Britannia

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cato winced as the headquarters trumpets blared into the morning air and a moment later the first battery of bolt-throwers went into action. The usual crack of the throwing arms springing forward was reduced to a softer snap by the layer of snow that had blanketed the landscape during the night. Three inches or so, and it had drifted in front of the enemy palisade and against their shelters beyond. Puffs of white exploded where the iron-headed bolts smashed into the palisade timbers encrusted with frost and snow. At once the enemy warriors who had been lining the defences, shouting insults at the Romans, ducked out of sight. After the last of the bolts struck home there was a brief pause before the dark dots of their faces reappeared along the defences. The jeering began to start again, prematurely, as the second battery unleashed its missiles, concentrating on the same stretch of defences at the centre of the enemy line. As Cato watched, one of the defenders, bolder than his comrades, stood tall, waving his fists. An instant later a bolt struck him squarely in the chest and he was hurled back out of sight.

‘First blood to us,’ chuckled Legate Valens of the Fourteenth Legion as he stood at Cato’s side. ‘Those savages never seem to learn what modern weapons can do. Won’t be long before we knock their defences to pieces.’

Cato nodded. Over a hundred bolt-throwers and catapults had accompanied the army, and between them they would be more than enough to breach the enemy’s defences, as well as causing them heavy losses. However, the advantage would only lie with the Romans with respect to the defences on this side of the channel. The artillery would lack the range to attack the Druids’ defences lining the shore of Mona. He turned to gaze along the coast to where the four surviving warships were leading what was left of the transports towards the northern entrance of the channel between the mainland and Mona. The warships had a handful of artillery pieces with which to support the landing on the island, but Cato doubted they would be enough to turn the tide of battle. The assault troops would have to struggle ashore through the icy shallows before attacking the fortifications protecting the narrowest stretch of the channel. He could see that the rest of the shoreline facing the mainland was protected by lesser earthworks and lines of sharpened stakes. The only other option was the narrow, muddy causeway that was briefly explored at low tide. Even that was protected by a thick belt of sharpened stakes. It was going to be a bloody business.

Legate Quintatus and his senior officers were watching proceedings from a small hillock a short distance behind the men of the Fourteenth, who were still moving into position in preparation for the attack that would go in once a number of practicable breaches had been torn through the enemy’s palisade. On the flanks of the legion stood the four auxiliary cohorts chosen to support the assault, two of which were missile units comprised of archers and slingers from the Balearic islands. The Blood Crows were positioned on the right flank. Their horses were still in camp; the entire unit would be fighting on foot, together with the legionary cohort to which they had been attached since the beginning of the year. Such was the fear that the Blood Crows struck into enemy hearts that Quintatus had decided to have them join the assault.

Although there was no wind and the sea was calm, the leaden sky threatened more snow, and many of the Roman soldiers had chosen to wear their cloaks into action, knowing that they might have to wait a while before the order to advance was given. Those in the cohorts that had already formed up on the slope leading down to the enemy’s defences were stamping their feet and rubbing their hands in an attempt to stave off the cold. Their comrades in the Twentieth Legion and the remaining auxiliary cohorts were being held in reserve in the marching camp sprawling across the crest of the hill that overlooked the narrowest point of the channel. They still had the comfort of the fires burning inside the ramparts of the camp as they stood ready in case they were called on to fight.

It had been two days since the storm had passed, the following morning revealing the extent of the damage wreaked on the hapless fleet that had been sent to join Quintatus and his column. The shore had been strewn with wreckage and corpses for miles either side of the bay, and fully two thirds of the vessels and their crews had been lost. The bodies had been gathered up and cremated on pyres constructed from the shattered timbers of the ships before the army made its final advance to the hill overlooking the enemy’s positions either side of the channel. In that time Cato had recovered from the effects of the cold and exhaustion caused by his rescue of the sailors. They at least had been saved from the savage storm, and that was some small comfort to the prefect. Now he turned his attention to the pending assault and the wider situation as he continued the conversation he had been having with Legate Valens.

‘We’ll deal with their position on this side of the channel easily enough, sir, but getting across the water and taking the island itself is going to be a much tougher proposition. Either we try crossing at low tide through those obstacles, or we go straight across the water. Not easy given how few transports made it through the storm.’

Both men glanced at the vessels edging into the mouth of the channel, keeping as close to the mainland as they dared in case the enemy attempted anything with the scores of small craft they had beached along the shore of the island. Besides the warships, there were eight transports, each capable of carrying no more than fifty men.

‘With only four hundred in each wave, it’s going to be difficult,’ Cato commented. ‘The first men across are going to have the fight of their lives.’

‘It won’t be easy,’ Valens conceded. ‘But I’d bet on the boys in the Fourteenth against that screaming mob of barbarians any day. They just have to get ashore and hold on long enough for the follow-up troops. Once we’ve numbers on the ground, nothing can stop us. We’ll crush those Druids like eggs. That’ll knock the stuffing out of any other tribes thinking of taking a pop at us, eh?’

Cato made himself smile reassuringly. ‘Yes, I imagine so.’

Valens had a point. Without the Druids to unite the tribes against Rome, the standard policy of divide and rule would work its usual magic. That was what made it possible for the tiny city state that Rome had once been to hold sway over a vast expanse of the known world. And it would be no different here in Britannia. The entire population would be held down by three or four legions and several cohort units, with the aid of those native rulers whose loyalty had been bought with Roman silver. That would be the price of peace for the natives of Britannia.

As they had been talking, the ballista crews had been given permission to fire at will, and as each loaded at its own speed, the distinct volleys that had opened the barrage blurred into a continuous, rhythmless series of cracks. The enemy, who had been using the initial intervals to show their defiance, now hunkered down behind their palisade to ride it out, ready to spring forward again the moment the Romans ceased shooting. The concentrated impact of the heavy bolts was already shattering the timbers of the palisade, and there was a cry of triumph from the watching soldiers when a section of the rampart fell into the outer ditch, carrying away some of the earth from beneath it.

‘Officers to your units!’ Quintatus called out from his station a short distance in front of his command post. The camp prefect repeated the order with a loud bellow to ensure that it was heard by all, and then the commanders of the units about to go into action moved off to join their men. Cato strode part of the way with Valens and noted the man’s irrepressible confidence as he greeted his subordinates and took his place close to the standard-bearers on the right of the line.

‘Good fortune go with you, sir,’ said Cato as he bowed his head briefly.

‘And with you, Prefect Cato!’ Valens nodded. ‘Stick it to ’em, Blood Crows!’

The legate turned to give a final address to his senior centurions, the time-honoured tradition of commanders before a battle. Cato had sometimes favoured the men under his command with similar treatment, but he doubted its necessity now. They would fight come what may, and a few hackneyed boasts and appeals to duty would not be likely to boost their chances of winning a battle. Better, he thought, to show them a calm professionalism and let them trust to their training and experience. So he affected a diffident manner as he approached the colour party of the Blood Crows and undid the clasp fastening his cloak, handing the garment to Thraxis before taking the shield held out for him by his servant.

Out of habit, he hefted the shield and tested its weight, then rolled his shoulders to loosen them before he nodded to Thraxis.

‘All ready . . .’ He paused and fixed his servant with a brief appraising look. He had made a decision about the Thracian’s future earlier that morning, and it seemed an appropriate moment to break the news. ‘You can leave the cloak with the dressing party and then take your place beside the standard-bearer, as his second.’

Thraxis could not help showing his surprise. ‘Sir?’

‘You’ve served me well. Though not always with good humour, eh?’ Cato chuckled as he remembered the many occasions when Thraxis had seen to his needs like a man nursing a perpetual hangover. He was rewarded with a fresh scowl, but the expression swiftly disappeared as Thraxis smiled at his good fortune. To be the second to the standard-bearer made him responsible for the man’s safety in battle, and if the standard-bearer was killed or badly wounded, it would fall to Thraxis to take the Blood Crows’ standard and keep it raised high. The post came with a pay increase to one and a half times his previous rate, as well as being excused-duties status. There would be no more of the drudgery of cleaning latrines, fetching firewood and cleaning his superior’s kit. It would also mean that Thraxis was well placed to rise to the rank of optio, and after that decurion. As his mind raced through the opportunities extended to him, he paused and looked at Cato.

‘Who will replace me as your servant, sir?’

‘I’ll trust you to find the right man for the job once we return to Mediolanum. There’s no hurry. All I ask is that you make sure he has a sunnier disposition than the current post-holder.’

‘That crack ain’t funny, sir.’

‘I know. That’s why I’m replacing you.’

Thraxis grinned and nodded appreciatively. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m very grateful.’

‘No need for that. It’s clear enough to me that you have the potential to make a decent junior officer. Congratulations.’

Thraxis hurried off with Cato’s cloak and left it with the auxiliaries who were busy preparing their dressings and splints in readiness for the flow of casualties when the attack went in. He returned a moment later with his own shield and took his place alongside the standard-bearer. Around them the Blood Crows stood formed up in their squadrons with their decurions posted on the right flank, puffs of steam swirling from the men’s lips each time they exhaled into the bitterly cold morning air. The snow on the ground muffled the sounds of voices and the chink of loose equipment and lent an unnatural quiet to the scene. On Cato’s orders they had left their spears in camp. The close-quarters fighting that lay ahead favoured the use of swords.

Cato watched the fall of the shot from the ballista batteries and noted with satisfaction that they were tearing numerous gaps in the centre of the palisade. His attention passed along the enemy’s defences to the small redoubt at the end, directly opposite the Blood Crows. That fortification was as yet untouched, but the first of the biremes was already dropping anchor within range of it, and a second anchor was dropped from the stern in order to provide a secure platform, side on to the action. Cato could see the crews of the deck-mounted bolt-throwers loading their weapons and turning them to bear on the redoubt. This was the objective assigned to the Blood Crows. If it was taken, then the cohort would be able to charge on the enemy’s flank and roll up their line. The bireme was late in reaching its station and adding its weight to the bombardment, and Cato let out a long, frustrated breath.

As the last clanks of the loading windlasses died away, the trierarch in command of the warship raised his arm to call his ballista crews to attention, then thrust it forward. The dark shafts of the heavy bolts arced across the water and smashed into the defences, unleashing a shower of splinters. The crews fired a few more volleys before the headquarters trumpets sounded and the batteries ceased shooting. As if to try and make amends for their tardiness, the sailors released a few extra shots before standing down.

A hush fell across the snowy battlefield as the Romans stood waiting for the order to attack. Along the defences, the first faces appeared as the enemy warily returned to their positions and prepared to make their stand.

‘Fourteenth Legion!’ A voice bellowed from the heavily armoured ranks to the left of the Blood Crows. ‘Prepare to advance!’

The men raised their shields and held them at an angle across their bodies.

‘Advance!’

The front ranks of each cohort moved forward, and those following rippled after their comrades, pacing out across the virginal white snow in front of the natives’ fortifications. The order to advance was repeated in the flanking missile cohorts, and the archers and slingers surged ahead of the legionaries, ready to harass any of the enemy who made easy targets of themselves. Cato steadied himself and drew a deep breath before he too called out into the crisp air.

‘Blood Crows, make ready . . . Advance!’

He stepped out, and his men followed suit on either side as the black standard with its red crow stirred above the formation. The snow crunched softly under his boots as he descended the gentle slope towards the outer ditch and the round earthwork of the redoubt. Two hundred paces ahead he saw the enemy warriors waiting to receive them. The usual mix of tribesmen with armour and those without, waving spears, swords and axes. The few bowmen amongst them were hurriedly stringing their weapons, plucking arrows from their quivers and notching them as they waited for the Romans to march into range.

A century from the cohort of archers trotted ahead of the Blood Crows, pausing to loose arrows as they approached the ditch. The defenders began to shoot back, and the slender shafts arced to and fro against the grey sky. The advantage lay with the enemy, who were able to duck into cover, while their Roman opponents were in the open and had to rely on quick reactions and deft footwork to avoid being struck down. Some were not so lucky, and Cato saw one of the auxiliaries lurch as an arrow caught him in the shoulder. Slinging his bow, the man tried to work the arrow free as he fell back, passing the Blood Crows and making for the field dressing station.

A faint phut reached Cato’s ears, and he saw a shaft quiver momentarily in the snow not ten feet ahead of him. He raised his shield to cover his chin and continued forward without breaking his pace. Another arrow whirred close by and he had to force himself not to flinch in case the men on either side of him noticed. The archers had stopped a short distance ahead and now began to move aside to fall back between the squadrons of the Blood Crows as they marched towards the outer slope of the ditch. The shafts and feathered flights of the enemy’s arrows sprouted from the snow like slender flowers. Cato was briefly struck by the comparison and smiled, until he caught sight of an archer on the palisade directly ahead, lining up his shot. As their eyes met, the man drew back his right arm and cocked his head. Cato just had time to lift his shield before the man released his arrow, and then he felt the impact as the iron head smashed through the leather and strips of glued wood, splintering just a few inches from his face. More arrows and slingshot zipped through the air as the defenders desperately tried to shoot down as many attackers as they could before the Romans closed the gap and engaged them hand to hand.

A cry close by caused Cato to glance round. He saw one of his men stagger to a halt and lower his shield as he reached up to grasp the shaft that protruded from his shattered cheekbone. A moment later he was struck again, this time by a slingshot that caught him squarely on the front of his helmet, jerking his head back violently and knocking him senseless. He collapsed into the snow and lay still as his comrades advanced relentlessly around and over him.

Cato risked a quick glimpse over the rim of his shield and saw that they were almost on top of the ditch. He slowed his pace as he began to descend the outer slope. The ditch was no more than ten feet deep and the bottom was strewn with sharpened stakes set into the ground at an angle. The obstacles would have presented a danger to a headlong attack, but the measured advance of well-trained Roman soldiers meant that the attackers had time to push the stakes aside and continue to the inner slope before clambering up the far side. Cato led the way, making for a point where the navy’s ballista had smashed several timbers to splintered remnants. As he began to scramble up the inner slope, having to thrust his hands into the snow to gain purchase on the frozen ground beneath, he saw the enemy lining the palisade above. Many had hair stiff with limewash and bore swirling tattoos on their faces. Their lips curled back and their mouths were wide agape as they screamed insults and curses at the Romans. Some were hurling rocks down from the palisade, crashing on to the oval shields of the Blood Crows, or glancing off helmets and armour. A few unlucky men were struck on exposed limbs or dazed by sudden blows to the head. They fell back and slid down into the ditch, stunned.

On hands and knees Cato crawled up the slope, keeping his shield raised and wincing each time it was struck by a rock. At the foot of the palisade he crouched by the timber posts and quickly took stock of the situation. On both sides his men were swarming around the defences of the redoubt, crowding those points where the bireme’s brief barrage had battered the timbers. He saw that the palisade was fastened with intertwined lengths of rope that helped to hold the posts in place. At once he drew his sword, thrust it into a gap between two of the posts and began sawing. As the strands parted, he was joined by the standard-bearer and Thraxis, who took out his own blade and, following his prefect’s example, began to cut at the rope higher up. Other men did the same around the redoubt, while the enemy continued to hurl missiles down at them, desperate to drive them away.

The rope parted and Cato sheathed his blade so that he could work the strands free of the posts on either side. Then he called forward two of his men, big, burly soldiers who reached up to where the ballista bolts had shattered the timbers. Groping for handholds, they strained and pulled at the posts while Cato thrust his sword back through the gap and tried to help work them loose. Soil began to trickle out, and then one of the posts gave a little lurch and shifted at an angle to the others.

‘It’s working!’ Cato shouted. ‘Keep at it.’

With Thraxis helping, the post moved again and then began to lean out. A final effort by the two auxiliaries brought it out of the ground, leaving a modest pile of soil behind. As the post slid down into the ditch, the Romans began work on those either side of the gap, and these began to move more easily. Then a shadow loomed above Cato and he glanced up to see a native leaning over the palisade, a long hunting spear in his hands, drawn back and ready to strike at them. As the broad leaf-shaped point stabbed down, Cato thrust his shield up and blocked the blow, deflecting the point back into the nearest timbers. At once he dropped his sword and grasped the spear shaft, wrenching it away from its owner with all his might. He gained a few feet before the warrior took hold again, and for a brief moment each strained to wrestle the weapon from the other. Then Cato swung the shaft out at an angle and thrust it back. The butt caught his opponent under the chin, snapping his jaw up and his head back, and he tumbled out of sight.

‘Nice one, sir!’ Thraxis laughed.

A second post began to shift and then broke free of the soil and snow, leaving a gap just wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Cato held his shield out and passed it between the posts on either side as he used his spare hand to clamber up the unstable slope of earth on to the rampart. He was on his knees when he reached the top and snatched out his sword as he was instantly spotted by the nearest enemy warriors. A large man in a fur cloak swung round to face him, raising his battleaxe over his head as he let out a roar and plunged towards the Roman officer. Cato just had time to brace his feet as the warrior swung his axe down.

Glimpsing the glint of the sharpened head of the weapon, he angled his shield to deflect the blow, but the impact was sudden and violent, the axe crashing against the iron boss, jolting his hand badly. The axe head skittered off the shield and the edge bit into the compressed snow and ice atop the rampart in a spray of white and dark soil. Powering off his back foot, Cato punched out with his shield and felt it connect solidly with the axeman, who stumbled back a pace as he struggled to retain his footing on the icy surface. Tearing his sword from its scabbard, Cato opened out his shield enough to permit a quick thrust, and the point stabbed home into the fur cloak belted around the enemy warrior. He felt the hide give way, and the blade plunged on into the man’s flesh. He twisted it one way, then the other, and wrenched it free as his opponent staggered back with an angry bellow and raised his axe to strike again.

This time Cato backed away quickly, out of reach, and glanced over his shoulder to see Thraxis emerging from the gap in the palisade. Beyond him, two warriors armed with kite shields and swords were rushing forward, eager to cut him down before he could gain the top of the rampart. Cato swung round, away from the wounded axeman, and charged past Thraxis, twisting his shield round so that it would present a broad target to his enemies. Neither side dared to stop too suddenly on the icy surface, and they came together in a loud clatter of shields and clash of blades before tumbling on to the rampart in a tangle of limbs. Cato landed heavily, and the impact drove the air from his lungs in a violent gasp. He lay half on top of one of the warriors, while the other sprawled across his legs. He had lost his shield, and although his sword was still in his hand, the first of his enemies was lying on it and he could not shift it. Instead he clenched his left hand and struck the man hard on the jaw, again and again, until the warrior managed to raise his arms to protect himself. The other warrior shook his head, and Cato, aware of a sharp pain in his knee, realised that the joint and the man’s head must have connected during the fall. As he regained his senses, the warrior roared at Cato and reached for the sword lying beside him.

There was nothing Cato could do to stop him retrieving his weapon, and he punched the closer man hard again before trying to wrench his trapped sword hand free. ‘Get off me, you barbarian bastard!’ He made one last effort, and the warrior rolled slightly on to his side, moving just enough for the Roman to rip his blade away.

Instantly he propped himself up, at the same time as the second warrior was starting to swing his sword round in an arc. At the last moment, Cato managed to sweep his short sword in between himself and the Celtic blade. There was a ringing clash and sparks flew before the longer blade forced Cato’s weapon aside and he felt the flat of the sword strike the crest of his helmet and glance overhead. He hacked at the warrior’s exposed forearm and struck a large silver torc, which stopped any injury but caused the man’s fingers to spasm and release his sword. Cato raised his own blade and drove the point deep into his enemy’s throat before ripping it to the side in a rush of pulsing blood. The warrior slumped back on to the rampart, trying to clamp both hands over the mortal wound.

Cato drew a deep breath of relief and quickly pulled himself free, retrieving his shield and standing up just in time to see Thraxis hack at the axeman’s arm, cutting skin and breaking bone so that the man cried out. He tried to draw his axe back for another blow, but howled with agony as the broken limb refused to bear the weight of the war axe. Thraxis followed up with a thrust of his shield and knocked the man to the ground at the edge of the rampart, where he rolled down the snowy bank.

Both Thraxis and Cato paused, hearts racing, eyes and ears alert for trouble, but none of the enemy threatened them as the Blood Crows’ standard-bearer climbed in through the breach, followed by the two large auxiliaries who had pulled the posts down. Below them, more men were crowding the gap, anxious to feed through into the fight. Looking around the redoubt, Cato could see that two more parties of his men had found their way on to the ramparts and were struggling to defend their footholds while others climbed up to join them. The interior of the redoubt was perhaps fifty paces across, and from where he stood, Cato could see the formidable line of stakes studding the flank leading down into the channel. In the other direction stretched the rampart that covered the narrow channel between the mainland and the Druids’ island.

Several hundred men were defending the rampart, and so far there was no sign that they had conceded any of the breaches that had been opened up by the legions’ ballista batteries. Given the greater weight of their armour, it was not surprising that the men of the Fourteenth were taking longer than the Blood Crows to get into action, Cato realised.

A chorus of battle cries drew his attention back to his immediate surroundings, and he saw a party of enemy warriors surging along the rampart towards him and the handful of men around the Blood Crows’ standard.

‘Steady, lads,’ he said as calmly as he could. ‘They’re all mouth and no heart. Let’s show ’em why they are right to fear the Blood Crows!’

Thraxis and the others presented their shields and swords and braced their feet as they stood shoulder to shoulder, ready to hold their ground. Behind them the standard-bearer grounded the staff and held his sword ready. Cato took his place beside Thraxis, on the edge of the rampart, and gritted his teeth as he faced the enemy. They were already spilling out on to the reverse slope of the rampart, ready to envelop the small knot of Romans around the narrow breach. Those atop the rampart were moving fastest, and a moment later they crashed, shield to shield, into Thraxis and his two comrades. At once the auxiliaries thrust forward, using their nailed boots to advantage on the icy ground as they pressed the natives back against their companions following them up. Then they stabbed into the packed ranks before them, pushing their swords home, working the blades inside their enemies before tearing them free. The first of the warriors slumped to his knees and was ruthlessly thrust aside, sent sprawling down the inner slope by one of his companions anxious to throw himself into the fight.

More of the enemy were moving along the slope to get at the Romans, and Cato angled his shield down as he struck at the first of them, a pockmarked man whose face was rimmed with a thick beard and straggling hair. He carried a wicker shield and a hunting spear and he lithely sidestepped Cato’s thrust before covering his cloaked body and stabbing the broad-bladed spearhead at the Roman. Cato used his shield to deflect the blow down, and gasped as he felt the edge of the blade gash his calf just above the ankle. Raising his boot, he stamped down on the head of the spear and made a cut towards the man’s exposed hand. The edge of the sword missed and struck the spear shaft instead, splitting it and rendering the weapon useless. With a cry of bitter outrage, his enemy cast the spear aside and snatched an axe from his belt. Even though it was small, the head still looked formidable as the warrior climbed closer and swung it hard at Cato’s shield. It split the wood above the lower trim, and the native wrenched it out and struck again and again, a series of savage blows, hacking away at the shield that Cato had to keep presenting in order to protect his feet and shins.

More of the enemy were advancing along the slope, and the standard-bearer was forced to step in, sword raised towards a short but broad-shouldered youth wearing a Gallic helmet and a mail vest under his embroidered cloak. Clearly one of the local nobles, Cato decided as he blocked another blow from the axe that was relentlessly hacking the bottom of his shield to pieces. As his opponent began to swing his arm back for another strike, Cato thrust his arm up and battered the jagged edge of the shield against the man’s jaw, gouging the flesh beneath his beard so that drops of blood spattered down on to the snow at his feet. Before the warrior could recover from the surprise, the Roman struck him again, knocking him back so he tumbled down the slope into the snowdrift at the bottom.

A cry to his side drew Cato’s attention, and he turned to see the standard-bearer standing with his mouth agape as he looked down to where the nobleman had stabbed him deep in the groin. The Briton’s lips split in a cruel smile of triumph as he worked the blade around and then tore it free with a rush of blood that sprayed down the standard-bearer’s breeches. The auxiliary trembled violently, his fingers losing their grip on his sword handle and the shaft of the Blood Crows’ standard. It rippled in the cold air as it fell towards the enemy nobleman, who dropped his shield and caught the staff with a cry of jubilation, then scurried back down the slope with the standard held aloft, waving it from side to side.

It had all happened before Cato could react, and now several more of the enemy had moved along the slope between him and the nobleman. With a sick feeling of shame, he cried out in anguish, ‘The standard! Save the Standard!’