Britannia

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

‘Poor bastards,’ said Macro as he looked along the long strip of shingle. To his right were the stragglers from the column, the walking wounded, the hungry and the exhausted, plodding along through the snow and ice. A handful of centurions and optios were moving along with them, shouting at them to get moving, and beating those who needed it to stir them into making an effort to pick up the pace. Some, however, had given up and sat where they had slumped to the ground, staring vacantly, too weary to care any more about the authority and threats of their superiors.

But they were not the men to whom Macro was extending his pity. He was looking at the line of corpses stretching along the shingle, amid the flotsam of the wrecked ships that had been carrying the injured to safety. The shattered hull of a warship lay on its side on some rocks a short distance out across the rough grey sea, while sections of other ships rocked in the shallows as they were buffeted by crashing waves.

‘They must have been caught in a storm and driven on to the shore,’ Cato concluded. ‘As you say, poor bastards. The wounded stood no chance. Nor the crews, in all likelihood. But I doubt they’d have been much safer if they had been with the column.’

Two days had passed since they had ambushed their overeager pursuers. The snow had fallen intermittently ever since, creating more drifts that slowed the pace of the march. Fortunately the same snow had hampered the enemy, who had been content to merely keep up with the Romans and made no further attempt to attack, other than the odd harassing sortie carried out by cavalry against individual soldiers or small groups who had ventured too far from the main column as they attempted to forage for food in the villages and farmsteads that the army marched past. There was seldom anything to be had. The inhabitants had disappeared entirely, taking with them their valuables, and their winter provisions. Cato guessed that they had been ordered or coerced to leave nothing for the Romans and their food supplies had either been hidden – easy enough given the snowfall – or simply destroyed. No rations remained and many of the mules had already been slaughtered, and the path of the army was littered with abandoned carts and wagons, discarded kit and those who were too tired to go on and had accepted whatever grim fate the enemy might visit upon them. Of the ten thousand men who had set out on the campaign, Cato doubted that even half remained, thanks to losses in combat and straggling.

The men of the rearguard detachment had held together well during the past two days, mostly down to the iron will of their commander. More than two hundred of Macro’s legionaries were still marching behind the cohort’s standard, while the Blood Crows numbered nearly a hundred still on their mounts and as many marching on foot. Cato had not let them string out along the way, but had kept Macro’s legionaries in column while the Blood Crows led their horses along the flanks to rest the beasts as much as possible and prevent them from developing saddle sores. There was little feed to be had for the horses either, just what could be gleaned from the bottom of the emptied grain pits and barns they passed. Some of them were weakening badly, and two had already been slaughtered after being unable to continue, their flesh shared out amongst the men.

For his part Cato felt the hunger badly enough, but it did not bother him as it did those he commanded, as he was constantly distracted by the need to drive them on. There were times, plenty of them, when he thought again of Julia, and what it was to live in a world without her. It was tempting to let such thoughts deaden his soul and banish any last trace of hope. But instead he fixed his mind on the welfare of his troops. It had been impossible for him to save Julia, but he could save these men: Macro’s bearded, gaunt-faced legionaries, who still carried their marching yokes, much lightened by the discarding of unnecessary kit, and stood stiffly to attention at roll call at dawn and dusk; and the Blood Crows, who looked after their mounts before themselves as far as they could, and chased off enemy raiders who came too close to the tail of Quintatus’s army. But now they were flagging, and Cato feared that soon he would no longer be able to count on their innate pride in their units and their willingness to defend the standards that had led them into so many battles under his command. All men could reach a point where authority mattered no more and simple, raw self-survival reigned supreme in their hearts. Looking at the two units now, drawn up in a line reaching from the shingle to a steep crag-topped slope facing the enemy, Cato wondered how much longer he would be able to hold them together.

The Druids had halted their force half a mile behind the rearguard some while ago and had remained there since. Just as they had the last two times Cato had been forced to turn and make a stand to allow the stragglers and some of the slower vehicles to catch up with the rest of the column. Their refusal to attack was perplexing him. In their place he would have harried the Roman troops every step of the way and given them no respite. Eventually, hunger and exhaustion would have broken them and all that would remain was to mop up the survivors. So why were the Druids seemingly content merely to follow Quintatus and his force?

‘I’m getting a little tired of this,’ said Macro, as if reading Cato’s thoughts. ‘Why aren’t those bastards getting stuck in? They know we have no bolt-throwers left. They could sweep us aside just like that.’ He snapped his fingers to emphasise the point and then cupped his hands together and breathed hard into them a few times. ‘It’s getting colder still, isn’t it?’

Cato nodded. ‘Much colder.’

The night before had been the worst so far. A blizzard had closed in round the army, the wind howling over the tents and stretching and straining the guy ropes. Several of the Blood Crows’ tents had been blown down and it had been impossible to erect them again, forcing the men to crowd in with their comrades to see out the night. The dawn had revealed the army almost snowed in, the long tent lines weighted down by snow that had also drifted up against the sides. It had taken hours for the men to dig themselves free, and get the column on the move. Any water that had been left out overnight had frozen solid, and even the water in buckets inside the tents was iced over. Nor had the temperature lifted much during the day, the sun remaining invisible behind a dull overcast.

Macro cracked his knuckles and stared towards the enemy. ‘This has got to be as difficult for them as it is for us, surely?’ he hissed.

Cato thought a moment. ‘Maybe. But they have food, and they are used to the mountains and know how to shelter in them. They’re hardier, too. Most of our lads come from Italia, Gaul and the provinces around the Mediterranean. They won’t be as used to this as the enemy. I’d say the natives are coping with it better than us. They are defending their homeland. That always lends heart to a cause.’

‘Not to mention that they’ve got us on the run and can scent blood. That also helps.’

‘Very true.’

Both were silent for a while before Macro began to punch his fist into the other hand. ‘Now they’re taking the piss . . . Speaking of which.’

He strode out in front of the line, his gait still a little stiff from the wound. He continued for a hundred paces across the well-trodden snow and then stopped and planted his vine cane in the ground. Reaching under his tunic, he fumbled for his cock and waited a moment before unleashing a stream of urine in the direction of the enemy.

‘Useless shower of piss!’ he bellowed across the open ground. ‘That’s all you lot are! Fucking Druids! I eat ’em for breakfast and shit out the remains!’ The men of the rearguard roared with laughter at his crude challenge and joined in with their own mockery and jeering.

At first there was no response from the enemy. Then one of the Druids stepped forward a short distance in front of his men and reached into a bag at his side. A moment later he raised something in his hand and held it out for all to see. Cato did not have to squint hard to realise what it was. A severed head. To remind the Romans what fate awaited them.

Macro, having emptied the last drops from his bladder, tucked his cock away and turned and strode casually back towards his men. They chanted his name in a rising tone, ending in a rousing final cheer and then some laughter, which gradually faded away. Macro reached down to cup snow to rub between his hands, then grinned at Cato.

Cato smiled. ‘Nice try, Macro. But I doubt they’re going to take the bait. Whatever it is they are planning, they’ll do it when they are good and ready. I just wish I knew what it was.’

‘Maybe they’re just scared witless by the thought of taking on our boys in a stand-up fight.’

Cato gave him a look. ‘I don’t think for an instant that is a serious suggestion.’

‘If not that, sir, then what?’

Cato shrugged. ‘We’ll find out soon enough, I fear.’

He waited until the last of the stragglers still walking had disappeared over the brow of the next rise, and then dismissed Macro and his cohort. He allowed them a half-mile head start before the Blood Crows followed on. They approached a man hunched in his cloak beside the route. He had abandoned his marching yoke and his helmet, but still wore the heavy lorica armour favoured by the legionaries, and Cato drew aside, waving his men on.

‘Soldier!’

There was no response from the man, who just stared blankly out along the shingle at the bodies and the remains of the ships that had been wrecked there.

‘On your feet!’ Cato said loudly. When there was no response, he slipped down from his saddle and stood directly in front of the man, blocking his line of sight. The legionary blinked and then looked at Cato with a surprised expression. He was an older man, with thick dark hair and a straggly beard. There was grey at his temples, crow’s feet around his eyes and white scar tissue across his brow and on to his cheek. A veteran, then. Someone who had served many years on the frontiers of the empire and taken part in numerous battles and skirmishes in the name of Rome. A man who should know better than to give up and accept death at the hands of his enemies without a murmur.

As soon as he saw that he was confronted by an officer, the man struggled up and stood at attention, swaying slightly with fatigue.

‘That’s better,’ Cato said mildly. ‘What’s your name and unit?’

The soldier frowned, as if struggling to recall, then snapped, ‘Marcus Murenus, Second Century, Eighth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion, sir!’

‘Well then, Marcus Murenus, you have lost contact with the rest of Legate Valens’s lads, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, sir . . . I- I don’t know how. I was with them, marching. Then . . . then here just now. What’s happened?’

‘You’re tired, Murenus, that’s all.’

‘Yes, sir. So tired. So hungry.’

‘As are we all. But there’ll be plenty to eat soon. You’ve heard, I’m sure, that Legate Quintatus has sent men ahead to organise a convoy. It’ll be with us any day. Why, it may well be in camp this very evening. Think about that!’

He saw a desperate gleam in Murenus’s eyes, and the legionary nodded.

‘So come on. Get back on the road and rejoin your unit, eh? Let’s go.’ He gave the man a gentle push.

Murenus lurched forward a step and stopped. ‘I . . . I don’t think I can, sir.’

‘Nonsense. Just put one foot in front of the other.’ Cato hesitated a moment and then reached into his side bag and fished for one of the two slim strips of salted meat he had left. He held it out to the legionary. ‘Here. Eat this and give yourself a little strength.’

The man tried not to take the meat too eagerly. ‘The gods bless you, sir.’

Cato felt slightly embarrassed by the man’s evident gratitude and just nodded in acknowledgment. ‘I’ll see you in the camp later on then, Murenus. Remember, just keep moving and don’t stop.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato smiled encouragingly and then drew himself back into the saddle, his stomach churning at the thought of food. He clicked his tongue and urged his horse into a trot, riding along the line to resume his place at the head of the Blood Crows. When he glanced back a little later, he was pleased to see that the legionary was walking at a slow but steady pace as he chewed on the end of the strip of meat.

They passed several other men sitting or lying in the snow, quite evidently alive, but Cato realised he could not stop for them all without putting himself, and therefore his men, at risk, and he forced himself to ignore their fate. As they reached the crest, he paused to look back. In the distance, the vanguard of the enemy army appeared, spilling through the gap where the Roman rearguard had stood earlier. His gaze shifted to Murenus, and he saw the legionary turn to look, then shuffle to a halt. For a moment he was still, and then he slowly slumped to his knees and sat hunched over. A heavy sadness settled in Cato’s heart at the sight. Then he steeled himself, turned away and continued forward, to catch up with Macro’s cohort a short distance ahead of him.

As he entered the camp at dusk, Cato was instantly aware of a change in the mood of the men. There were still hundreds of stragglers stretching out behind the rearguard, and most did their best to pick up the pace as the last line of defence between them and the enemy marched by. The work on the ditch and rampart was not as far advanced as it should have been. The soldiers were working lethargically, despite being driven by their officers, while others were slowly erecting their tents. Several lame mules and horses were being butchered outside the headquarters tents, and even the blood was being collected to thicken the thin gruel being prepared for the senior officers.

An optio guided the rearguard to their tent lines, and while Macro’s men downed their yokes and retrieved their tents from their carts, the Blood Crows shared out the last of the remaining oats and then fed and watered their horses. There was a listlessness in the beasts as well, Cato noted, as he watched them standing where they were tethered, heads weighed down by hunger and weariness.

‘This can’t go on much longer,’ Macro observed quietly. ‘Within a day, or two at the most, the column is going to start falling to pieces. Even our lads will be losing the will to go on, whatever I threaten ’em with.’

‘If that happens, we need to be ready for it.’

Macro turned to face him directly. ‘What does that mean?’

Cato glanced round to make sure that they were not overheard. ‘It means that the rearguard needs to stay together and fight our way out, by ourselves if need be. If every man looks to his own safety, then we’re all dead. We’ll have to keep discipline tight for as long as possible.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.’

‘I know you will.’ Cato punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘I will be counting on you.’

Macro rubbed his nose. ‘We’ve watched each other’s backs plenty of times before and been through every shit storm the gods have thrown at us. What makes you think a little bit of snow and a surly mob of Druids is going to cause us any particular trouble?’

Cato laughed. ‘That’s the Macro spirit!’

Macro grimaced. ‘What else am I supposed to say? That we just give up and die? I just hope that Quintatus has enough backbone to see us through this. Him and the rest of the senior officers. Be interesting to hear what they make of things at headquarters tonight.’

Cato silently surveyed the camp before he replied. ‘Yes, it will.’

Once both cohorts were bedded down for the night and the watches set and passwords given, the two officers made their way to headquarters. There was none of the customary sound of small talk and laughter from the tents they passed. Instead, a resigned silence hung over the camp.

‘At least it’s cleared up for a while,’ Cato commented, indicating the sky. Only a few shreds of cloud lingered against the stars, and a full moon hung low over the mountains, bathing the snowy landscape with a silvery glow. ‘The other side won’t be able to give us any nasty surprises during the night.’

Macro looked in the direction of the enemy and saw the dull orange smear along the ridge to the west of the camp. ‘Like you said, they don’t need to come and get us. Just wait around until hunger does the job for them. They don’t have the balls to stand up to us in a fair fight, the bastards.’

Cato considered pointing out that if the positions were reversed, he would adopt exactly the same strategy, now that he had worked out the enemy’s intentions, but he was in no mood to debate the issue. He was too tired. At least the legate’s bodyguard was on form, snapping neatly to attention as they approached the entrance to the largest tent. They were amongst the first officers to arrive for the briefing and stood towards the front, close to the brazier that provided the light and heat inside the tent. The rest filed in in ones and twos, the last a while after the change of watch was sounded. Cato studied their expressions and demeanour and saw the same lethargy he had observed amongst the ranks earlier.

The camp prefect had been waiting for the officers to arrive and now went to inform Quintatus. The latter pushed through the flaps that led to his private tent and his subordinates stood to attention.

‘At ease, gentlemen.’

The officers settled down again and there was a stillness as their commander gathered his thoughts. Cato thought for a moment that he saw a haunted look in the man’s face, but then Quintatus cleared his throat and addressed them calmly. ‘I’ll deal with the routine issues first. According to the day’s strength returns, over five hundred men failed to reach their units by dusk. Some may arrive at the camp during the night, but it’ll only be a handful. We lost two hundred the day before. Tomorrow I’d be surprised if we lost any fewer than a thousand men to straggling. Of those in camp, the Twentieth Legion has two thousand five hundred and four effectives, the Fourteenth one thousand one hundred and eighty. Most of the auxiliary units can scarcely muster more than half their men, and we have over six hundred wounded to convey in our wagons and carts. The only cavalry unit we have left that is ready for combat is Prefect Cato’s Second Thracian.’ He paused and pursed his lips as he watched the reaction of his officers. ‘The situation is critical, gentlemen. The army is starving and bone-weary. In another day or so it will be too exhausted to fight. We need to do something if the column is to survive. Any comments?’

There was a pause before Legate Valens spoke. He was sitting with one leg stretched out, splinted and bandaged after a fall from his horse. ‘Could we not attempt to hold out here until Glaber and the relief column turn up with supplies? Failing that, we move on a day’s march and then wait. If need be, we can cut a path through the enemy army to open the way for Glaber.’

Quintatus looked pained, then shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. There is not going to be any relief column, and no food. For the simple reason that Glaber never reached Deva.’

Around Cato the other officers stirred anxiously. Quintatus waited until they had settled again. ‘Glaber was ambushed and killed, along with most of his escort, a day’s march from here. The three men who survived rejoined the column just after dusk. It seems Glaber ran into another native army. Mostly cavalry. Which explains why the force following us has made no attempt to engage us in battle. They have been waiting for their friends to march round our flank and block our retreat. A very neatly worked trap indeed, I think you’ll agree. It seems that my choice is now to either march on another day and engage those who killed Glaber, or remain here and wait for them to come to us. Either way, we’ll be surrounded when the fighting starts.’

Valens took a quick breath. ‘I say we stay put. Let the men shelter from the cold and save their energy for battle. Besides, we’ll not lose any more to straggling that way.’

‘That’s true,’ Quintatus conceded, ‘but they will still be starving and we’ll be another fifteen miles further away from any of our fortresses on the provincial frontier. And the enemy may simply sit on their heels and wait to starve us into submission. I, for one, would prefer to try and cut our way through the blocking force and attempt to reach the frontier. But I am open to suggestions, if anyone has any to offer.’

He paused and looked round at his officers. There was no immediate reply, and then Tribune Livonius stood up. Cato and the others turned towards him, curious to see what wisdom a junior tribune might offer his vastly more experienced comrades.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but another course of action does occur to me.’

‘I’m all ears, Tribune.’

‘Well, sir, as you know, I’ve been mapping the campaign as thoroughly as I can . . . well, that is, we have.’ He indicated Hieropates standing next to him, who bowed his head modestly as his master continued. ‘That entailed taking reports from patrols sent out to scout the terrain on either side of the line of march. Quite often such patrols covered a lot of ground, so we were able to extend the scope of the map accordingly, depending on their reports and-’

‘Look, this is all very fascinating, Tribune, but we’re in a fix. I need solutions, not presentations to the cartographers’ guild. What is your point?’

Livonius’s face flushed and he swallowed nervously before he continued. ‘I think I recognise this place, sir.’

‘You think? How?’

‘I went out with patrols from time to time, and on one occasion we came to a defile that led through some crags before opening out to the sea quite close to here. We made notes and came back the same way. There was no question of using the route, since it was impassable to wagons and any other wheeled traffic. But men and horses could negotiate it easily enough.’

Quintatus took a step closer to the tribune. ‘Where is this defile? Could you find it again?’

‘Oh yes, sir. It’s no more than a mile from here, between two of the mountains. I could point it out to you easily enough, given the moonlight.’

‘Later. Tell me what’s on the far side of it. Where does it lead?’

Livonius concentrated a moment. ‘There’s a valley between the defile and the route the army took on the way to Mona. No more than fifteen miles’ march. And from there, it’s mostly easy ground back to Mediolanum. Well, it was before the snow began to fall, at any rate.’

Quintatus had been listening intently. Now he thought through his options and turned to the rest of the officers. ‘We have three choices, then. We march and fight. Stay and fight. Or we try to escape the trap and head into the mountains.’

Valens shook his head. ‘I don’t like the sound of the last, sir. The going is bad enough here. It’ll be worse in the mountains. We’d be abandoning the shelter of the camp to take our chances on the word of this youngster. It’s too much of a risk.’

His superior gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘It’s a risk versus the certainty of destruction if we stay here and make a stand, or the likelihood of being annihilated if we march east and try to fight our way through before the main enemy force falls on our rear.’

‘There’s another problem, sir,’ said Cato. ‘Something we would have to consider.’

The legate rounded on him. ‘And that is?’

‘If this defile is not suitable for our wagons and carts, then what do we do with the wounded? We might be able to use the remaining mules and horses, but they’re in a poor state and would not get far with such a burden. Besides, there are too few of them. We might save the walking wounded, but there would still be hundreds who would have to be left behind. And we know what the Druids like to do with their Roman captives . . .’ He let the thought sink in so that none of the other officers could hide from the implications. ‘We can’t leave them behind alone, or at least alive.’

Macro’s eyes widened. ‘Now hang on, sir. What are you saying? We top our lads and do a runner?’

Cato took a deep breath. ‘If we want to save the rest of the column, then what choice do we have? If we stay and try and fight it out, the wounded will die anyway. At least we can give them the chance to make their own decision when the time comes. And for those too badly injured to help themselves, the surgeons can do it as painlessly as possible.’

‘By the gods, sir. That’s no way to treat our comrades. These are men we have fought with-’

‘Prefect Cato is right,’ Quintatus intervened. ‘If we leave the camp, then we have to leave behind those too badly injured to walk.’

Valens coloured as he leaned forward and tapped the thigh of his splinted leg. ‘That’s easy for you to say, sir. I hope you’ll explain your thinking to all the wounded.’

‘I would not abandon the commander of a legion to the enemy. We would find a way out for you.’

Valens glared back. ‘Save me while the others are left behind to be butchered? I would never allow myself to be so dishonoured.’

‘Nonsense, man! I am thinking of the damage to the reputation of Rome if you were to be taken alive by the Druids.’

‘Trust me, sir. I would not let that happen.’

The two legates stared at each other for a moment before Cato interrupted the confrontation. ‘Sir, if I may make a suggestion?’

Quintatus tore his eyes away and faced the prefect. ‘What is it now?’

‘If we make good our escape, the enemy will soon guess what is up and come after us, once they’ve dealt with the wounded left in the camp. If we want to buy ourselves some time to get a decent head start, it would be better if there was some effort to defend the camp, to make it look like the army is still within the palisade.’

‘Anyone who remains will die.’

Cato nodded slowly before he responded. ‘Someone has to, whatever you decide, sir. I suggest we ask for volunteers, and then draw lots for the rest.’

‘The rest?’ Valens snorted. ‘How many men did you have in mind, Prefect Cato?’

‘Enough to make it look convincing, sir. Five hundred men should put up a decent show and hold the camp for a few hours at least.’

‘Five hundred men . . .’

‘Yes, sir.’

No one in the tent spoke for a moment. It was Quintatus who finally stirred, straightening his back as he addressed his officers. ‘As I see it, there is only one choice that allows us to save as many men as possible. Men we will need to form the core of a new army to complete the work I have started on this campaign. There’s a full moon at present. But there are clouds coming down from the mountains. The army will leave when it is darkest. Each commanding officer will ask for volunteers to remain behind to defend the camp. If necessary, we will draw lots to ensure that we have adequate men to maintain the illusion that the army is still in the camp. I will not ask officers above the rank of centurion to participate in drawing lots.’

Legate Valens raised his hand and interrupted without being given leave to speak. ‘If you’ll pardon me, I don’t think we should exempt any officer, except yourself, of course, sir. After all, we wouldn’t want someone of your rank falling into the hands of the Druids either. As for me, I will remain in camp to take charge of its defence. It will set a good example when we ask for volunteers.’

Quintatus considered this for a moment. ‘Very well, if you are sure.’

‘I am.’

‘Then we’ll need to act fast. Every unit commander is to brief his men on the plan, before he asks for the names of those who will remain. If we need more men, I will send word of how many each unit will be asked to contribute. After that, all units are to form up ready to leave by the southern gateway. Tribune Livonius will first establish where exactly the entrance to the defile is, directly we have concluded this briefing.’

Livonius looked startled, but then took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll find it.’

‘You’ll have to, Tribune. If you do not, then we’re all dead men.’