Britannia

CHAPTER NINE

Cato sat hunched in his saddle, trying to take advantage of what little warmth remained in his body. His tunic and cloak were soaked through, and the rain pinged relentlessly off his helmet, all but drowning out the harsh hiss of the downfall around him. Behind him stretched the mounted squadrons of the Blood Crows, and behind them the infantry, men and horses alike drenched by the icy rain and sleet that had beset the army from the first day of the advance. The rough track that they had followed into the hills had become a sucking quagmire the moment the first hundred men had churned it up, and the baggage train required the constant assistance of the escorting troops to keep the wheels of the heavy wagons turning. Instead of the anticipated eighteen miles a day, they had been managing no more than half that since they had set out from Mediolanum, at the price of exhausting the men so that they took far longer than usual to erect a marching camp each night.

Even though the vanguard had been spared most of the physical effort of the advance over such terrible ground, they still had the strain of scouting ahead of the army and ensuring that Quintatus and his men did not march into any ambushes or suffer the harassing raids that had been a favourite tactic in slowing down the advance of Rome’s legions. For the first five days, there had been only occasional sightings of the enemy: distant groups of horsemen watching the struggling column from the hilltops. They turned and disappeared the moment Cato sent one of his squadrons forward, and their light ponies and knowledge of the hills and forests meant that they slipped away long before any contact could be made.

But this day the enemy had decided to make a stand. The valley along which the army had been advancing had narrowed into a short stretch of gorge between two rocky crags. A crude barricade of boulders had been constructed across its mouth, and a few hundred warriors stood behind the makeshift defences. The Roman outriders had ridden back to make their report the moment they had encountered the tribesmen, and now Cato raised a hand to shield his eyes from the rain as he tried to discern the details of the enemy position.

‘Crispus and his lads should clear them out the way quickly enough,’ Decurion Miro commented as he too surveyed the Deceanglian warriors. He turned in his saddle and looked back. ‘Ah, here he comes, sir.’

The legionary centurion was trying to stride along the side of the column, but the sodden soil sucked at his heavy boots, already weighed down by mud, and he half walked and half slid as he approached. The rain had soaked the crest of his helmet, and the stiff horsehair looked like old palm fronds, spiky and drooping. He stopped a short distance to one side of the glistening coat of Cato’s mount and swallowed in an attempt to control his laboured breathing.

‘You sent for me, sir?’

‘We’ve got company.’ Cato pointed towards the gorge. Crispus squinted into the gloom until he could make out the obstacles blocking their way, and the silent ranks of the warriors beyond.

‘About bloody time. I was wondering when those bastards were going to stand and fight, sir.’

‘It’s only a delaying action, Centurion. They’re merely trying to hold us up and buy time for the main body of their army.’

‘Hold us up?’ Crispus laughed mirthlessly as he raised one of his boots with a clearly audible sucking sound. ‘If we were advancing any slower, we’d be retreating.’

‘Then let’s waste no time about it. This is a job for infantry. Your cohort will clear the gorge. My auxiliaries will form a reserve. We’ll chase them off once you have broken through.’

‘Shouldn’t take us long, sir.’

Cato turned to Miro. ‘Send a man back to the legate to let him know we’ve made contact with a small enemy force and had to halt. Then get the men off the track to make way for the infantry.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Miro saluted and turned aside to pass the order on to one of his riders. Then he sat erect in his saddle and cupped a hand to his mouth to ensure that he was heard above the din of the rain. ‘Second Thracian Cohort . . . dismount! Form line on the side of the track!’

The weary troopers eased themselves out of their saddles and splashed down in to the mud before leading their horses on to the grassy bank that ran along the ancient footpath. Cato waited a moment longer to inspect the enemy position, but there was no movement there. He knew that they must have lookouts on the hills and have been aware of the Roman presence long before they had come in sight of the gorge. The tribesmen seemed ready to fight it out, and he could not help but feel a fleeting admiration for their stolid courage. They had tested themselves against the men of the legions many times before and been soundly beaten, and yet they had not given in. Still they fought on. Was it courage, Cato wondered, or obstinate stupidity? Or more likely the fanaticism whipped up by the Druids. Now that the Romans were marching against the Deceanglians, they would soon threaten the most sacred groves of the Druid cult on the island of Mona. That would inspire them to fight more determinedly than ever before.

Cato dismounted and handed his reins to Thraxis. ‘Tether Hannibal and then bring me my shield.’

His servant shot him a surprised look, the rain running in rivulets down his dark features. But he knew better than to query his superior. ‘Yes, sir. Shall I take your cloak?’

Cato nodded, and reached up to unfasten the enamelled pin at his shoulder. It had been a gift from Julia, and he carefully reattached it to his neckcloth where it would be safe. Handing his cloak to Thraxis, he joined Crispus, a few paces ahead of the column. His awareness of the wet and cold faded as his mind focused on the task at hand. The mouth of the gorge was no more than forty paces across, and the enemy’s barricade was higher than a man. They would have to scale that to get at the defenders, no easy feat in heavy armour, weighed down by the water that had soaked into the men’s clothing.

‘It’s going to be a messy business,’ he said quietly.

Crispus shrugged. ‘When isn’t it? And this fucking rain isn’t going to make matters easy.’

A moment later they were joined by another figure. Livonius eased back the hood of his goatskin cape. It had been well treated with fat to render it waterproof, Cato noted with a touch of envy.

‘You’re supposed to be at the back of the vanguard, Tribune.’

‘I just wanted to see what’s holding us up, sir. I heard Miro’s man say it was the enemy. First time I’ve ever had the chance to see any of the mountain tribes up close. Is that them, over there behind the rocks?’

‘That’s them.’

Livonius squinted at the distant tribesmen before he turned to the other officers. ‘What is your plan for dealing with the enemy, sir? A flanking movement?’

‘Not today, Tribune. Those crags on either side look pretty sheer to me. It would take us hours to get men up and over. We’d lose the rest of the day. So it’s a frontal attack. Crispus and his cohort will soon brush them aside, and then I’ll follow up with my lads and make the pursuit. With luck, we’ll take a few prisoners.’

‘I see.’ The tribune was silent for a moment, his hand resting on the ivory handle of his sword. ‘I don’t suppose I might-’

‘You’re staying right here,’ Cato interrupted him. ‘You’ll get your chance in due course,’ he added gently.

‘Sir, with respect, I have already proved myself in the field, and I was sent here to learn how to become a soldier.’

‘All in good time. For now, your orders are to draw maps for the army. It’s an important job, so we can’t afford to let anything happen to you. How is that going, by the way?’

‘Not as easily as I had hoped, sir. With this rain, it’s been very difficult to investigate the terrain either side of the line of advance. And it’s been hard to record accurately the distance marched. There’s no way of taking a standard pace in these conditions, so we’ve marked it up as best as we can calculate it.’

‘Can’t be helped, Tribune. Consider this an important lesson of soldiering. The first casualty of war is the plan.’

‘Ain’t that the truth?’ Crispus added.

The first century of legionaries came struggling up the track, and Crispus ordered them to deploy a hundred paces forward of the column. The five remaining units followed suit, until the cohort was drawn up in two lines of three centuries. Their officers gave the order to remove their leather shield covers, and the large, decorated curves of the legionary shields gave the mud-streaked soldiers a more uniform appearance. The Thracians formed up behind them in a single line, oval shields and spears at the ready. Cato turned to Thraxis to take his shield and advanced to join the waiting men with Crispus at his side.

‘Good luck!’ Livonius called after them.

‘Pftt!’ Crispus sneered. ‘Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s down to steel, grit and years of back-breaking training. Not that he’ll ever have to understand that. Once he’s served out his year, he’ll be off back to Rome and some cushy number looking after the drains or the markets or some such bollocks.’

Cato was well used to the begrudging tone of centurions towards the young men serving out the military phase of their career ladder, and adopted a mocking tone as he asked, ‘Would you want to exchange all the pleasures of soldiering for inspecting the drains of Rome, Centurion?’

‘Not fucking likely, sir.’

‘Then let’s get this over with.’

They parted company as they reached the waiting soldiers, and Crispus went forward to the right of the front line, where the first century of the cohort stood ready. Hoisting his shield and swinging it round towards the enemy, he drew his sword and punched it up towards the lowering clouds. Rain ran down the blade, gleaming dully.

‘Fourth Cohort! At the walk! Advance!’

The centuries were drawn up with a frontage of ten men, narrow enough to fit into the mouth of the gorge, with eight files giving plenty of weight to the assault. If all went to form, the second line should not be required to fight, Cato reasoned. The centurion commanding the three remaining centuries waited until the regulation gap had opened up between the two lines before ordering his men to follow on. Cato waited a bit longer, then called out to his Thracians to advance. The grass beneath his boots was drenched, and the soil below soft and yielding, and as the auxiliaries began to follow in the footsteps of the heavy infantry, the ground became churned and slick with mud.

As they approached the enemy, who had been standing still and silent all the while, a great roar tore from the tribesmen’s throats, and they raised their weapons and shook them at the oncoming shield wall. The rain provided one blessing at least, thought Cato. It was too wet for archers, and the confined space in which the skirmish would be fought would make it difficult for slingers. A straight fight, then, between the iron discipline of the legions and the fanatical courage of the native warriors. And there was no question who would prevail.

The air filled with the squelching of boots in the mud and the laboured grunts of the tired men struggling to hold their line as they approached the barricade. Over the heads in front of him, Cato could make out some of the faces of the warriors behind the barricade, mouths open as they roared their challenge. There was a sudden blur of motion amid the leaden streaks of rain, and Crispus shouted a warning.

‘Shields up!’

The leading ranks of the cohort raised their shields and angled them back to deflect the incoming missiles. Javelins. Cato could see them now, arcing down towards the legionaries. They struck home in an uneven chorus of clatters and thuds. After the din of the first volley died away, one of Crispus’s men bellowed, ‘You’ll get yours, you British cunts!’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Crispus raged. ‘Silence in the bloody ranks!’

The men trudged on, heeding the warning of their centurion, and Cato felt a thrill ripple through his body at being part of the spectacle. There was nothing quite as impressive and terrifying as the sight of these well-trained soldiers advancing in ordered lines beneath their drenched standards without a word escaping their lips. And it seemed that the enemy sensed it too, as their shouts and cries began to die away and their features set in grim expressions, mirroring the faces of their Roman opponents. Another ragged volley of javelins was unleashed, mixed with rocks small enough to hurl from the top of the barricade. On either side the crags loomed up, dark and daunting, and the sound of rain and the shouts of the defenders echoed loudly off the rocks.

‘Close up!’ Crispus ordered. ‘Close up!’

His men were no more than ten paces from the foot of the barricade, and the officer commanding the second line brought it to a halt. Cato held up his arm.

‘Blood Crows! Halt!’

The auxiliaries stopped, twenty paces back from the rearmost legionaries. There was a slight rise that allowed Cato a clear view of the mouth of the gorge, and he blinked away the rain that had dripped from the brim of his helmet into his eyes. He could see the first rank of the legionaries starting to clamber up the barricade, shields overhead. The long swords of the natives slashed down at the curved surfaces. Some had axes, and their blows landed with splintering thuds that carried clearly to Cato’s ears as he looked on. Most of Crispus’s men could barely move under the intensity of the blows raining down at them, but here and there individual legionaries had managed to climb high enough to strike back at the enemy, and the fight raged along the length of the barricade.

‘Push on! Push on!’ the centurion cried hoarsely, and Cato was reminded of Macro in the man’s fearless drive to overcome his foes. ‘Keep pushing, lads!’

More legionaries forced their way up to join their comrades duelling desperately in the rain. Swords flickered in savage thrusts and men tried to batter each other with their shields. Some of the natives grabbed at the legionaries’ shields and tried to wrench them aside to allow their comrades to strike home. Behind the fighting line, the follow-up ranks of the first three cohorts were densely packed together as they were funnelled into the gorge. For the moment, the attack had stalled as the two sides battled for control of the top of the barricade.

A horn sounded from behind the enemy warriors, a deep braying note that echoed off the crags on either side. At the sound, the enemy cheered again, their voices horribly amplified. A dark shape plunged down from the top of the crag, and the motion caught Cato’s eye. He looked up and clearly saw the first of the large rocks as it struck a projection and spun end over end until it smashed down amongst the legionaries packed in front of the barricade. More boulders tumbled down, and Cato saw several men outlined against the grey sky as they picked up fresh rocks and hurled them. Now the legionaries began to look up and realise the danger, but such was the dense press that escape was impossible.

Cato ran forward, pushing his way through the ranks of the second line as he called out hoarsely, ‘Back! Fall back!’

The rearmost men in the gorge looked round and began to edge away, easing the pressure on the men ahead of them as more rocks fell, dashing legionaries to the ground, crushing skulls and shattering bones. Ahead of them, Crispus was still urging his men forward, heedless of what was occurring behind him.

‘Fall back!’ Cato shouted again and again, raging at himself for letting his men walk into this trap. ‘Get back!’

Others began to take up his cry, and the legionaries retreated individually towards the second line, thinning out the ranks so that more of their comrades could escape the peril from above.

Cato stood against the flow of men and called out again. ‘Centurion Crispus!’

At last the officer sensed something was awry. Thrusting his shield into the face of an enemy warrior, he glanced round quickly and saw for the first time the score of men who had been pulverised by the rocks. He grasped the danger at once and turned to the legionaries still fighting along the barricade.

‘Fall back!’

One by one they disengaged and clambered back down to the ground. Away from the danger of the enemy warriors, they still had to run the gauntlet of falling rocks, and Cato saw three more men go down as Crispus waved them away from the barricade. Only when the last of them was far enough away from the cliffs to escape the danger did the centurion back away himself, keeping a wary eye on his enemy. So it was that he missed seeing the rock tumbling through the rain. Cato spotted it too late to shout a warning, and Crispus was driven to his knees by the impact that glanced off the side of his helmet before smashing through his shoulder and chest. He swayed a moment before his shield and sword slid from his grasp and he pitched forward on to his face.