javelins would run out and the legionaries would have to form testudos to make their attack, and run the gauntlet of plummeting rocks. There was no time to waste. Cato pointed up the steep angle. ‘This way!’

He was quickly forced to go down on his hands and knees as he struggled up the slope, clutching at rocks and scrabbling for toeholds as he heaved himself up. The weight of his armour and the shield hanging from a strap across his shoulder quickly made exhausting work of it, and the cold and wet of earlier was soon not even a memory as sweat poured from his brow and his heart pounded against his ribs.

The Blood Crows had made it halfway to the top of the crags when Cato heard the order to form testudos.

‘Shit . . .’ he muttered. Festinus and the leading three centuries of his cohort were about to advance into the gorge, beneath the cliffs from where the enemy would batter them to pieces well before they could reach the barricade and engage the Deceanglian warriors. Cato renewed his efforts, snatching at handholds ahead of him and hauling himself up. Ahead he could see a narrow ledge, and a short distance beyond that what looked like the top of the crags, outlined against the clearing sky. He barely noticed that the rain had finally stopped and that the water on the surface of the rocks was gleaming in the first rays of the sun.

When he reached the ledge, he slumped down on his haunches, gasping for breath. As he waited for the others to join him, he looked down on the foreshortened ranks of the legionaries and saw the last men joining the testudo formations. There was little sense of rush about them, and a moment later Cato saw the legate ride forward and start gesticulating forcefully at Centurion Festinus. The latter saluted and turned to shout an order, and the three centuries began to tramp forward, the formations looking like scaled beetles as they edged into the gorge.

The first ten of Cato’s men had joined him on the ledge, red-faced and gasping. There was no time to rest them. ‘Come on, lads. One last effort and we’re at the top. Then we’ll cut those bastards down before they can do any more harm.’

He did not wait for a response but rose to his feet and reached for the next handhold. Thanks to the breadth of the ledge, the others could scale the rocks on either side, and they would reach the top in a wave, rather than singly, he realised with relief. Then there was a cracking noise, and a sudden rush of loose earth, and he turned to see one of his men clinging on desperately with one hand while the rock he had dislodged slid on to the ledge, its momentum carrying it further and over the edge. An instant later there was a sharp cry of alarm, cut off, and then a wild cry as one of the Blood Crows was struck and fell away from the cliff, tumbling thirty feet or so through the air before his head smashed into a boulder and his cries were silenced. But even then, their echoes sounded clearly off the sides of the gorge.

‘Keep moving!’ Cato called out to his companions as loudly as he dared, fearful that the man’s fall had attracted the attention of the enemy above them. The Blood Crows realised the danger well enough and struggled up frantically. Cato saw that he was no more than ten feet from the top and felt the lightness of relief fill his guts. Then a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention, and he turned and spotted a fur-clad figure staring down at them, fifty feet away along the crag. The warrior thrust out his arm, at the same time crying out in alarm.

‘They’re on to us!’ one of the auxiliaries called, and the Blood Crows hesitated.

‘Keep going!’ Cato bellowed, all sense of discretion gone now that they had been spotted. ‘Get up! Get up!’

They climbed on desperately as the enemy warrior sprinted across the uneven ground, leaping between the boulders as he drew his sword and charged towards the Romans. He reached the first of the auxiliaries as the Thracian was pulling himself on to the top of the crags. Too late he saw the danger and threw his arm up in an effort to protect himself from the blow. The swordsman’s weapon flashed in the sunlight and there was a deep grunt as the heavy blade cut through flesh, shattered bone and all but severed the limb before the edge bit into the auxiliary’s shoulder, driving the breath from his body, blood spraying from the stump just below his elbow. Beyond the fallen soldier his comrades were scrambling on to the crags, unslipping their shields and drawing their swords before the enemy warrior could turn on them.

Looking beyond the tribesman, Cato took in the wider scene. There were perhaps twenty more warriors fifty paces away, lining the edge of the crag, heavy rocks in their hands as they prepared to hurl them down on to the approaching legionaries. So far it seemed they had not paid the swordsman’s warning cries any attention. But now he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted to them as loudly as he could. The nearest men turned to look over their shoulders, then, seeing the handful of Romans, abruptly dropped their missiles and began to rush across the rocky terrain to confront the threat to their position. Emboldened by his approaching comrades, the first man buried the point of his sword in the back of his victim’s neck before wrenching it free and charging towards the next auxiliary. There were already five men on the crags with Cato, and they braced themselves to deal with the warrior as the prefect glanced back down the side of the cliff to where the rest of his men were still climbing.

‘Get up here! Fast as you fucking can!’

Then he turned to join the others as the warrior leapt at them, swinging his sword in a vicious wide arc at the first auxiliary in his path. Despite the strain of the long climb, the man brought his shield up and punched out to deflect the blow, then stepped into his enemy’s reach to deliver a brutal thrust of his sword. The tribesman doubled over as the impact drove him off his feet. The point of the blade burst through the fur cloak on his back, having cut through his spine, and his legs buckled, dragging the sword down with him. The auxiliary kicked him to the rocky surface and braced his foot against the man’s sternum as he wrenched the bloodied blade free.

‘Good work!’ Cato slapped the auxiliary on the shoulder, then drew his own sword and readied his shield as his men fell in on either side. Behind him he could hear the grunts and curses of the other Blood Crows as they reached the top and struggled to their feet before joining their comrades facing the enemy. As one of the auxiliaries made to advance across the crags, Cato called out, ‘Hold your position! Wait until the others catch up.’

By the time the last of the squadron had reached the top, the first of the enemy had stopped only a spear’s length away, expression wild as he weighed up the Thracians, sword in one hand, a small shield barely bigger than a buckler in the other. As his companions began to join him, equally determined-looking, he fixed his gaze on Cato and screamed a war cry, mouth agape, lips stretched back and teeth bared, then charged. Cato just had time to thrust his shield out to absorb the warrior’s first blow. It caught the edge of the oval shield, forcing it round in Cato’s grip so that his chest was exposed as the man followed up with a savage punch of his own shield. Cato caught it on the guard of his sword, and then pressed on with a weak thrust that delivered no more than a bruising impact to his opponent’s chain-mail vest. But it was enough to send the man reeling back a pace before they both recovered their fighting stances and faced off again. Cato was dimly aware of the struggles on either side as his men and the enemy joined the contest for possession of the crags. The scrape and clatter of blades and the crash of blows landed on shields mingled with the grunts and curses of the combatants.

The man facing Cato lowered himself into a crouch, watching intently as he waited for his opponent to make a move. The prefect smiled grimly, recognising that the initiative had passed to him, then stepped forward quickly, leading with his left boot and pushing his shield forward, forcing his enemy to strike out with his sword in order to stand his ground. Cato let his shield absorb the blow before he struck back. Up came the blade, knocking the short sword aside. As the man’s arm swung out after the sword, Cato rushed forward into his body. At the last moment, he lowered the brim of his helmet and savagely butted the reinforced brow guard into the warrior’s face. The blow was hard and jarred Cato’s neck, but the unexpected attack did its job and the man staggered back, dazed. Too dazed to save himself as Cato stabbed his sword up into the tribesman’s throat and ripped it free in a welter of blood. The warrior dropped his sword and clasped his hand to his throat as he slumped to his knees, gurgling horribly.

Cato swept past him and looked for another foe. About him the men of both sides were mostly locked in one-to-one duels. Here and there the odds were less even, and some took advantage of the chaos to strike at the enemy’s back when they caught a man facing the other way. There was none of the etiquette of the arena: just kill or be killed. Cato caught the gaze of a tall, darkly featured warrior whose hair had been tied back by a leather thong. He carried a long-handled axe in both hands and swung it in an arc as he glared at Cato. His muscled arms strained as the axe flew faster and faster, then he launched himself at the prefect with a loud shout ripping from his lungs.

Cato had seen how much damage such an axe could do, and crouched as he threw his shield up to block the blow. An instant later the top of the shield exploded in a welter of splinters, shattered bronze trim and strips of leather. The impact tore at his grip, but his fist was tightly clenched and he held on. Then the axe head whirled away, and he seized his chance, thrusting his sword into his opponent’s thigh, then hacking down at the soft leather and straps of his boot, shattering the bones there. The warrior let out a cry of agony and rage as he staggered backwards. His weapon had lost its momentum and he could only swing it weakly this time, so that Cato’s shield easily absorbed the blow. He punched forward, driving the man on to his wounded foot. There was a gasp and a pained groan, and the warrior fell on to his back, the axe slipping from his fingers and clattering to the rocks.

Cato kept his damaged shield and sword up as he glanced round. The Blood Crows were more than holding their own: only three men were down, as against several more of the enemy. Beyond, on the crags on the far side of the gorge, he could see the other group of warriors starting to hurl their first rocks down on the leading testudo. He hissed a curse. Where the hell were Harpex and his men?

He spotted an older, thickset man in a helmet shouting orders and encouragement to his comrades. The enemy leader pushed his way to the front and raised his sword to strike at the auxiliary in front of him. The soldier instinctively raised his shield, and the tribesman grinned ferociously as he grasped the rim with his spare hand and wrenched it aside before striking down with his sword. The heavy blade shattered the Thracian’s bronze helmet and smashed through his skull right down to his jaw. The tribesman wrenched the blade free, then kicked the body away, roaring a triumphant battle cry and shaking his bloodied sword high where his followers could see it.

Swallowing his fear, Cato stepped forward and spoke calmly and loudly enough for his men to hear. ‘You are nothing but a fat pile of shit, old man, and I am going to cut you down. I am Prefect Marcus Licinius Cato, of the Blood Crows.’ He repeated the name of the cohort again in the fragments of the Silurian dialect he had picked up from the native traders who had come to the fort. He felt a flicker of satisfaction as he saw the man’s eyes widen briefly at the name of the unit whose bloody raids deep into enemy territory had earned them a fearsome reputation amongst the mountain tribes to the south.

It took a moment for the tribesman to recover his poise, and he snarled back at Cato, the contempt behind his words clear to the Roman soldiers. His comrades cheered him even as some of them continued exchanging blows with the Thracians. By unspoken consent, a space opened out around the two leaders, and they warily approached to within striking distance and weighed each other up. Cato saw that his foe was past the prime of life but that there was plenty of muscle there, along with the evidence of good living. Blue tattooed patterns swirled down each bare arm, and stretches of white scar tissue spoke of the many battles he had fought.

Cato advanced his shield, looking over the splintered ruin at the top, and raised his sword to chin height, aiming the point directly at the man’s face. It was as much a gesture of defiance as a threat, and the veteran warrior’s lip curled in disdain as he raised his longsword and gave the shield a hard poke. At once Cato pressed forward, battering at the sword with his shield and trying to get inside the man’s reach to stab him with his shorter weapon. But the tribesman was more agile than he appeared and kept his distance, even opening it enough after three paces to turn the attack back on Cato, hacking viciously at the splintered top of the shield so that Cato had little chance to strike back as he struggled to block the attacks. Each blow carved a fresh chunk out of the oval shield, and opened a split that weakened it further. At the same time, the prefect concentrated on working his opponent round so that his back was towards the cliff and he would have nowhere to retreat when Cato made his next rush forward.

The warrior paused to breathe, his chest heaving with exertion as he kept his eyes fixed on Cato and his sword moving slowly from side to side. A sudden break in the clouds bathed the valley in bright sunshine, and the man blinked at the glare. Cato rushed forward, this time alternating between shield and sword as he smashed aside each attempt to block his attacks. His opponent’s concentration was so fixed on fending off the blows that he did not realise until the last moment that he had been driven back to the edge of the crags. One of his men shouted a warning and the leader snatched a backward glance, then Cato struck, thrusting forward behind his shield, driving it into the warrior’s body and knocking him off balance. As his heel slipped over the edge, the tribesman dropped his sword, snatched at the sides of Cato’s shield and pulled with all his might. Cato, caught off guard, felt himself lurch forward, but released his hold on the shield’s handle and pushed himself back just in time. The shield fell away and the man toppled back with a desperate cry that was snatched away as he bounced off a protruding rock and cartwheeled to the foot of the cliff in silence, like a child’s corn doll.

His followers froze in shock. Before they could recover their resolve, Cato called out to his men. ‘Disengage! Now!’

The Blood Crows drew back cautiously, and Cato turned to the enemy and addressed them with authority. ‘Drop your weapons! Do it!’ He pointed to his own sword and stabbed a finger at the ground. ‘Now.’

There were at least ten still standing, and at first none of them moved, although Cato could see that they were unsure and afraid. He sheathed his blade and approached the nearest of them, a youth holding a wavering spear in both hands. He slowly walked round the point and took the shaft away from the boy.

‘Sit.’

The native nodded and dropped to the ground swiftly. There was a brief pause before the others did the same, setting their weapons down in front of them. Cato turned to Corvinus. ‘Leave five of your men to gather up their weapons and throw them over the cliff before they stand guard on the prisoners. If there’s any trouble, they’re to send ’em the same way as their leader.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Leaving Corvinus to assign the guards, Cato led the others across to the edge of the cliff overlooking the gorge. As they picked their way over the uneven surface, a cry of alarm sounded from the crags opposite, and Cato saw that Harpex and his men had reached the top and were fanning out to form a skirmish line to take on the other party of enemy warriors. There was nothing he could do to help, so he made his way to the edge, where small piles of unused rocks remained. He peered over and saw that the first testudo was breaking up as it reached the barricade, the men starting to climb it to get at the defenders. Several more legionaries had been struck down before Cato’s intervention had stopped the bombardment of his men. The second testudo was passing just beneath him, as yet unaware that the crags had been seized by the Blood Crows.

Cato had a clear view of the defenders behind the barricade and saw that there were more of them than he had thought: as many as four hundred warriors, closed up and ready to defend the gorge. In amongst them he picked out some figures in dark robes and cloaks, waving their arms, shouting encouragement at their men and hurling curses at the Romans. Druids, he realised. The enemy would be sure to put up a good fight and hold the line for a while yet.

Then he smiled to himself and turned quickly to the men who had followed him to the cliff’s edge. ‘Sheathe your swords and down shields!’ Once they had done as he had ordered, he pointed to the rocks. ‘Let’s pay those bastards back in kind. Help yourselves, lads.’

He picked up a rock half the size of a melon and carried it along the crag until he was past the barricade, then heaved it over the edge. He watched it tumble through the air, shrinking to a dot, then saw it glance off a shield and strike the ground. He growled with frustration and turned back to fetch another rock as the Thracians began to throw their missiles down on the enemy, letting out shouts of glee or disappointment as they struck down the natives or missed. Cato’s next rock was aimed, as best he could, at the place where the enemy ranks were most tightly packed, and this time he was rewarded with a strike squarely on the top of a warrior’s head. The man went down as though he had been hammered into the ground. Some of those around him looked up, their faces white specks surrounded by dark hair. As soon as they saw the auxiliaries far above, they began to point and shout warnings to their comrades. More were crushed under falling rocks, and soon the tribesmen were swirling around as they tried to dodge the bombardment, their attention drawn away from the struggle along the barricade.

Cato saw one of the Druids rush forward, thrusting his fighters towards the attacking legionaries. He had rallied several of the men before he too was struck down, his skull crushed and his body laid out, arms and legs splayed below the bloody ruin that had been his head. The sight of the dead Druid badly unnerved the tribesmen, who began to break ranks and retreat down the gorge to the open ground beyond, where they would be safe from the falling rocks. The panic was infectious, and soon only a handful of defenders remained, desperately fighting an uneven battle along the length of the barricade. Outnumbered and outfought by soldiers who had been trained and equipped to fight as effectively as any man in the known world, the tribesmen began to give ground, forced away from the barricade as the first of the Romans climbed over and pressed forward.

Turning to his men, Cato called out, ‘That’s enough, lads! Put those rocks down before you do any mischief to the legionaries.’

Having been delighted at the chance to turn the tables on their enemy, the Thracians reluctantly set the rocks aside and watched as the men of the First Century created a gap in the barricade wide enough for men to stream through and join the fight. The result was no longer in doubt, and a short time later, a native horn blasted three times. At once the remaining fighters broke away from the legionaries and ran back to join their comrades beyond the gorge. One of the surviving Druids pointed towards the side of the valley, and the Deceanglians began to stream up the slope. Seeing their retreat, Cato hurried back to the crags overlooking the Roman column and cupped his hands to his mouth.

‘Miro! Decurion Miro!’

The men of the rearguard looked up towards him, and a cheer rose from their throats at the sight of the prefect who had taken the enemy’s position. Cato spotted the legate and his staff, and then picked out Miro close to the leading squadron of Thracian horsemen.

‘Miro! Mount the men and start the pursuit! Ride ’em down before they can get away.’

If the decurion acknowledged the order, Cato never heard him, but a moment later he was relieved to see Miro vault into his saddle and lead the Blood Crows into the gorge at a trot. They passed through the barricade and fanned out on the far side, their longer cavalry swords drawn, ready to cut down any of the enemy they encountered. Those who had been injured and were slowly making their way to safety were the first to be dispatched without mercy. The rest had started up the slope, and now Cato could readily understand why their leaders had picked such difficult ground over which to make their escape. The inclination of the valley side and the runs of scree made it impossible for mounted men to follow them, and he realised that there would be no effective pursuit of the fleeing tribesmen. It was bitterly frustrating, but he reminded himself that at least the path before the advancing army had been cleared and the column could continue on its way. Or at least it might have done had it been earlier in the day. Looking up at the low angle of the sun, Cato saw that it was a scant few hours before dusk. Quintatus would have to give the order to halt the army soon to allow the men time to construct their marching camp.

The enemy had achieved their goal, Cato mused as he watched them make their escape. It had been a classic delaying action. They had held up the Roman advance for half a day and inflicted a number of casualties. More importantly, they had bought themselves time for whatever plans they had to counter the advance. He felt an icy tingle in the back of his neck at the possibility that the Druids and their Deceanglian allies were plotting something and Quintatus was unwittingly playing into their hands. Then he smiled bitterly at himself. Of course they would try to delay the Romans. This was their land, their home, and for the Druids, Mona was their most sacred soil. They would take every chance to keep the Romans from it. There would be more attempts to delay them long enough for the onset of winter to force Quintatus to withdraw from the mountains. It would be a hard-fought campaign, Cato knew. Contested every step of the way. This afternoon’s brutal action was only the first taste of what was to come.

The warmth of the late-afternoon sunlight was causing vapour to rise from the tunics of those around him so that they seemed to be smouldering. As they noticed it, the soldiers began laughing at each other, as men will gladly seize on anything light-spirited after a desperate action against the enemy. Despite his sombre mood, Cato indulged them. Once again the Blood Crows had proved themselves, and they deserved the brief moment of respite.