Britannia

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Macro and his detachment of Blood Crows kept well clear of the quagmire marking the line of march taken by Legate Quintatus and his army. Instead they thundered down the grassy slope, swords drawn, drenched capes rippling behind them. The pain in Macro’s leg was like fire as the limb lurched against the side of his horse, but he pushed it aside as he got caught up in the excitement and exhilaration of imminent action. Pandarus and some of the others were drawing ahead, and Macro snatched a breath to call out to them.

‘Hold the line! Damn you, hold the line!’

He understood the urge to get into the fight, but as an officer he had long since learned the need to keep his men together to strike as one, rather than fritter away the impact of a good charge piecemeal. At his command, Pandarus and the others obediently slowed their pace to let the rest catch up, and they continued in a line abreast. Macro’s shout had also alerted the enemy, however, and the nearest had already called a warning to their comrades. Most were still closely engaged with the men of the escort and fought on heedlessly, but a handful, perhaps twenty in all, turned towards the riders and clustered around the end of the rearmost wagon, shields raised and spears and swords readied. Macro saw the driver splayed back across his bench, arms outstretched, while a smaller figure, a boy, lay slumped at his side. Beads of rain sprayed into Macro’s face, and he had to blink them away as he approached the enemy warriors. In the last fifty paces the tribesmen braced themselves, and the Romans raised their swords and held their shields close to cover as much of their left side as possible.

‘Blood Crows! Charge!’ bellowed Macro, and pressed his snorting mount into a final dash, steering the horse to pass to the right of the wagon. He fixed his attention on a trio of natives by the rear wheel. None of them had armour, two carried wicker shields and there was only one sword between them, the others hefting axes. Poorly equipped as they were, Macro could see the fearless gleam in their eyes as they held their ground and snarled their defiance at him. At the last moment, he twitched his reins and his horse swerved abruptly towards the wagon, crushing the men against the wheel. Smashing his shield out, he caught one man square in the face with the iron boss, cracking his jaw and splitting his lips. Then he swivelled as far as his saddle allowed and plunged his sword down, driving the point into the native’s shoulder. The horse instinctively lurched away, driving on past the wheel and leaving the men behind. Macro knew that there was no time to come about and finish them off. What mattered was the impact of the wild charge.

Keep going. Knock them down. Strike hard and keep striking. Break their will!

The Blood Crows were getting stuck in on either side of the wagon, hacking and thrusting with their spears and punching out with their shields as they roared their savage battle cry over and over.

Another opponent stepped out in front of Macro. A tall, broad man with a solid kite shield and a heavy spear, the kind used to hunt boar. His long hair was plastered to his scalp and glistened with rain, and he shook a strand from his eye and braced his feet wide as the Roman officer bore down on him. Macro moved to repeat the manoeuvre that had knocked the first three natives aside, but this foe was far more skilled than his companions and quickly dodged round to keep himself on Macro’s sword-arm side. He pounced forward and raised his shield to block the Roman’s desperate blow, and then made to strike with his spear. Snatching his blade back, Macro swept it out at an angle, just catching the tip of the spear and parrying it aside. He spurred his horse forward, pulling sharply on the reins and turning in to the warrior. The blow was only glancing and the man was able to back away and recover his balance as Macro came on, thrusting his shield into his foe’s with a series of clatters and striking out with his sword. But the warrior was too quick on his feet and knocked the blade aside, or shifted easily from his opponent’s path, and Macro gritted his teeth in angry frustration.

Abruptly the warrior leapt back, creating a gap between himself and Macro’s horse, and then thrust his spear at the beast, tearing a gash in its matted flank. A shrill whinny cut through the air, and the horse reared up and lashed out with its hooves, knocking the warrior’s shield aside before sending the native flying violently backwards into the mud and puddles with a great splash. He had the presence of mind to grasp the shaft of his hunting spear tightly, and as Macro loomed over him and leaned forward to strike him on the ground, he thrust the weapon up with both hands to block the blows.

‘Just die, you bastard!’ Macro snarled in frustration. He struck again, and at the last moment changed the angle of the blow so that the edge of the blade cut diagonally across the knuckles of the man’s right hand, biting through flesh and crushing and shattering bones. Two severed fingers leapt from the spear shaft, and the others hung nervelessly from the mangled hand before the tip of the spear dropped into the mud. With only his left hand in action, the warrior roared with rage and tried to adjust his grip so he could still strike back. But Macro had already won the contest and now leaned forward as far as he could to drive the point of his sword into his opponent’s neck, tearing open the blood vessels so that the warrior slumped back, blood gushing from the wound.

Sitting back in his saddle, Macro raised his sword and quickly looked round. Most of the enemy around the wagon had been cut down. A handful were fleeing across the open ground towards the nearest trees. A short distance ahead of the wagon, Lomus had ridden straight into another party of tribesmen and was sweeping his cavalry sword in vicious arcs that scattered the enemy and laid open those who were too slow to escape his reach. The fight was still in the balance further along the supply convoy, with the lead vehicle already in the hands of the Deceanglian warriors, who were too busy looting the contents to pay much attention to the arrival of the Roman horsemen.

Macro’s attention was drawn to the melee around the small cart in the middle of the column. Ten or so of the escort had gathered about their optio, who held the standard in one hand while fighting off the enemy with his sword in the other. Standing at his side was a slender figure in a gleaming black cuirass decorated with swirling silver motifs. The ribbon tied over the cuirass signified his rank – a senior tribune – and Macro briefly wondered how he had become attached to a small supply convoy. The tribune and his men were hemmed in and fought shoulder to shoulder in a tight formation about the cart as their foes hacked at their oval shields with axes and swords.

Macro’s mouth was dry, and he had to clear his throat before he called out to the rest of his men, ‘Follow me! Follow me!’

He waited just long enough to see that the others were responding to the order before slapping the flat of his blade against his horse’s rump and steering the beast towards the struggle around the cart. The rest of the surviving auxiliaries were fighting back to back or individually as the Blood Crows dashed by, slashing at any foe who came within reach of their swords. Then they were in amongst the men surrounding the cart, horses pushing into the throng as blades clashed with shrill rings and sparks flew brightly in the gloom. Macro held his shield close to his side, covering his leg as much as possible while cutting and thrusting at any target that presented itself. The sudden appearance of the reinforcements had unnerved the tribesmen, and they tried to back away from the ferocious men looming over them on horseback.

‘That’s it, lads!’ the tribune cried. ‘The bastards are breaking! Kill ’em!’

The men from the escort surged forward, slamming their shields into the enemy and punching their short swords out with fresh vigour now that the tables had been turned. A handful of the enemy backed away and ran, and their example quickly spread to their comrades, who retreated after them. Macro saw Lomus urge his horse forward to pursue the warriors streaming away, and shouted after him.

‘Lomus! Leave ’em. Optio!’

‘Sir?’ Pandarus reined in and turned to his superior.

‘Take the men and drive the rest of the natives off. But that’s all. No pursuit beyond a hundred paces from the wagons. I don’t want them blundering into any trap. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir!’

Pandarus called his men to form on him and trotted towards the three wagons at the front of the convoy, cutting down any tribesmen who tried to stand their ground. Meanwhile Macro turned to the tribune and exchanged a quick salute.

The tribune offered a relieved smile as he stepped forward. ‘And to whom do I owe my thanks for the timely intervention?’

‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, First Century, Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth, sir.’

‘Well met, Centurion. I am Tribune Caius Porcinus Glaber. Not attached to any legion, as it happens. Not yet, at least. And who are those men with you? They do not look like any legionaries I have ever encountered. Unless the Fourteenth has decided to go native.’

Macro chuckled. ‘They’re Blood Crows, sir. That’s to say, Second Thracian Cavalry, but known to most as the Blood Crows.’

The tribune arched an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like they’ve earned themselves something of a fierce reputation.’

‘Ask the enemy, sir. There’s not a barbarian in these mountains that has not heard of the Blood Crows, and who doesn’t fear them.’

‘I see.’ The tribune scrutinised him closely before he continued. ‘And what is a legionary centurion doing in command of a handful of auxiliary cavalrymen? If you hadn’t ridden to our rescue, I might think you were deserters. I’d be grateful if you’d explain yourself, Centurion Macro.’

‘I have important intelligence for Legate Quintatus, sir. These men are from the garrison of the fort I command.’

The tribune looked round to see the last of the enemy disappearing into the trees, and nodded with approval. ‘Then I congratulate you on the quality of your men. The Blood Crows are a credit to you.’

‘The cohort is commanded by Prefect Cato, sir. I was left in command of the fort after a wound stopped me marching with him.’ Macro touched his leg gently.

‘Prefect Cato . . .’ Glaber’s brow creased into a frown.

‘We’d better get the convoy moving again, sir. Where is the commander of the escort?’

‘Over there. Poor bastard.’ The tribune gestured towards a corpse face down in the mud a short distance away. His crest had been trodden into the ground and was barely visible.

Macro turned his gaze towards the optio, still standing with the standard at the side of the cart. ‘Then that makes you the new escort commander. Gather your men, see to the wounded and get the wagons ready to move. We need to find an outpost or a patrol before that lot get their balls back and have another crack. Carry on.’

The optio planted the standard firmly in the ground beside the cart before he strode away to round up the survivors of the escort.

‘Do you really think they’ll come back?’ asked Glaber.

Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘I hope not. But with the Druids stirring the shit up, the locals have something of a fanatical edge to them, and they’re hard to predict. Best we don’t stick around and see what happens, eh?’

‘Fair enough.’ Glaber chuckled.

Macro glanced up and down the supply convoy and noted that several of the mules had been injured and were braying in agony as they struggled in their traces. A handful had been killed outright and had collapsed on to the muddy track. The wagon drivers and their assistants had also suffered losses in the attack, and the dazed survivors were quickly set to work by the optio to remove the stricken animals from their harness.

‘We’re going to have to abandon at least one of the wagons,’ Macro decided. ‘And some of the supplies. Of course, we could use a couple of the mules hitched to your cart, sir.’

Glaber stiffened slightly. ‘I think not. As you said, we’re in a hurry. Best to just crack on and not waste time moving my kit to one of the wagons. You’ll need all the space for whatever supplies you can carry from the wagon you leave.’

Macro saw that he would not gain much headway against the tribune and changed tack. ‘Mind my asking why you were here with the convoy, sir? I know that the Fourteenth and the Twentieth already have senior tribunes, so you ain’t a replacement.’

Glaber was quiet for a moment before he responded. ‘Fair enough question, and as I have already put you on the spot, I suppose I owe you an answer. Very well. I am the chief of staff to the new governor of Britannia, Aulus Didius Gallus. I have been sent to inform Legate Quintatus that the governor will reach the province to take up his post before the end of the year. I’m supposed to be liaising with the legate to discuss the handover. However, I had not expected to have to track him down in the depths of these bloody mountains.’

‘Gallus?’ Macro had heard the name. ‘Wasn’t he governor in Sicily a few years back?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Nice quiet spot, I believe. He’s going to find it quite different here.’

Glaber’s brow creased into a frown. ‘He has since been decorated by the emperor following a successful campaign in Bosporus, and after that he campaigned against a brigand army in the mountains of North Africa. I think you will find that he is well placed to take command here in Britannia. The barbarians in these climes are hardly going to present much of a challenge.’

‘No?’ Macro could not help a weary smile. ‘They’ve been keeping our legions at full stretch for the best part of ten years now, sir. And this little tussle you just had is hardly an isolated event. I hope the new governor doesn’t think he’s going to breeze in and sort it all out in a few short years.’

‘Gallus knows what he’s doing, Centurion. And I suspect that he is not going to be too impressed by one of his legates rushing headlong through these mountains to grab some glory for himself while he can.’

Macro quickly reappraised his impression of the tribune. Glaber was no one’s fool and had guessed the real motive behind Quintatus’s decision to launch this campaign. Still, the centurion had learned enough from Cato to be aware of the need to discuss his superiors in as tactful a manner as he could manage. ‘Legate Quintatus is a good enough commander, sir. He saw an opportunity to crush the Druids while the enemy appeared weak and divided, and he took it. But he’s advancing into a trap, sir. That’s what I’ve come to warn him about.’

He briefly filled the tribune in on the details that had been beaten out of the prisoner back at the fort. Glaber listened intently.

‘Then there’s no time to waste. I would suggest that you and your men ride ahead and reach the army as soon as you can, but I dare say this route is being closely watched by the enemy and you’d stand a better chance of getting through if you remained with the convoy.’

‘I agree, sir.’

‘Then we’d better get moving as soon as the wagons are ready. I’ll need a driver for my cart. The previous post-holder thought he’d run for it the moment the enemy pitched up. He was the first man to be cut down.’ Glaber looked up at the leaden sky. ‘I’d say we’re due some rain before night falls.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Frankly, I’d rather be sitting in my study, in front of the fire, back in Rome.’

‘I can imagine.’

They exchanged rueful smiles before Glaber wagged a finger. ‘I remember now. You did say Prefect Cato, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Marcus Quintus Cato, the chap that married the daughter of Senator Sempronius a year or so ago? Julia, wasn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Do you know Prefect Cato?’

‘Yes, sir. He is a fine officer, and a good man. I’m proud to call him a friend.’

The tribune sucked in a breath and his expression changed, becoming more solemn. ‘Then I have some bad news for you, and the prefect, I’m afraid . . .’

‘Bad news?’ Macro felt a prickle of anxiety ripple across his scalp. He dared not even guess at the nature of the tidings carried by the tribune.

‘My father is a close friend of Senator Sempronius. I heard it from him shortly before I left Rome. It seems that Julia gave birth to a child a while back. It was not an easy delivery by all accounts, and left her weak. She never fully recovered and finally succumbed to a summer chill. Damn shame. At least young Lucius was thriving though. Or was when I left Rome. Always thought Julia was a bright, pretty thing. Bit of a shock to old man Sempronius.’ He paused and continued in a more melancholy tone. ‘So I suppose I shall have to pass the news on to her husband. Poor fellow.’

‘She’s dead?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

Macro swallowed and shook his head in utter sorrow. ‘Cato . . . my poor lad.’

The optio came striding up to them with one of his men and saluted, oblivious to the strained air between his two superiors as he addressed Tribune Glaber. The other man took up the traces of the mules attached to the cart and stood ready to lead the animals on.

‘The wounded have been put in one of the wagons, sir. The dead have been placed on the one we’re leaving behind, together with the supplies we couldn’t carry. The rest of the convoy is formed up and ready to move.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. We had better get going. Centurion?’

Macro shook himself out of his stupor and stiffened his spine as he composed his features and stared at the tribune. ‘I’m ready, sir.’

‘Good. I want you and your men to scout ahead of the convoy. No heroics. You see anything, you report back at once and don’t get stuck in. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right, then let’s get moving, gentlemen.’

Macro saluted and turned to mount his horse. As he adjusted his position, he looked round. Already a thin wisp of smoke was rising from the cart where several bodies in red tunics had been arranged on top of the sacks of grain and jars of olive oil packed on the bed of the wagon. Mule feed blazed at the tail of the vehicle, and, fanned by the breeze, the bright flames licked at the flammable material above. It was a dramatic and poignant sight, but Macro’s mind was elsewhere. He was recalling the last time he had seen Cato and Julia together, just before leaving Rome. Their mutual affection had been clear to see and had touched even Macro’s hardened heart.

Now Julia was dead.

And Macro dreaded the reaction of his friend when the news reached him.