Britannia

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Even though he was expecting the signal, the distant blast of the bucinas of the army’s headquarters detachment caused Cato to lurch slightly in his saddle. At once, the nearest men looked to him in anticipation. He snatched a deep breath as he thrust his arm up and called out, ‘Vanguard! Forwards!’

He kicked his heels in, and Hannibal lurched forward, breaking into a canter up the rise and out of the thin skein of mist on to the open ground facing the enemy’s ramparts less than half a mile away. To his left came Miro and his squadron, and then the rest of the Blood Crows, horses’ hooves drumming across the white-frosted grass. Some of the men shouted their war cries, in defiance of their orders to keep silent, and Cato trusted that their officers would take them to task for that later on. This was no wild charge, laden down as they were with ladders and coils of rope and grappling irons, but every man knew that the speed of the attack was the surest guarantee of incurring as few casualties as possible.

Cato leaned forward and urged his mount on, his eyes fixed on the enemy lookouts, waiting for them to sound the alarm, inaudible as it would be above the din of hooves pounding over the iron-hard ground. But his ears did pick out the sound of more Roman trumpets as the headquarters signal was repeated by the other units of the army surrounding the Deceanglian capital. This too was part of the plan, to confuse the enemy about the direction of the attack and hopefully give Cato and his men a chance to carry out their task before the enemy could oppose them in strength. He glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw the first of the legionaries emerge from the misty hollow and strike out towards the gatehouse at a steady trot. The tension of waiting had gone. They were committed now. Victory and glory awaited them, or defeat and death. But all thought of the outcome was shredded by the sheer exhilaration of the attack, and Cato’s lips tightened into a fierce grin as he raced forward.

The enemy lookouts on the ramparts and gatehouse stood their ground implacably, but if the alarm had been raised, their comrades were slow to react, Cato thought, as he rapidly closed the distance to the outer ditch. As he approached, he reined in to allow the rest of his men to catch up. The first riders stopped at the edge of the ditch and dropped from their mounts, leaving one man in five to hold the reins for his comrades. Carrying their ladders and grapples, the men half ran, half slid down the steep outer slope, leaving furrows in the frosted grass. Cato remained in the saddle and rode along the rampart towards the bridge leading over the ditch to the gatehouse. Above him in the thin dawn light he could make out the dark figures of two native warriors. Turning in his saddle, he saw that the auxiliaries on foot were closing up. Some distance behind them trotted the legionaries, a rippling wave of shields and polished helmets. At the rear came the men carrying the ram.

Slipping down from the saddle, Cato steered clear of the bridge, where he would present a clear target for the enemy, and instead scrambled down into the ditch, narrowly avoiding one of the sharpened stakes set at an angle designed to impale a careless attacker. The reverse slope was steeper and presented more of a challenge for the Blood Crows, and they had to use their hands to help them gain the narrow strip immediately below the timber posts of the rampart. An auxiliary was setting one of the ladders up close by, and Cato nudged him aside.

‘I’ll go first!’

He placed a boot on the first rung and thrust himself up, climbing as quickly as he could. His heart was beating wildly, and any moment he expected to see one of the enemy warriors look over the rampart, or appear directly above to thrust the ladder away. There was not much space to angle the ladder securely, and he was forced to lean into it as he ascended. As he came within a sword’s length of the top, he reached for the handle of his weapon and drew it before he continued. Tensing his muscles, he took the last two rungs in a rush, swinging his boot up and over the palisade and heaving his body on to the walkway, where he landed in a crouch, sword raised, ready to fight.

Nothing moved. Above the pounding of blood in his ears, the only other sounds were the grunts of his men scaling the walls and the rumble of nailed boots on frozen soil as the legionaries surged towards the gatehouse. He glanced round swiftly, but he was alone on the walkway, until one of the Blood Crows joined him a short distance away. Then more men heaved themselves over the top of the palisade. Still there was no reaction from the enemy. Cato could see the head of one of the men on the gatehouse against the grey of the dawn sky, unmoving. Grasping his sword firmly, he strode the short distance to the steps leading to the tower and rushed up them, sword raised. Bursting out into the confined space, he made ready to strike at the first enemy he saw. Only there was none. Just crude facsimiles of men fashioned from wicker and clothed in rags. Their spears were shafts of wood propped up against them.

He stared at them in shock. Eventually he rose from his crouched position and crossed to the nearest of the dummies. He examined it warily, as if it might yet be some kind of trap, then prodded it hard with his sword. It collapsed on to the worn wooden boards, its ‘spear’ clattering beside it. Cato stared down and muttered softly, ‘Fuck me . . .’

Sheathing his sword, he hurried to the rear of the tower and gazed out over the mass of conical thatched roofs. Coils of woodsmoke still rose from several locations amid the huts, but there was no other sign of life. Nor was there any fighting along the parapet on either side. A number of his men were standing there looking about nonplussed. Further along, one of the auxiliaries sprang forward and kicked over another of the dummies, hacking at the wicker in bitter frustration. The steps leading down to the walkway creaked as Decurion Miro entered the tower, still holding his sword ready. The two officers exchanged a look before Cato sighed.

‘We’ve been had. The enemy are long gone. They left a handful behind who made up these dummies, set a few fires and retreated several hours ago. Probably as soon as it got dark.’

‘Then where are they, sir?’

Cato rubbed his eyes. ‘Who knows? They could be hiding up in the mountains, or dispersing to other settlements. More likely they have fallen back to Mona and think they’ll be safe once they have put some sea between them and us.’

Miro looked out over the village. ‘What if they’re still here? What if this is some kind of trap?’

Cato looked at him and clicked his tongue. ‘And exactly what kind of trap would that be? To let your enemy walk through your defences? Take it from me, Decurion. They’ve gone.’

A shouted order from outside the gate interrupted the exchange. Cato was striding across the tower when there was a loud crash and the structure shook under his feet.

‘Miro, on me!’ He trotted down the steps to the open space behind the gate. ‘Give me a hand with the locking bar.’

Before they could lift it out of the brackets, the gate shook again as the ram struck the other side. Dust trickled down from the seams in the wood above, and Cato blinked it away, then looked across to Miro and nodded. Bracing their feet, they heaved the bar out and dropped it a short distance behind the gate, just as the optio in charge of the party carrying the ram gave the timing for the next strike.

‘One . . . two . . . three!’

Without the bar, the gates parted at once and the point of the ram smashed them aside as the legionaries stumbled forward with surprised expressions.

‘Nice try, lads,’ Miro sniffed. ‘But the Blood Crows beat you to it.’

Cato had no desire to indulge any banter and strode out past the ram, calling Centurion Festinus over.

‘The enemy’s pulled a fast one and abandoned the place.’

‘What?’

‘They’ve gone. But just in case they’ve left anyone behind, I want your men to search every hut. If you find any stragglers, you bring them to me unharmed.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato hurried back through the gatehouse. ‘Miro! Send a rider to report to the legate. He’s to say the enemy has abandoned their capital. At once.’

Miro saluted and returned to where his men were gathering at the foot of the rampart, casting suspicious glances towards the nearest huts. Cato knew their anxiety would turn to frustration and anger soon enough. The enemy had evaded them once again and denied them the booty they had been expecting, as well as the chance to win recognition for breaking into the fortification.

As the man Miro had chosen hurried out to find his mount, Cato gave orders for the Blood Crows to join the search, all except one squadron, which was tasked with securing the gate until more forces arrived. He joined Miro’s men as they unslung their shields and advanced cautiously up the main thoroughfare leading towards the heart of the settlement. They searched the huts along the route as they advanced, but there was no sign of life, just whatever goods the tribesmen had abandoned in their haste to escape from the Romans. There were not even any animals remaining, these having been driven away with the inhabitants. Cato soon discovered what had happened to their grain supply, as he shifted the ash from the fringes of the smouldering remains of a fire. There would be little of use for the Romans to pick over, and he could not help but admire an enemy who would destroy their possessions rather than allow them to fall into the hands of the foe.

The way ahead curved in the direction of a large hut that dominated the heart of the settlement. Cato guessed it must be the hall of the tribe’s ruler. There, if anywhere, they would find anything of value that had been left behind by the enemy. As the Romans turned the corner, the street opened out into a large clear space before the entrance to the compound in which stood the royal hall. There was the remains of another fire – a large pile of ash, thin trails of smoke rising from several sources. A few baskets lay abandoned on the ground.

Cato halted the squadron and ordered the men to search the surrounding huts, then beckoned to Miro and made for the entrance to the royal compound, a wooden arch topped with a display of weathered skulls. A low palisade enclosed the hall and a handful of huts. It was not on the scale of the buildings that Cato had seen in the tribes of the south of Britannia, and the skulls, along with the squalor of the place, spoke of the barbaric nature of the Deceanglian tribe. They paused outside the entrance to the hall, and Cato glanced at Miro.

‘You look over the rest of the compound.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Miro swallowed, clearly anxious about his surroundings. Cato thought about offering him some reassurance, but decided not to. Miro had to master his fear by himself. It came with the rank.

He left the decurion on the threshold and entered the hall. Even though the door was wide open, there was a residual warmth within, and the air was heavy with the stink of sweat, roast meat and woodsmoke. There was a large hearth in the centre of the hall, beneath an opening in the roof, surrounded by long tables and benches. Abandoned platters and drinking horns littered the tables, and it was clear that the enemy had left in a hurry. Towards the rear of the hall was a large wooden chair decorated with swirled patterns carved into every surface. A pile of furs served as a cushion. In front of the throne were two open chests. As Cato approached, he could see that they contained Samian-ware pottery. He took a bowl out of the straw packing and held it up to examine the decorated surface. It was the kind favoured by those who traded with the natives, who had a fondness for its fine appearance and paid well for it, even though it was mass-produced back in Gaul.

‘Sir!’

Cato looked up at the cry from outside.

‘Sir! Come quick!’

He quickly replaced the bowl and hurried out of the hall. Miro called out again, from behind the building, and Cato ran round to join him, anxiety pricking the base of his neck. Miro was standing a short distance from a cart, his face ashen, his sword arm hanging limply. As Cato strode over to join him, he saw the cause of the decurion’s shock. A naked body was bound to the rear of the cart, his arms tightly stretched along the vehicle’s sides. A pile of organs and intestines lay in a pool of dried blood at his feet. His stomach had been cut open and the flaps pegged back to reveal the gory cavity. His head was rolled back, eyes shut, mouth gaping where his severed penis had been forced into it, the flesh bruised and cut but still recognisable.

‘Petronius Deanus,’ Cato said softly. ‘Poor bastard.’

Miro swallowed. ‘Why did they do this to him? Fucking animals . . .’

Cato tore his gaze away from the corpse and looked further along the side of the cart. ‘A warning to us. No, not a warning. A challenge. Look.’

He pointed out a short phrase, crudely written in blood on the side of the cart beneath Petronius’s right hand. There was dried blood on his finger, and an icy chill tumbled down Cato’s spine as he realised that the merchant had been forced to write the message in his own blood before he had been disembowelled. The words were large enough to make out without stepping any closer.

He cleared his throat and read them aloud as steadily as he could.

‘Romans, we await you at Mona. There, you will all die . . .’