Britannia

CHAPTER THIRTY

Once the remains of the Roman army had cleared the defile, the units re-formed and began marching along a narrow valley that meandered east and south for several miles. As Valens had anticipated, the snow was lying more deeply here, and the men at the front of the column had to wade knee-high before a path was broken for those that followed. On everyone’s mind was the fight being waged for the camp. Once the enemy had forced their way in, it would all be over very quickly. When that happened, the Druids would know they had been deceived and would be sniffing for the trail of their prey at once. It would not take them long to find what was left of the path through the defile and come after the Roman column again.

The enemy was not the only matter plaguing the minds of the soldiers trudging through the snow. Some had not eaten for nearly two days and had to endure a constant twisting ache in their stomachs. At least their thirst was easily slaked by handfuls of snow. But the hunger ate away at their strength and endurance, and the men, already weary, had to force themselves to keep going, one step after another.

It did not take long for the first of them to fall out of the line of march. Their officers bawled at them to get back on their feet, and if shouting did not work, they resorted to punches and blows from their vine canes. It did the trick for some, but others just curled into a ball and took the beating, no longer caring for the authority of their superiors or even the pain inflicted on them. Those men were eventually left to their own devices and remained where they sat. There were others who remained in the line of march, but only at the cost of abandoning their kit, and soon the route was littered with mess tins, spare clothing, entrenching tools and even full marching yokes, so that their former owners had nothing left but their weapons and whatever food and drink remained in their haversacks.

It broke Macro’s heart to see soldiers, particularly his beloved legionaries, so dispirited that they willingly tossed their belongings aside against the blandishments of their officers. He watched his own men carefully, ensuring that his officers kept them moving and that they did not dispose of any kit. It was easier for the Blood Crows, who had horses to carry their belongings and who therefore had only hunger and tiredness as their constant burdens. Cato found his thoughts turning repeatedly to food, even at the occasional expense of his grief over Julia’s death. Each time he had to force himself to put such thoughts aside and keep his mind on his men, watching to make sure they stayed closed up, offering words of encouragement to those who needed it, and forever looking back down the trail for the first sign of the enemy.

At noon, as close as Cato could estimate the time in the overcast, the legate halted the column to allow the men to rest and the stragglers to catch up. It was too cold to sit, and the men stood shuffling their feet and rubbing their hands, and trying to stay as warm as they could.

Macro came striding up.

‘Bracing weather, eh?’

Cato, who had a lithe build, tended to feel the cold more acutely than his friend, and he struggled to stop his teeth chattering as he replied. ‘Does nothing ever bother you?’

‘Oh yes! Tarts with the clap, honest politicians, and anyone who cheats at dice. Cold you can get used to. Even in Britannia. But hunger? That’s different. I could murder a haunch of venison right now, soused in garum and served with a thick onion gravy.’ Macro stared into the middle distance as he continued his reverie, until a rumbling from his belly drew his attention back to his present situation. ‘Sorry about that. Not very helpful.’

‘Not helpful at all,’ Cato agreed. ‘I’d eat anything right now.’

He looked down the line to where Miro was tending to the animals. ‘I think we’ll slaughter the mules tonight. Half to the Thracians and half to your boys. Won’t be much meat to go round, but maybe we’ll have time to boil it to make it tender enough to eat without breaking our jaws. At least the men will have something to warm their insides and put a smile back on their faces. And we’ll see what we can save for tomorrow night.’

Macro shot him a quick look. ‘You’re thinking too far ahead, sir. We’ve got to get through this one day at a time. That’s what you need to fix your mind on, if you want to live.’

Cato thought a moment and gently rocked his head from side to side. ‘Wise words, I suppose. I’ll let you know if I live until tomorrow night.’ His tone became serious. ‘How are your men doing?’

‘The lads are fine. Only a handful have dropped out so far, but you’ll have seen that for yourself. Of course they’d eat their own mothers given half a chance. But for now they’ll do as they are told, if that’s what you mean.’

Cato looked round guardedly. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. From the amount of kit I have passed already, I’d say that only a handful of units are still in good enough shape to put up a decent fight. If it comes to it, the rest of the column will be depending on us. And we will be able to cover the retreat only for as long as we can retain discipline over the men and give them the heart to fight. It’s on our shoulders, Macro.’

‘I know, sir. Nothing much changes in this world. We seem to find ourselves up to our necks in trouble wherever we go. I’d swear someone had cursed us both good and proper.’

Cato laughed and then dissolved into a coughing fit. Before he could recover enough to reply, there was a shout from the rearmost squadron of the Blood Crows.

‘Enemy in sight!’

Both men turned to look down the valley. Several figures on horseback, barely more than dots against the white backdrop, were galloping towards a mound less than a mile away. When they reached it, they paused to survey the Roman column. Then one of them turned and sped back the way they had come.

‘Didn’t take them long to find us,’ said Macro. ‘Now we’re for it.’

Cato immediately called to one of his men and sent a message to the legate to inform him that the enemy had been sighted. Then he turned back to Macro.

‘If that’s just a scouting party, it will take time for them to report back and for the enemy to come after us. We’ll have a day’s start on them.’ He paused and gritted his teeth to stop them chattering. ‘If, however, they are an advance party, riding ahead of their army, then we are in trouble.’

‘Trouble? As in we-are-completely-fucked trouble, you mean?’

Cato arched an eyebrow and glanced at him. ‘You put it so eloquently, but yes.’

Word of the sighting spread through the Roman column, and the soldiers turned to gaze back at the distant enemy. Cato watched their expressions and saw fear in many of their faces, deadpan resignation in others. Hardly a man spoke. A short time later, the muffled thump of hooves caught his ear, and he turned to see Quintatus riding down the side of the column towards him, his horse kicking up a fine spray of powdery snow. He reined in as he reached Cato and squinted for a moment.

‘I count eight. Have you seen any more of them?’

‘Just the man they sent back to report on us, sir.’

‘So very soon they’ll know exactly where we are. Damn.’ The legate lowered his head in thought. ‘We’re still two days’ march from Mediolanum. Maybe as much as three days in these conditions. We’ll have to push on as swiftly as we can. I’ll get the column moving again at once.’ He looked up at Cato. ‘No more stopping until we make camp. Anyone who falls out is to be left behind. Understand? We cannot afford to waste time and effort on stragglers.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’ll have to be ready to turn and fight if needed.’

‘I understand. The army can rely on Macro and me, sir.’

‘Good. Then may Jupiter, best and greatest, watch over us and guide us to safety. If you see any more of them send word to me at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Quintatus turned his horse around and spurred it into a gallop as he made for the head of the column. Macro watched him and then clicked his tongue. ‘I do love a commander who leads from the front, just not so much when we happen to be retreating.’

Cato smirked. ‘So it’s down to us to lead from the rear, then.’

The column continued its advance down the valley. A few miles later it merged with another, larger valley, and Quintatus turned east. All the time, the enemy horsemen shadowed the Romans, always keeping a cautious distance. As far as Cato could see, there were no other tribesmen in sight beyond the scouts, and he prayed that Fortuna would finally show them sufficient favour to allow them to stay ahead of the enemy.

As they turned east behind the rest of the column, Cato looked round at the landscape and frowned. ‘I recognise this. We marched through here on the way to Mona. I’m sure of it.’

‘Are you certain, sir?’ said Macro. ‘Under all this snow. Things are bound to look different.’

‘I’m sure of it,’ Cato insisted.

A short distance ahead, they came across two legionaries struggling to hold up a comrade as they staggered along. Cato stepped out of line to address them.

‘What’s the problem here?’

The men made a feeble attempt to stand to attention in front of an officer, and the soldier in the middle winced as he tried to hide his pain. One of his companions coughed to clear his throat and explained, ‘It’s Atticus here, sir. He can’t feel his feet any more. He can’t stand on his own.’

‘No?’ Cato forced himself to adopt a hard expression. ‘Let’s see. Step away from him. Do it now.’

Reluctantly the pair did as they were ordered. Once the last steadying hand had been removed, the legionary swayed for a moment before his legs gave out on him and he slumped into the snow with a sigh. Cato stood over him. ‘Atticus, you have to march on your own two feet. You cannot put your comrades at risk by making them carry you. Do you understand?’

The soldier rolled his head slowly. ‘Too . . . tired.’

‘Atticus! Atticus! Look up!’ Cato leaned over and shook his shoulder roughly. The legionary’s eyes blinked open and it took a moment for him to focus. Cato thrust his arm out towards the enemy scouts. ‘You see them? Very soon, thousands of their friends are going to appear, eager to run us to ground and cut our heads off. If you can’t march, then you are dead. And if your comrades carry you, then they’re dead as well. Rome cannot afford to lose any more men. So you’ll get up and rejoin the column, or you’ll sit there and die. Your choice.’ He turned to the two legionaries. ‘Get back to your unit. On the double!’

They looked uncertainly at their friend before Cato glared at them, defying them to disobey, then they turned away and hurried off. He gazed back down at Atticus and felt his guts twist in pity. It had been hard to make his comrades leave him, but necessary.

‘Atticus, do what you can to keep moving. If you can’t move, take your sword out and use it on the enemy or on yourself. Do not let them take you prisoner.’

The legionary nodded wearily and muttered, ‘No prisoners.’

Cato straightened up and strode across to Macro, who had been watching the scene.

‘I had to do that, Macro. So not a word on the matter.’

‘Me? I know better.’

They marched on, cold, starving and with increasingly aching feet that made each pace a private torment. As the light began to fade and the shadows started lengthening, they approached a narrow gorge in the distance, and Cato immediately realised it was the scene of the opening confrontation of the campaign. The irony hit him like the worst of jokes. From here the Romans had marched on Mona full of confidence and in the expectation of a swift victory. Now they were slinking back to their winter quarters like whipped, emaciated dogs, looking back with the haunted expressions of animals that expected nothing but another beating. He took another long, hard stare at the gorge and then turned to Macro.

‘Take command. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘What?’ Macro looked round. ‘What’s up?’

‘Just keep the men going,’ Cato said, climbing on to his horse and feeling the bones of its shrunken flanks as he urged it forward.

By the time he had closed up on Quintatus, the head of the column was already passing through the gorge, and the legate and his staff officers had stopped to watch the men trudge by. At the sight of Cato, a brief look of alarm crossed Quintatus’s face, and he called out, ‘What’s happened?’

‘Nothing, sir. There’s still no sign of the enemy.’

‘Then why, by the gods, did you come tearing up like that?’

Cato realised that his commander was on the edge of exhaustion, his nerves clearly almost as badly worn as those of the rest of the men. He took a calming breath before he responded. ‘You remember this place, sir?’

‘Of course I do. This is where we were delayed by the enemy at the start of the campaign. Thanks to your dilatory progress in ousting a handful of natives.’

Cato could not resist a slight frown at the accusation. ‘Precisely, sir. And now we have a chance to pay them back in the same coin.’

Quintatus thought briefly, and then looked into the gorge, where a cohort from the Twentieth was passing between the sheer walls of rock that let up to the crags on either side. ‘You think we could hold them here?’

‘Yes, sir. I am certain that the rearguard could manage that. For a day, maybe two. Certainly long enough for the rest of the army to reach Mediolanum safely. Provided we have every spare javelin and every bow and stock of slingshot left. Give me that and I will give you a day’s grace.’

The legate chewed his lip. ‘A day’s grace may just save thousands of lives. Not mine, though. When word of all this gets back to Rome . . . Never mind.’ He wearily shook off the train of thought and nodded. ‘Very well, Prefect Cato. You will have all that you need.’

Cato halted the Blood Crows on a rise that obscured the enemy’s view of the gorge while Macro and his men hastened forward to help make preparations for its defence. Loose boulders were piled into place to block the route and then built up into a makeshift parapet, leaving a gap just wide enough for a man to lead his horse through. Javelins, arrows and bows were stacked inside the gorge along with the remaining caltrops. One century was assigned to fortifying the approaches to the top of the crags, blocking any goat trails and easy routes with sharpened stakes and other obstacles, while another group heaved more boulders into position close to the edge of vantage points overlooking the entrance to the gorge that would have to be taken by the enemy when they came in pursuit of the Roman column.

The light was fading when Macro sent word to Cato that the defences were complete, and the Blood Crows were ordered to the rear. Cato remained alone for a short while, watching the enemy, who had closed to within half a mile. They regarded him in turn, then cautiously began to edge forward when they realised that one Roman hardly constituted a danger. Cato let them come within two hundred paces before turning his mount and trotting towards the gorge. By the time he reached the defences – the last man to pass through before the gap was filled – fires had been lit within the gorge and on the far side, and up on the crags. A rich aroma of roasting meat filled the air, and he felt his stomach lurch with ferocious appetite as Macro came up to greet him, brushing past the men posted to keep watch.

‘Spit mule is on the go, and the legate’s found a few wine skins to hand round. He’s already in his cups.’

‘Quintatus is still here? I thought he’d have gone ahead with the rest of the army.’

‘Think he wants a final word with you before he buggers off back to Mediolanum. Any last requests, that sort of thing, no doubt.’ Macro shrugged. ‘It’s not as if it means anything. But I’m grateful for the wine, at least.’

‘No doubt.’

Cato dismounted and handed his reins to one of the Thracians as Macro jerked a thumb back in the direction of the enemy. ‘Any sign of ’em yet?’

‘Just the scouts. But the rest of them can’t be too far away now. I just hope we have a chance to rest the men before they attack. Right now, though, I am so hungry I could eat a horse.’

Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Sorry, I just thought it would be quicker to cook a mule.’

They walked through the gorge, emerging by a large fire that lit the snow-covered rocks on either side with a warm orange glow. The torso of a mule had been pierced by a lance and was being roasted over the embers to one side. Meanwhile, soldiers sat hunched round with strips of meat stuck on the end of their javelins to hold over the flames, and several wine skins were being passed from man to man. Legate Quintatus was standing to one side with a cheery smile as he held his hands out to warm them. He looked up as Cato approached.

‘Ah, Cato! There you are. Join the happy crowd.’

‘Happy crowd?’ Cato muttered, exchanging a glance with Macro. It was an odd phrase to describe men who would shortly fight impossible odds, but he guessed it was the drink talking. As he stepped up to the legate’s side, he found a wine skin thrust into his hand.

‘Take a good swig,’ said Quintatus. ‘It’s from my estate in Campania. It may not travel well, but it has travelled far.’

Cato nodded his thanks and took a modest sip, not trusting his weariness to cope with drink. ‘No sign of the enemy army yet, sir.’

‘They’re coming . . .’ The legate pursed his lips. ‘You can count on that. But we’re ready for them.’

Cato smiled to himself at the inclusive nature of the comment, but wished that his superior would take himself off and leave the rearguard to themselves. The Blood Crows and Macro’s legionaries had fought side by side for many long months and had established a strong bond under the command of the two officers. It would be a shame for the legate to intrude too long on what might be their last night together in this world.

‘The lads will hold them back as long as possible, sir. And we’ll make ’em pay a high price for getting past us.’

‘Yes, we will,’ Quintatus said deliberately.

‘You’re staying here?’

The legate breathed in deeply and nodded. ‘What choice have I got? If I return with a defeated army, the emperor will want my head. If I stay and fight, then I may win a little glory for myself and preserve the honour of my family name. But don’t worry, I shan’t interfere with your command over these men. You have earned that. You and Macro both. It’s just a damn pity that Rome will lose the services of two such fine officers. Who knows, by some miracle maybe I will survive to enjoy the acclaim. Either way, at least the rest of the army stands a good chance of making it to safety.’

‘I hope so, sir. I hope we all share that miracle. Stranger things have happened in my experience.’

‘If it wasn’t for this damned early snowfall, we would have crushed the Druids.’

‘It wasn’t the snow, sir. It was the entire timing of the campaign. Winter is no time to venture into the mountains.’

‘But I had to do it all the same. Time was short,’ Quintatus insisted.

Cato reflected a moment. He was inclined to temper the criticism of his superior, but there was no point in worrying about it now. They were all doomed men. What did it matter what he said?

‘Your time was short, sir. You wanted to win some glory before the new governor arrived. This was about adding lustre to your reputation, gambling with the lives of the men you took into these mountains with you. Isn’t that the case?’

‘I admit it was a risk, yes.’ Quintatus paused and stared into the flames briefly. ‘A grave risk. And I am prepared to pay a high price for it by staying here.’

‘A price you also made the rest of us pay,’ Cato said firmly. ‘I’d be surprised if a third of the army returns to Mediolanum. Even the rearguard has suffered badly. Macro’s cohort is down to two hundred effectives, and I can barely scrape together a hundred men of the Blood Crows. They deserve better.’

Quintatus turned to stare at him. ‘Yes, they do,’ he replied softly.

The men chewed their meat like ravenous wolves, tough as it was. As soon as the meat began to warm their bellies, their spirits returned. Their voices rose, and jokes and snatches of song echoed back off the walls of the gorge. Flickering flames cast giant shadows on the snow and rock, and Cato felt the warmth of their camaraderie more intensely than he ever had before. As for Macro, he enjoyed the wine more than was perhaps good for him, and looked forward to the coming battle with a glint in his eye and a cruel grin on his lips as he chewed on a tough strip of mule meat.

It did not take long for the mood to break. No more than three hours after sunset, one of the lookouts on the crags cupped his hands and called down to those around the fires, ‘They’re coming!’