Britannia

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

There was little sign of the enemy for the first two days, even though their scouts had established contact with the Romans as early as dusk on the first day of the retreat. The native horsemen were first seen in the distance, over two miles to the rear of the column. Having found the Roman army, they galloped forward and were only driven off when Cato and the Blood Crows turned to confront them. No attempt to engage the Romans was made, and the enemy were content to ride up into the hills on the flank and survey them as they kept pace. That was not a hard task for the native warriors due to the army’s difficulties in negotiating the snowdrifts that blocked the way. Each time the wagons had to be halted while the men took up their trenching tools and cleared a path. There was additional trouble once the passage of feet and wheels packed down the snow and compressed it into sheets of ice that made the going difficult for those following on. The only cheering thought for Cato was that the Druids and their followers would be enduring the same conditions, though they would not be burdened by carts and wagons as the Roman army were.

Legate Quintatus drove the men on as far as he could before giving the order to halt for the night. Due to the head start that the Romans had gained, he did not judge it possible for the natives to catch up for at least another day. And so no camp-in-the-face-of-the-enemy was constructed, the soldiers merely setting out a perimeter of field defences using the spiked lengths of wood that slotted together to make barricades. Come the dawn, these were easily broken down and carried on the back of carts or loaded on to mules. As soon as the tents were erected, those off duty scrambled inside to shelter from the wind and cold as best they could and chew disconsolately on their meagre rations.

The men of the rearguard were not so fortunate. Quintatus had given orders for the Blood Crows to stand watch, and Cato’s men were able to rest for only half the night. Once again, Macro’s cohort was assigned to Cato’s small command, and was to provide the backbone of any stand that had to be made in order to hold the enemy at bay. But at least the legionaries were spared the rigours of mounting a picket on a freezing winter’s night. As the watch changed, Cato rode forward with a small escort, warily picking his way back down the track for a few miles. If the enemy scouts were keeping an eye on the Roman column, they made no attempt to stand their ground and challenge the small party. And then, from the crest of a hill, Cato caught sight of the enemy’s campfires, some eight or so miles behind the Roman column. Less than a day’s march, and much closer than he had anticipated, given the earlier ruse to delay the natives.

The Romans broke camp and marched on at first light. For the first time in days, the sun rose into a clear sky. However, it shed little warmth over the winter landscape, and the mountains and hills cast long shadows across the snow. The rations had been halved the day before, and the first pangs of hunger made themselves felt by the end of the second day. Exhausted by the long hours of marching, the men had worked up a ferocious appetite, which had to be satisfied by the mean allocation of barley and dried meat.

During the afternoon, the enemy horsemen tracking the army had grown significantly in number, and as the column halted, just before dusk, Cato’s scouts reported that a large force of native infantry was no more than four miles away and closing. Just before the last light faded, they appeared along the skyline, silhouetted against the glow of the red sunset. They remained there in silence for a while before falling back out of sight. This time Quintatus had given orders to surround the camp with a ditch and rampart, and the men laboured into the night, struggling to break up the frozen ground, before their commander was satisfied.

Thin clouds were scudding across a starry sky as the tired officers shuffled into the headquarters tent at the first change of watch. Cato and Macro had made a final round of the pickets posted outside the camp and were the last to arrive. As they stood with the other officers, Legate Quintatus cleared his throat and coughed, then took a long look over the faces of his subordinates before he began the evening briefing.

‘Gentlemen, the situation has become somewhat more serious now that the enemy are upon us. We can assume that they will attempt to engage us on the morrow. Tempting as it is to turn about and give ’em some stick, that would only delay us and play into their hands. They will have guessed that we are short of rations and the longer they can keep us in these mountains, the weaker we become and so easier to defeat. We must keep moving. That in itself is going to become an increasing challenge thanks to the weather and the reduction to quarter-rations, effective tomorrow.’

Macro gave a low groan at the words, as did a number of the other officers. But the legate ignored them as he continued. ‘There is no choice in the matter. Quarter-rations will give us two more days. After that, we march on empty stomachs, until we are resupplied. Which is being arranged. I sent Tribune Glaber and a squadron of Dacian horses ahead of the column yesterday. He has orders to organise a supply convoy at Deva and bring it to us along the coastal route. At best it will take four days before we encounter them, which means our men will go hungry for two days.’

‘Hungry?’ Macro muttered. ‘They’ll starve, more like. In this cold, it will hit the men all the harder.’

‘Yes,’ Cato agreed.

‘There has to be something else we can do.’

‘There is.’ Cato stepped forward and raised a hand. ‘Sir, if I may?’

‘What is it, Prefect?’

‘We won’t last long in this weather without finding something for the men to eat. It’s time we slaughtered some of the mules. Enough to give us meat for a few days. Perhaps even enough to see us through until we reach Glaber and his convoy.’

‘And which mules did you have in mind? The gods know we have few enough of them.’

‘We slaughter the animals drawing the artillery train.’

‘To feed the men who will have to step into their traces to replace them?’

Cato shook his head. ‘Not what I was going to suggest, sir. I say we leave the artillery behind.’

Quintatus’s eyebrows rose. ‘Abandon our bolt-throwers and catapults to the enemy? Are you mad? Rome would never forgive me.’

‘With respect, sir. Rome might be even less forgiving if we attempted to save the artillery at the expense of the entire column.’

It was a bold assertion, and the other officers could not hide their surprised expressions as they glanced from Cato to their commander to see how the latter would react. Quintatus shared their consternation, but Cato continued before he could respond. ‘We don’t let the enemy capture our weapons. We burn the lot . . . but only after we give them one last taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end.’

Quintatus regarded him thoughtfully, torn between admonishing his subordinate and listening to his plan. In the end, the legate sucked his teeth and nodded. ‘Let’s hear it.’

The natives came rushing up to the brow of the hill as the last cohort of the Twentieth Legion was marching out of the camp, just behind the baggage train. The ramparts had been hastily shovelled into the ditch to deny the enemy any shelter, and the outline of the fort was preserved in the dark stain of turned earth against the white of the surrounding winter landscape.

Only the rearguard remained to defy the enemy, drawn up in a thin line across the route taken by the column the evening before. Cato had reversed the usual deployment by placing his mounted Thracians in the centre and the auxiliary infantry and Macro’s legionaries on either flank. The cavalry were in close order, with the narrowest of gaps between each rider. This served to screen the line of bolt-throwers just to their rear. Snow had been heaped in front of the stands to help conceal them from the enemy, and dry feed and pails of pitch were packed about the base of each weapon, ready to be set alight. The legionary crews stood by with wicker baskets containing the last of the army’s supply of bolts. Four braziers glowed some ten paces behind the line, and thin wisps of smoke eddied a short distance into the sharp dawn air before the light breeze dispersed them. All along the line the men breathed faint puffs of steam, while plumes jetted from the nostrils of the horses.

‘Noisy bastards, aren’t they?’ Macro opined as he settled his helmet on to his padded skullcap and fastened the ties securely under his chin.

On the ridge, the Druids were pacing along the front of the native horde, arms raised, working their followers up into a battle frenzy. Cato had witnessed it many times before, but even so, he felt a shiver trace its way down his spine at the terrifying din rising from the dense ranks of the enemy. He swallowed and did his best not to seem perturbed in front of Macro and the other men.

‘I hope our little surprise puts a dent in their hubris.’

‘Dent? Fuck that. I want it to tear a bloody great hole through their hubris, and their hearts whilst we’re at it.’

Cato could not help a wry smile. Nothing ever seemed to disturb his friend’s equanimity in the face of imminent battle. Then his expression hardened as he considered Macro’s hot-headedness when his blood was up. ‘Keep in mind that this is just a delaying action. The point of the exercise is to give them a hiding and make them pause for thought while we pull back in good order.’

‘That will rather depend on the enemy, sir. They might want to get stuck in all the same, despite our plans. That’s one thing life in the army teaches you early on: the other side doesn’t always play along with the plan.’

‘Yes, well thank you for that pearl of wisdom.’

‘No need to get shirty with me, sir. Just saying. Besides, once they see the bolt-throwers going up in smoke, they might feel emboldened to go for us again.’

‘They might,’ Cato conceded. ‘That’s why my lads have been issued with caltrops.’

He gestured towards one of the nearest of the Thracians, who had a thick leather bag hanging from his saddle. ‘They’ll sow those across the ground behind the bolt-throwers after we fall back. If the natives recover their nerve enough to come after us, they’ll soon have a new reason to think twice about it.’

Macro pursed his lips and looked at his friend admiringly. ‘Seems you have thought of everything.’

‘Hardly. But I do try to cover the possibilities as far as I can. It helps to keep me alive.’

‘Which is always a good thing . . .’

‘Quite.’

The Druids had finished working up their followers, and war horns brayed from the top of the hill. A moment later, the warriors launched themselves down the slope towards the thin line of Romans waiting for them. The air filled with the sound of their war cries, invocations to their gods and the insults they screamed at those who had the temerity to invade their mountainous lands. Cato looked along the line and noted with satisfaction that the men under his command showed no reaction, but stood their ground and watched in silence. Such silence could be just as intimidating as the raucous din of a Celtic rush, speaking eloquently as it did of hard discipline and ruthless training.

‘I’ll see you afterwards, sir.’

‘Look forward to it.’

They exchanged a salute before Macro strode back to his position at the right flank of his cohort, hiding the discomfort in his leg as best he could. Cato heaved himself up into the saddle, not without some difficulty given his tiredness and the weight of his scale vest and equipment. Once settled, he adjusted his grip on the reins and eased his mount to the centre of the line, taking up position behind the concealed bolt-throwers. He nodded to the centurion in command of the battery, and the latter cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Bolt-thrower crews . . . load!’

The legionaries who had been standing ready by the windlasses now threw their weight into cranking back the torsion arms with a steady clacking of the ratchets, the rhythm slowing as the strain increased, then stopping as the cords, tense as lengths of iron, were held in place by the trigger mechanism. Finally, shafts were plucked from the ammunition baskets and carefully placed in the channel running down the length of the beam that passed between the thick twisted cords that powered the throwing arms. The telltale noise of the ratchets was lost amid the din of the charging warriors, and Cato could see no slowing or hesitation in those careering down the slope towards him, half a mile away.

As they approached, the first flakes of the day began to fall, drifting down from a dark sky. So much the better, thought Cato. The snow would help to reduce visibility so that there was less chance of the ruse being exposed and the charge halted before it entered the range of the Roman weapons. Timing was everything. If Cato gave the order too soon, the Blood Crows would reveal the ambush prematurely and the Druids might have time to call off all but the most headstrong warriors. If he gave the order too late, the bolt-thrower crews might only get off a few shots before the charge crashed home and shattered the Roman line. He waited as long as he dared and then barked the order.

‘Blood Crows! To the rear!’

Alternate riders walked their horses forward a length to allow space for their comrades to turn, before turning themselves and filing back between the bolt-throwers to form up and wait for fresh orders. Now that their target was clearly in view, the artillery crews hurriedly made last-minute adjustments to elevation pegs and aim, and then stood back as the team leaders stepped up ready to pull on the trigger pins. Now, at last, the enemy divined the nature of the threat that faced them. The men in the forefront of the charge slowed their pace, and there were pockets of confusion as those following on ploughed blindly into their backs. Cato raised his hand and shouted a fresh order.

‘Artillery! Prepare to shoot!’

The men eyed him tensely, and Cato was pleased that the firm discipline ensured that no man beat him to the trigger and unleashed a bolt prematurely.

‘Release!’

The legionaries wrenched the trigger levers back, and the throwing arms snapped forward and cracked against the densely stuffed leather buffers. The bolts leapt from their grooves, spinning viciously as they darted towards the enemy in a shallow arc and disappeared into their ranks. The impact of the first volley inspired awe and horror in Cato. There were nearly fifty serviceable bolt-throwers in the line. The rest – those needing repair – had already been broken and burned in camp. The volley descended like a fine veil on the enemy, and then it was as if the natives had run full pelt into an invisible wall. Scores were skewered and hurled back into the mass, and in places it was as if some great beast had ploughed a path through their ranks, striking men down and aside without mercy. The wild war cries died in their throats and the charge stumbled to a halt, those at the rear continuing to surge forward and adding to the confusion.

Cato looked on with grim-faced satisfaction before he turned to the centurion in command of the battery and called out, ‘Shoot at will!’

The crews worked as swiftly as possible and the air was filled with the clatter of ratchets and the sharp thwack of the throwing arms striking the buffers. A near-constant hail of bolts slashed down into the tightly packed mass of enemy warriors halted on the slope, while around them the snow was spattered with crimson, bright as poppies, thought Cato. Already, little heaps of bodies, some still writhing, lined the enemy’s front, and more fell all the time, torn down by the Roman artillery. A Druid ran forward a few paces and turned to cajole his followers, waving his arms frantically and thrusting a spear in the direction of the Roman line. An instant later he was caught squarely in the back and hurled several feet before collapsing in front of the tribesmen. A groan rose from their lips and spread through the throng, and then Cato saw men peeling away, falling back up the slope. Uncertainly at first, but then breaking into a run as they got further from their comrades still trying to move forward in the teeth of the Roman barrage. More turned to flee, and then their resolve broke completely and the entire force was streaming back up the slope, leaving hundreds of their stricken comrades in the bloodied snow.

‘Cease shooting!’ Cato yelled. ‘Cease shooting!’

One by one the bolt-throwers fell silent and still, and then Cato turned to his cohort. ‘Blood Crows, to the front! Form line and prepare to advance!’

The Thracians surged through the gaps between the weapons and jostled into place. As soon as they were ready, Cato drew his sword and pointed the tip at the fleeing enemy. ‘Advance!’

The line edged forward, tackle chinking as the horses’ hooves plunged into the soft snow. More snow fluttered in the cold air, mingling with the breath of men and their mounts. Cato gave the order to increase the pace to a trot, and the line grew slightly more ragged as the Thracians struggled to keep their horses moving at an even speed. Ahead lay the bodies of the enemy, scattered on the ground amid the shafts of the bolts that stuck up at every angle. The Blood Crows slowed as they picked their way through, the riders using their spears to strike down those natives who yet lived. Then they had passed beyond on to open ground and spurred their mounts on. In the last fifty yards, Cato drew a sharp breath and cried out the order to charge, and the Blood Crows galloped after their prey. They caught up with the first of the enemy and the bloodletting began with almost savage abandon as the cavalry stabbed about them with their spears, impaling one man after another.

Cato did his best to stay at the head of his men, hacking with his sword and sharing their wild exhilaration as they shattered the enemy’s will to fight and routed the natives. They had reached the top of the slope before he was aware of it, and at the ridge he looked up and reined in, aghast. On the far side of the hill, no more than a mile away, marched the rest of the enemy’s army. There was no organised column such as the Romans used, but scores of large groups of men, the vast majority on foot. Most carried bulging slings, no doubt filled with their marching rations, Cato thought bitterly, his stomach aching with hunger. The rest of the Blood Crows halted along the ridge, while the surviving natives streamed down the far side of the hill. It was the first time Cato had seen the Druid-led army in its entirety, and he estimated that there were at least fifteen thousand of them in clear view, with more emerging through the distant loom of falling snow. More than enough to chase down and destroy Quintatus and his exhausted and starving men.

Thraxis edged his mount alongside his commander and let out a low whistle as he saw the native horde. ‘Fuck me . . . We’re in deep trouble, sir.’

‘Thank you for your strategic assessment, Trooper,’ Cato remarked. He took a last look and tugged on his reins to turn his horse away. ‘We’ve done all we can here. Let’s go . . . Blood Crows! Fall back!’

The Thracians swung about and formed up in a column of fours. Cato led them back down the slope, around the fallen enemy, to where the legionaries were waiting. Macro greeted him with an expression of warm delight, rubbing his hands together briskly.

‘Fine work! The lads on the bolt-throwers gave them a real drubbing. Pricked their confidence very nicely indeed.’

‘Indeed.’ Cato turned in his saddle and pointed towards the centurion commanding the battery. ‘Set them alight. Make sure they burn properly and leave nothing for the enemy, then get your men back to the main column. Macro, same for you. We’re done here. Get moving.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied with terse formality and strode back towards his colour party, bellowing for the Fourth Cohort to form line of march. The crews of the bolt-throwers scurried over to the braziers to light brands, and returned to their weapons to set the small piles of kindling alight, before feeding more combustibles to the small flames licking up. The pitch smoked before catching, and soon the first of the weapons was blazing, dark acrid smoke curling into the air. Once the last of them was on fire, the centurion gave the order for the men to withdraw, and they marched off with Macro’s cohort in the direction of the main column.

Cato lingered for a short while to make sure that none of the bolt-throwers would escape destruction from the flames and then turned to Decurion Miro.

‘Start sowing the caltrops. No need to concentrate them, just a wide band across the tracks we’ll be leaving.’

As the rest of the Blood Crows pulled back a hundred paces, their comrades began to scatter the iron spikes. Cato looked up at the falling snow. It would soon cover any indents left by the caltrops, though it was not settling fast enough to obscure the route taken by the Romans. Some of the enemy were bound to suffer crippling injuries when they trod on the vicious little spikes. Enough to slow their comrades down and make them proceed very warily. All of which would buy the Romans badly needed time to keep ahead of their pursuers.

Once the final caltrops had been laid, Cato turned the cohort to the east and gave the order to advance. Behind them the hungry flames roared as they eagerly devoured the wooden frames and sinewed springs of the bolt-throwers. Cato glanced at the spectacle with a sense of foreboding. There would be no repeating the ambush when the enemy closed up on them again. Next time it would be down to hand-to-hand fighting, blade against blade, man against man. And for all the fine training and discipline of the Roman army, the men still needed rest and food. Both of which were going to be in increasingly short supply in the days to come.