Britannia

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

‘To your posts!’ Macro bellowed, jumping to his feet. ‘Stand to! Prepare to receive the enemy!’

The men around the fires dropped their food and wine skins to snatch up their weapons and armour and rush to their assigned positions. Macro and his legionaries took their place behind the rock barricade. Legate Quintatus drew his ivory-handled sword from its silvered scabbard and shouldered his way through to the front to stand beside the centurion. The latter regarded him with a frown and the legate chuckled.

‘Take it easy, Macro. This is a centurion’s fight, not a legate’s. These men are yours to command. And I will follow your orders.’

Meanwhile, the Blood Crows divided into two parties and ran up the sides of the hills to the top of the crags. Cato went to the right and joined the men scrambling up through the snow, soon feeling his lungs and muscles burn with the effort of such violent exercise while suffering the debilitating effects of exhaustion and hunger. By the time he reached the uneven surface of the same crag he had scaled only weeks before, his heart drummed in his ears and he was gasping for breath. He crossed to the edge overlooking the approach to the gorge. The sentry who had alerted the rearguard was standing in the light of the crackling fire. The glow illuminated a nearby stack of javelins, bows and arrows.

‘Where are they?’ Cato gasped.

The Thracian pointed down the valley, and even in the starlight Cato could see a dense black tide sliding over the ridge a mile back. Ahead of the main force was a screen of cavalry, half as far away. As more of the Blood Crows gathered on the crags, some of the men muttered ominously.

‘Quiet there!’ Cato snapped. ‘Save your breath for the battle.’

He looked down the slope that gave out on to the valley floor. The steep sides reduced the effective front to the width of the gorge and the two routes up to the crags. The advantage in that respect was with the defenders, as Cato had anticipated. Furthermore, Macro’s preparations had been as thorough as time had allowed, and rocks and sharpened stakes blocked the access to the top of the crags. Boulders of a more manageable size had been stockpiled near the edge, ready to throw down on to the natives. Not that it would change the outcome of the struggle between the massively unequal forces, but Cato was confident that the enemy would suffer heavy losses before they broke through the gorge and annihilated the defenders. Even though there was no moon, the dim starlight on the snow revealed the barbarian forces clearly. They would not be able to surprise the rearguard with any discreet attempts to flank the position.

The Thracians continued to watch in silence as the enemy army flowed slowly across the ridge and approached the gorge. For the first time Cato could fully appreciate the scale of the forces the enemy had gathered to crush the invaders who had attempted to humble the Druids. Then it hit him – there was no way that Quintatus’s ambitions could ever have been realised against such odds. The campaign had been doomed from the very start, in every way.

The enemy cavalry stopped a quarter of a mile from the gorge, at the extreme range of a bolt-thrower, and Cato smiled to himself. Clearly their experience of the weapon had left them feeling the greatest respect for it, and they were not taking any chances in case the Romans still retained a few pieces of their formidable artillery. The horsemen drew aside as the infantry followed up and halted. A moment later, a group of cavalry detached and advanced, walking their beasts forward. No doubt to determine the strength of the force that opposed them, thought Cato. He had no intention of accommodating their plans and turned to the Thracians.

‘First squadron! Out with the bows and prepare fire arrows.’

The men set down their shields and spears and took up the bows, bracing one foot on the end and grunting with the effort needed to flex the arms of the bow enough to slip the bowstring loop over the other horned end of the weapon. Then they set to work wrapping linen wadding around the arrow shafts before drenching them in oil. By the time they were ready, the enemy riders had picked their way to within fifty paces of the mouth of the gorge. From there they would be able to see the outline of the barricade and Macro’s men against the backdrop of the fire at the other end of the gorge. But they would have no idea of the strength of the Roman forces. It was time to shake them up.

Cato’s lips twisted into a cold grimace. ‘Light the arrows and prepare to shoot!’

The Thracians dipped the arrows into the fire until the wadding caught, then hurriedly notched them to the bowstrings.

‘Draw!’

The bows creaked slightly as the men pulled back the strings and the flames licked from the wadding.

‘Shoot!’

The arrows flew out in a fiery arc, brilliant in the dark night, and dipped down towards the horsemen. Most landed in the snow and were either extinguished outright or glowed like stars, casting small pools of light about them. Two struck their targets. The first pierced the rump of a horse, and the pain of the impact and the scorching of the burning wad caused the animal to buck and leap around, eventually throwing its rider before letting out a shrill whinny and running off into the night. The glow of the arrow was visible for a long way as the horse bolted along the side of the enemy host and down into the valley. The second projectile struck a man in the neck, and he flailed at the shaft, trying to extinguish the flame, even as blood coursed from his opened veins. He toppled from his saddle and squirmed weakly in the snow.

‘Pour it on!’ Cato encouraged his men, and they lit more arrows and shot them towards the enemy until they had dashed back out of range, leaving a handful of their stricken comrades behind.

‘Cease shooting!’

The last arrows were loosed, and Cato turned to his grinning men and gave them the thumbs-up. ‘Nice work, lads. That’ll have unnerved them, and they’ll be wary when they make their first attack.’

The defenders did not have to wait long. A mass of infantry detached themselves from the enemy host and advanced towards the gorge. As they came on, the force began to divide into three prongs, the two outer ones heading for the slopes leading up to the crags on each side while the main thrust made for the gorge itself. Once again the fire arrows rained down, with more from the crags opposite, and Cato could well imagine the demoralising impact the blazing missiles had on the enemy as they trudged through the snow.

A short distance from the mouth of the gorge, the enemy gave vent to a tremendous cry and charged forward. Macro turned his shield towards them and rested the flat of his sword against the trim as he called out.

‘Make ready javelins!’

Behind the barricade there was a short gap between Macro’s first line of defenders and the rest of the legionaries. Those at the front of the reserves shifted their grip on their javelins, angled their arms back and waited for the order. Macro allowed the enemy to enter the gorge and close to within twenty paces before he barked, ‘Loose!’

He was dimly aware of the veil of dark shafts that flew over his head, crashing and clattering amongst the onrushing tribesmen, skewering some of the dark shapes and knocking them down. More javelins were hurled, adding to the casualties, and then the enemy reached the hastily planted stakes and caltrops and more went down, pierced by the iron spikes, or shoved on to the points of the stakes by those pushing from behind. Despite the casualties, the attackers charged on, right up to the barricade, where they began to strike out at the Romans.

‘Keep your shields up!’

Macro saw the dimly visible shaggy features of a tribesman rear up in front of him as the man tried to clamber over the rocks. He struck out, taking the native deep in the throat, then twisted the sword violently from side to side and ripped it back. The man fell away and another took his place, stabbing at Macro’s face with a spear. He blocked it with his shield, absorbing the frenzied impact as his foe lunged again and again. Then he angled the shield up and the point glanced off overhead. The warrior was holding the shaft of his weapon tightly and lurched forward with it into Macro’s reach, and the centurion stabbed him in the chest. It was a winding rather than a deeply wounding blow, and the Briton stumbled back, gasping for air as he staunched the blood flowing from his torn flesh.

For a brief moment no one opposed Macro, and he risked a glance to either side. To the left, Legate Quintatus let out a triumphant cry as he split a native’s skull with his finely sharpened sword. Beyond him, Macro saw one of his men thrown backwards off the barricade as a javelin, snatched up from those unleashed on the enemy, was hurled back and caught him squarely in the face, smashing his cheekbone and plunging on into his skull. As his body fell, another legionary climbed up to replace him.

A swift movement drew Macro’s attention back to his front as another warrior made for him. This one wore a Gallic helmet, chain mail and a shield, marking him out as a nobleman. Like all of his caste, he knew his business when it came to fighting. He blocked Macro’s first strike with ease, and countered with a series of blows that drove the Roman back from the barricade. Taking advantage of that, he climbed up and thrust his shield against the centurion’s. Unbalanced, Macro wavered as he struggled to stay on his feet, and for an instant he pushed his shield to the side to stop himself falling, and exposed his body to his opponent.

The nobleman hissed and drew his sword back to make the fatal thrust. Then the point of the legate’s sword clattered into his helmet, jerking his head violently to the side and dazing him. Before he could recover, Macro threw his weight behind his shield and slammed into the man, sending him flying back from the barricade to crash on to the tightly packed mass of enemy warriors desperate to get their chance to fight the hated Romans and take their heads as trophies. There were several bodies slumped before the barricade now, and a handful of legionaries had fallen too. The fight raged on in the darkness, illuminated by the glow of the fire behind the Romans and the pallid gloom of the snow.

The enemy’s progress up the slope towards the top of the crags was just as much of an effort as it had been for the Blood Crows climbing from the other side. At the same time, they had to endure the steady barrage of fire arrows and rocks hurled down from above, and Cato noted with satisfaction the number of bodies littering the snow as the natives struggled to close on their tormentors. They reached the first of the obstacles set up in their path and had to pause and uproot the stakes and move aside the boulders, all the time being pelted with arrows and rocks. Several more were struck down before the way was clear, and then they threw themselves up the final stretch of slope to the top of the crags.

‘Over here! On me!’ Cato yelled, as he rushed towards the larger boulders perched on the edge of the rocks overlooking the approach to the crags. He braced his feet and strained to shift the first of the boulders. It began to move, and then one of his men added his strength and it moved easily and rolled over. One more shove was enough to send it tumbling down the slope towards the enemy, knocking the first man aside before crashing into the next and sending him flailing down the slope, then hitting more of the natives and causing others to leap aside as it continued on its way. Cato and his men sent more boulders tumbling down, breaking up the attack, and then readied their shields and spears and stood ready to receive those of the enemy who reached the top of the crags. The stiff climb had exhausted the tribesmen, and they struck out desperately at the Thracians lined up and waiting for them. A score of them fell very quickly to the Blood Crows’ spears, and their bodies added to the obstacles impeding their comrades trying to follow up.

Cato stood to one side, watching. He noted that the enemy had stopped lower down the slope and fallen silent as their courage and determination to defeat the Romans wavered. Now was the time to strike. Drawing his sword, he took up his shield and forced himself into the front rank of his men as he drew a deep breath to issue the order. ‘Blood Crows, with me! Advance!’

He stepped down the slope, shield up and sword pointed forward, his men in line with him. They had the advantage of the high ground and the reach of their spears, as well as being fresher than the enemy, and they drove them back with ease. Some fell to spear thrusts; others tumbled back against their comrades and were caught there, unable to avoid the bloodied points of the spears before they were stabbed in turn. The Blood Crows worked their way down the slope, steadily rolling up the enemy attack until at last the resolve of the native warriors broke and they turned to scramble away, desperate to escape the ruthless Thracians. Cato followed them up for a short distance before halting his men and ordering them to return to the top of the crags. At the same time, he saw the first of the enemy who had gone into the gorge falling back, streaming across the snow until they were a safe distance from the legionaries holding the barricade.

‘Round one to us, lads!’ he called to his men, and they raised a cheer. It was picked up by the men on the crags opposite, and a moment later by those down in the gorge, while the enemy engaged in the first attack retreated in fearful silence.

The natives attacked twice more during the night and were repelled each time with heavy casualties. The second attack exhausted the last of the fire arrows and javelins, and the Romans suffered more casualties as they were faced with fresh troops each time. Having failed to break through on the third occasion, the enemy withdrew to await the coming of dawn. Cato took the opportunity to make his way down to the gorge to see how the Fourth Cohort was faring. Macro greeted him by the embers of one of the fires around which the wounded had been placed. The dead lay in a line further off.

‘How’s it going up above?’

‘We’ve held them well enough,’ Cato replied, ‘though I’m down to ten men. If dawn reveals just how thinly the Blood Crows are spread, then our friends won’t hesitate to take us on, and this time we won’t be able to hold them back. In which case they’ll have the high ground and will be able to force your lads out of the gorge. Once they have us in the open, it’ll be every man for himself. How’s the Fourth coping?’

Macro stretched his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. ‘We were doing fine until that last attack, and then the boys took a hammering. I’ve got no more than sixty men still on their feet, and most of them are carrying a wound, apart from being ready to drop. Looks to me like the next time round it’s going to be over.’

Cato made a non-committal noise. ‘And the legate?’

‘Taken a spear wound to the thigh. It’s been dressed but he’ll not be running anywhere soon. Looks like he’s not going to have any choice in seeing through his decision to make a last stand. That said, he’s been a plucky bugger. Saved my neck once, and has downed several of those bastards. Given time, I might have made a decent legionary of him.’

‘Then it’s a shame he’s a legate rather than a legionary. Would have saved us all a lot of trouble.’

‘True enough. But he’s got guts plain enough. More so than most of his class.’

Cato looked round at the casualties lying in the snow. Some were moaning pitiably; others lay in silence, either staring up at the stars or clamping their eyes shut as they dealt with the pain. He saw the cohort’s surgeon, Pausinus, stopping by one man whose jaw had been cut clean through and was hanging by shreds of flesh as his body trembled violently. Pausinus had a scalpel in his hand, and as Cato watched, he made a nick in the injured man’s throat and blood pulsed from the wound. The legionary began to stir, and the surgeon held him down firmly until he was no longer struggling, then rose to his feet and moved on to the next man.

Macro had seen that his friend was watching. ‘I’ve given him orders to put the worst cases out of their misery. He reckons he can do it with the minimum of pain and they’ll go off quickly. Better that than fall into the hands of the Druids. Those who are capable have been given a sword or dagger and I’ve told them to fight from where they lie, or take care of themselves when the enemy gets through the barricade. They know the score.’

‘Fair enough. It’s for the best.’

The two friends regarded the scene for a moment before Macro turned to Cato. ‘Do you think we’ve bought enough time for the rest of the column?’

‘I should think so. We’ve delayed the enemy until the morning, and they’ll have had a night in the cold as well as many injured to deal with. And they’ll be running short of rations too. I doubt they’ll be keen to set off after what’s left of our lads until they’ve rested. Besides, they’ve defeated us, and driven us out of their land. It would be foolish to lead hungry, tired men too far from any means of supply, as we’ve had to find out the hard way.’ Cato’s exhausted mind struggled to gather his thoughts. ‘We’ve won an extra day for the column. Enough time to get clear of the mountains and reach Mediolanum safely.’

‘Good for them. Though that’s not going to help us much.’

‘Macro, my friend, we’re beyond help. You understand?’

‘Of course! I’m not a bloody fool.’

Cato laughed. ‘I never thought you were. So this is it, then. The end.’ He paused awkwardly, not quite sure how to express his valediction to his closest companion.

‘It’s not the end until it’s the end, lad,’ Macro responded firmly, shrugging aside the comment. ‘I’ll take the bastards on with my bare teeth if I have to. When I go out of this world, I’ll go fighting to the last.’

‘I cannot imagine you doing any different.’

They exchanged a sad look, and then Cato clasped his friend’s hand. ‘Goodbye then, Centurion Macro.’

‘Goodbye, sir.’

Cato turned on his heel and made his way back up to the crags. He climbed slowly, preserving his strength, and as he did so, he saw that the sky was already lightening, with a clear day in prospect. A shame, he thought. This was the weather the Romans could have used many days ago. Fate seemed to have a wonderful sense of humour at times. He reached the top and crossed to where the survivors of the two squadrons posted there stood to greet him, noting that Miro was still amongst them, bloodied but determined-looking.

‘At ease. Save your strength for the enemy, eh?’

He smiled at them, then moved to the vantage point from where he had observed the tribesmen during the night. Already he could see more clearly than shortly before. Hundreds of bodies were strewn across the snow in the mouth of the gorge, and heaped up along the approaches to the crags. The enemy had suffered more grievously than he had thought, and while he took a professional pride in the performance of the rearguard, he well knew that the Druids would seek to avenge the fallen in whatever cruel way they could.

The light continued to strengthen, as did the glow along the eastern horizon. Then, just as the first rays of the sun flooded over a distant ridge, a war horn rang out, followed by others, and the enemy began to advance yet again, gradually increasing their pace until they let out a great cheer and burst into a sprint as they raced into the mouth of the gorge and up the sides of the slopes.

This time there was just a handful of rocks left to throw at the tribesmen, and only a few were put out of action before they reached the top. The Blood Crows still had the advantage of not being breathless, and of holding the high ground, but Cato could see that they would not be able to fend the enemy off this time. He drew his sword and took his place in the centre of the line as the Thracians, weary and grim-faced, lowered the points of their spears and braced themselves. There was no loud clash of shields as there was when two sides met on the level, just the steady arrival of one warrior after another, taking his place opposite a Thracian and starting a duel.

Cato was confronted by a hard-breathing cloaked figure with a kite shield and an axe. As the tribesman went to raise his weapon, the prefect plunged forward, shield smashing into shield with a loud thud that sent the man back a pace, at the same time punching his sword into his foe’s armpit, driving the point through his ribs and into his heart. A savage twist of the blade and a wrench freed the point, and bright blood gushed from the wound. Cato stepped back and readied himself for the next enemy. On either side the Blood Crows blocked blows with their shields and thrust out with their spears. As before, more of the enemy fell than the Thracians, but now there were no men to replace the gaps, and the line was forced to draw closer together to hold their position.

Then the inevitable happened. Two warriors managed to work their way further up the slope and round the flank of the Blood Crows’ line, where they fell upon a Thracian as he was fighting the man to his front. Caught between attacks on two sides, he hesitated before turning to face the men above him. The opponent he had been duelling with charged into his shield and knocked him to the ground, and the two warriors uphill fell upon him, hacking brutally with their swords. He struggled to rise, but the blows carved through his arms and neck and he fell back helplessly.

Cato had caught the incident during a quick glance and knew that his men must fall back and try to link up with the legionaries to give a better account of themselves before the end.

‘Blood Crows! Retreat! With me!’

He slashed with his sword and cut deep into a warrior’s shoulder, then turned and began to run back across the top of the crags to the route leading down to the rear of the gorge. His men raced after him, pursued by the tribesmen, who were still labouring for breath following the steep climb. They reached the slope and began to scramble and slither down, while behind them the enemy cheered as they saw that the Romans were on the run.

A short distance from the bottom, Cato looked up and saw some of the legionaries falling back from the gorge, and heard more cheers echoing off the cliffs on either side. He felt his heart lurch with anxiety as he realised that the tribesmen must have broken through the barricade. Then he saw Macro supporting the legate as he withdrew, surrounded by a small group of legionaries and the Fourth Cohort’s standard, and he knew that it was all over. As he reached the even ground at the foot of the slope, he turned to his men. ‘It’s every man for himself now. Good luck, lads!’

He ran towards Macro, intending to join his friend for the last stand. Some of the legionaries were running for the horse lines instead, desperate to escape the coming slaughter, and Cato could not blame them. Then he was aware of a figure charging in from the side, and just had time to check himself and half turn before the warrior slammed into him and knocked him over, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. He released his grip on his shield and thrust himself up, raising his sword just in time to block the blade swinging down towards him. He heard the clash and scrape of metal on metal, he saw the sparks and realised in an instant that he had only deflected the blade. Then there was a blow to his brow, as though he had been struck by a white-hot bar. Instantly blood poured from the gash and over his eyes, blinding him.

‘No, you bastard!’ Miro’s voice rang out, and there was a deep grunt and someone fell into the snow at Cato’s side. Then he felt a hand pulling him to his feet.

‘Come on, sir. This way!’

Cato was dazed and stumbled along, guided by the Thracian. He reached up and wiped the blood from his eyes, glimpsing the chaotic scene as the enemy poured out of the gorge and fell upon the surviving Romans. He was thrust inside a group of legionaries and there was Macro, looking at him anxiously. ‘Cato, my poor lad.’

‘I’m all right.’ Cato’s voice was thick with fatigue and concussion. ‘Lost my sword. Give me another.’

Then there was Quintatus, grimacing in pain from the wound in his thigh. He stared at Cato. ‘Get him out of here, Macro,’ he ordered. ‘He’s no use to us.You two have done enough. Rome will need you again.’

Macro opened his mouth to protest, but the legate thrust his arm towards the horse line and shouted, ‘Go! Get the fuck out of here now!’

Cato shook his head. ‘No . . . I will fight . . .’

Macro sheathed his sword and dropped his shield, and took Cato’s arm. ‘Sorry, my friend. You heard the legate. Miro, give me a hand here.’

‘No!’ Cato shouted, struggling to pull himself free as more blood covered his eyes. He heard Macro’s voice close to his ear.

‘Sorry about this.’

Then he felt a blow to his head, and everything went black.

‘Miro! With me.’ Macro sheathed his sword and ducked to brace his shoulder against Cato’s midriff before rising to lift his friend on to his shoulder. He stepped forward, out of the circle of legionaries, and strode quickly towards the remaining horses, while Miro kept close to his side, ready to ward off any attacks. By the time they reached the horses Cato was stirring again, mumbling incoherently as the blood oozed over his brow and covered his cheeks. Macro manhandled him into a saddle and placed his hands on the saddle horns.

‘Hold on to these, Cato.’

He was gratified as he felt his friend’s fists tense around the smooth leather-covered posts that held the riders in position. Then he looked to his own mount, pulled himself into the saddle and took his reins, as well as those of Cato’s horse, before he turned to Miro.

‘Come on! Don’t just stand there. Mount up!’

Miro took a step towards the nearest remaining horse, and then stopped. He turned back to Macro and shook his head. ‘I’m staying. You go, sir. Save the prefect.’

‘Don’t be a fool!’ Macro snapped. ‘The three of us stand a better chance.’

‘I’m sorry, sir . . . This is for Thraxis.’ Miro hefted his shield, raised his spear and paced swiftly towards the melee spilling out of the gorge, then broke into a run as he cried out: ‘Blood Crows! Blood Crows!’

Macro took a firm grip on Cato’s reins in his right hand and urged his mount forward, trotting after the other Romans who were fleeing along the valley. He increased the pace to a steady canter, making sure that Cato was steady in his saddle. He was recovering consciousness but blinded by the blood caking his eyes as he grimly held on to the saddle horns to keep him in place.

A short distance ahead the track entered some trees and Macro slowed to take one look back at the gorge. The Fourth’s standard rose above a dense swarm of tribesmen. He could just make out the glint of a handful of legionary helmets and the plumed crest of Quintatus, then the standard toppled out of sight, and there was a brief glint of a Roman sword thrust towards the heavens. Then it was gone and the natives let out a savage cheer as they waved their fists and bloodstained weapons wildly in the air.

With a leaden heart Macro turned away and spurred his horse on into the trees, blocking out the sight of the scene. All that remained now was to carry out the legate’s final order and save Cato.