Britannia

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Cato’s bleak expression instantly told of the news from headquarters

‘How many does he want?’ asked Macro.

‘Ten from each cohort.’

‘On top of the volunteers? We’ve already given up fifteen volunteers as it is. And one of them was Portillus. He’s a good officer, and now he’s going to get himself killed.’

Cato sympathised with his friend, but there was no avoiding Quintatus’s order. ‘Ten more is what he said. It’s up to me to decide whether to select them or do it by lot.’

Macro craned his head so that he could read his friend’s expression more clearly by the flickering flame of the oil lamp. ‘And what have you decided? If you select them, there’s enough malingerers and bad apples to go round. We could fill the quota without too much effort. It would save the best men.’

Cato had rehearsed the arguments in his head as he made his way over to Macro’s tent. It was true that the logical choice was to pick those men whose deaths would be the least loss to their cohorts. However, the moral burden of choosing them was too heavy for Cato to endure, even though he was angry with himself for what he considered to be mere sentimentality. Officers were required to make difficult choices, or else they had no right to be officers in the first place. But there was something innately immoral about choosing men to die in this way. It could only cause bad feeling amongst the comrades of those who were picked, and that would poison the fierce elan of the men who served in the army’s rearguard. It was better that blind fate determined who would live and who would die.

It would not be so easy for the wounded, who lay in the tents closest to headquarters. They had each been given a dagger, and the surgeons had gone from man to man to explain the quickest and most painless way to inflict a mortal wound. Most had resolved to end their lives by their own hand, but Cato knew that some would lack the heart to do it, and those poor souls would have to endure whatever torment the Druids chose to inflict on them.

‘I will be selecting them by lot,’ he announced. ‘That goes for the Blood Crows. I will leave the choice of what happens in your cohort to you.’

Macro tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘That should really be your decision, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘It goes with the rank.’

‘It does,’ Cato agreed wearily. ‘That’s why I am requiring you to decide. They are your men, Macro. Your responsibility. Either way, Legate Valens wants them up at headquarters as soon as possible.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll deal with it. By lot.’

‘Good. When we’re done, I want the rearguard formed up and ready to march. The legate has ordered that half the tents stay behind, to help give the impression that the army is still in the camp. It means the men will have to double up, but at least it will halve the baggage. Which means we’ll have the spare mules to eat.’

Macro laughed drily. ‘There’s always an up side.’

Cato smiled back. ‘I’ll see you once we’re done.’

They saluted, and Cato strode off towards his cohort. The men already knew what was about to take place and were formed up in their squadrons, while Decurion Miro added coins from the cohort’s pay chest to a nosebag. Once he had counted out the plain bronze coins, he added ten more, in almost the same size, of silver and gave the bag a good shake. Cato approached and turned to address his men.

‘There’s no time to waste on speeches, lads. The drill is this. The squadrons come up in turn for each man to take one coin each out of the bag. We’ll start with Harpex and his lads; last to go will be Decurion Miro and his squadron. I’ll go first.’

So saying, he turned towards Miro and the latter held up the nosebag. Cato placed his hand inside, stirred the topmost coins with the tips of his fingers, then closed them round one and drew it out, raising it up for all to see.

‘Bronze! Harpex, you’re up.’

Cato stepped aside and let the decurion lead his men to the bag. Each one took a coin out and held it up as the result was called out. It took until almost the last man before the first silver coin came up, and the Thracian froze in shock for a moment before accepting his destiny, bidding his comrades a brief farewell and stepping to the side to await the fate of the rest. The five remaining cohorts took their turn and more of the silver coins emerged, until at last there was only one remaining as Miro’s squadron came forward. Each man extracted a coin from the dwindling number left and held it up.

‘Bronze . . . Bronze . . . Bronze . . .’

As it continued, Cato could see the growing anxiety in the decurion’s face by the light of the moon. And then there was just Miro and Thraxis left to draw, and the officer hesitated before holding the bag out to the standard-bearer.

‘You first.’

Thraxis pressed his lips together, then reached in and quickly picked a coin out. He could not help a relieved expression as he held it up.

‘Bronze!’

Miro looked at him in horror, then, as all eyes turned to him, placed his trembling hand into the bag and pulled out the last coin as if it were a poisonous serpent. ‘Silver . . .’

He lowered the coin back into the bag and dropped it at his feet before looking helplessly at Cato, who forced himself to keep his expression impassive as he turned to the men who had picked the silver coins. ‘That’s the way it goes, lads. But remember, you have served with the Blood Crows. Do the cohort proud and you will be remembered. Hold the enemy off for as long as you can, and take down as many of the bastards as possible.’ He clasped hands with each man in turn, and lastly with Miro. ‘Goodbye, Decurion. It’s been an honour to serve with you.’

Miro opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. He swallowed and tried again, in a low, pleading tone. ‘Sir, you need me. Who will command the squadron?’

‘I will take care of them for you.’

‘But they need me, sir. They’re used to me. We’re comrades. Lose me and they’ll not fight nearly so well as they did.’

‘I am sure they will fight to honour you, Decurion. As will I.’

Miro leaned forward and lowered his voice further. ‘Sir, I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to stay here and die. Please don’t order me to. Tell Valens you’re a man short . . . Please, sir. Please.’

Cato tried to pull his hand free, but the decurion held on desperately. Cato felt sickened by the man’s open display of his loss of nerve. He hissed furiously, ‘Pull yourself together. Right now. The odds were the same for you as for everyone else, but Fortuna chose you. Accept it and get those men up to headquarters. Go . . .’

Miro’s grip weakened for a moment and Cato took his hand back swiftly. ‘Carry on, Decurion Miro. Do your duty.’

Miro hesitated and looked round, his jaw trembling. There was a terrible silence before Thraxis stepped forward. ‘Permission to change places with Decurion Miro, sir!’

‘What?’ Cato was nonplussed. ‘What did you say?’

‘I’ll swap places with Miro, sir. Like he said, the cohort needs him. Let me have a crack at those Druid bastards instead. I fancy teaching them a lesson.’

Cato was about to deny the request when he saw the desperate glint in Miro’s eye and realised that the only way he would fight was if someone dragged him kicking and crying to the enemy. It would be unsettling for those that remained and set a terrible example. He swallowed his reluctance and turned to face Thraxis instead. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘I am, sir. It’ll be a chance to take down some of those Celt bastards before I starve to death. Be worth it.’

‘If that’s what you want, Thraxis.’

‘Yes, sir. It is.’

Cato nodded, full of admiration for the man. ‘Very well. But there’s one last thing before we part.’ He stabbed a finger at Miro. ‘Give Thraxis your helmet and your medal harness. Now, unless you want to stay and fight at his side.’

Miro did not need to be asked twice and hurriedly handed over the most visible signs of his office to the standard-bearer. Thraxis made to give him the standard, but Cato intercepted it. ‘I’ll take charge of that. Miro, I am demoting you to the ranks and placing you on the mule team. Even that is more than you deserve. Get out of my sight.’

Miro recoiled as if he had been slapped in the face, then backed away sheepishly and turned to walk off into the night. Cato turned his attention back to Thraxis.

‘For what it’s worth, I am giving you a field promotion to decurion. You will be in command of the contingent of Blood Crows that remains in the fort. I know that you, and the others, will uphold the name of the cohort. And it’s been my personal honour and privilege to serve with you. You might have been a bloody moody servant at times, but you’re a fine soldier.’

Thraxis grinned in the moonlight. ‘And you’re a good officer, sir, but a fucking pain in the arse to look after.’

They shared a brief silence before Thraxis turned to the others who were remaining to fight and die with him. ‘Blood Crows contingent! Attention!’

The small party stiffened, as freshly as if they had just arrived on parade. Thraxis marched to the front, took his place and paused before giving the order. ‘On the word, quick march! One!’

As they headed towards the centre of the camp, one of the other men raised his arm in salute and called out, ‘Thraxis!Thraxis!’ The chant was instantly taken up by the rest of the cohort, and then Cato joined in too, shouting as loudly as he could until the ten men had passed out of sight.

When the cheering had diminished, he turned to his command and looked them over with pride and a certain fondness. Barely a handful of the men remained from the unit he had first encountered on his return to Britannia.

‘There’s not much to be said,’ he told them quietly. ‘Let’s just make sure that their sacrifice is worthwhile. We’ll return to the province, rest over the winter, and then come back in the spring to avenge Thraxis and teach those Druid bastards a lesson. That’s all. Now form squadrons and prepare to march.’

Tribune Livonius and his servant had marked the route to the defile with javelins to which small strips of dark cloth had been attached. They had taken advantage of the terrain to ensure that as far as possible Quintatus and what was left of his column would not be observed. The chosen path started from the lowest corner of the camp facing the mountains, and followed a shallow vale down which ran a stream. Then it skirted a belt of trees, which screened the opening to the defile. The legate waited until a band of clouds obscured the moon before giving the order to move out. The rearguard stood aside while the rest of the army crept out of the camp and moved in single file along the line of markers. If the enemy happened upon the trail the following day, it might be mistaken for the passage of a small contingent, rather than the broad swathe of footprints created by a large force. The men moved in silence, black shadows against the dull loom of the snowscape, watched over by the officers to make sure that no one uttered a word or made any unnecessary sound. The horses and mules were muzzled and led gently by their riders and handlers, who kept a comforting hand to the beasts’ flanks as they paced through the snow.

When the last of the column had passed out of the camp, Cato took a final look at the sentries on the palisade, and the other men who had gathered to quietly watch their comrades depart. Macro sensed his uneasy mood.

‘Despite what I said earlier, you were right. This is the best of a bad situation.’

‘I know. I just wish it was not such a waste of fine men. They deserve better.’

‘At least this way they get to die as they lived, fighting with a sword in their hand. Save your pity for those who are going to freeze to death, or perish from their wounds, or sickness, or an accident. There are many ways death comes to a soldier, sir. This is one of the better ends. Trust me.’

Cato knew his friend was right, but it did not make the leave-taking of their comrades any easier. He drew a deep breath and gave the order as loudly as he dared. ‘Rearguard . . . advance.’

Macro’s legionaries led the way, leaving the fort in single file, followed by Cato at the head of the Blood Crows, each man on foot as he guided his horse along the narrow path carved through the snow by the men and beasts who had gone ahead of them. As the last men left the camp, the gate closed behind them, shutting the defenders in and giving them a few hours’ respite before the coming of dawn and the fate that awaited them. The men at the rear began to collect the javelins marking the route as they reached each in turn. Snow began to fall in flurries, just enough to begin settling over the path the Romans had taken, but not enough to conceal it.

The night air was freezing, and Cato felt it chill his throat as he inhaled. Apart from the soft, crunching footfalls of those ahead and behind, the night was quiet and still, and Fortuna continued to favour them with an obscured moon. When the Blood Crows reached the treeline, however, and worked their way round towards the narrow gap between the rocky slopes and crags that divided the two mountains, the moon began to edge into a clear sky, silvering the feathery outline of the nearest clouds. The increase in the illumination was startling, and Cato felt horribly exposed before he realised that any observer would find it nearly impossible to distinguish the cohort from the background of the trees. They continued on, making good progress over the compressed snow that had been packed down and provided firm footing.

As the trees gave way to open ground littered with small boulders, Cato saw Macro’s legionaries seemingly disappearing into the cliffs. Drawing closer, he realised that there was a gap wide enough for five men to march into. On either side, moss- and snow-covered rocks rose up and engulfed the sky, and the air was damp and musty-smelling. The passage soon began to narrow and the ground became uneven, and Cato reflected that Livonius had been right. There was no way that any wheeled vehicle could negotiate this route. Looking up, he saw that the sky overhead was a shade brighter. He turned and saw more light through the mouth of the defile and knew that dawn was fast approaching.

He drew his mount aside and let his cohort pass one by one. At the rear of the unit came a small string of mules carrying what little feed Cato had been able to glean from the camp. Miro led the animals by without daring to look round and meet the prefect’s eye.

Cato watched for a short while longer as the sky continued to lighten and a pink bloom rose across the eastern horizon. That was when the distant note of a Celtic war horn brayed thinly. The signal was taken up by others as a swelling roar rose like the sound of surf breaking on a far-off beach. It seemed the enemy’s patience had been exhausted and they were not prepared to starve the Romans into surrender. The Druids and their warriors wanted blood instead, and the honour of telling their grandchildren of the part they had played in annihilating a Roman army.

Cato tugged the reins of his horse and strode quickly to catch up with the tail of the column.

‘Make way!’ he ordered Miro curtly, and the former decurion hurried to get his mules off the path as the prefect hurried by. As he reached the rearmost squadron, Cato called ahead. ‘Pass the word to the legate: the enemy are attacking the camp . . .’