Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

‘Where the fuck is the prefect?’ Macro shouted as he rose to his feet and covered his body with his shield. Around him the other men were picking themselves up and shaking off the dirt that had poured down the slope when the corner of the bastion had collapsed. One of the legionaries had been crushed by the end of the post and lay unmoving where he was pinned to the ground. The Romans were not alone on the slope. Several of the enemy had been caught up in the small avalanche and were struggling to free themselves from the mound of earth beneath the breach. The posts that the Romans had pulled free had caused a collapse of the earth behind them and had carried away more posts on either side, leaving some hanging out at angles either side of the breached palisade.

Snatching out his sword, Macro knew he must take advantage of the moment. He thrust the point up the mound of earth towards the gap in the bastion’s defences.

‘First Century! Get stuck in!’

His men let out a roar and surged back up the slope and on to the loose earth, scrambling towards the breach. Macro charged at a dazed Brigantian with a dark plaited beard and knocked him down with a blow from his shield and quickly stabbed him three or four times with his sword. As the man rolled away he caused a small slide of earth to go with him and exposed the tips of a red crest. Macro kicked the body aside and fell on to his knees. He dropped his sword and frantically scooped the soil away until he could see the gleam of a helmet.

He turned and beckoned to a legionary climbing past. ‘You, give me a hand here!’

They hurriedly worked to dig round the helmet and as they exposed the face, Cato’s eyes blinked open and he spat to clear his mouth.

‘Macro. .’ he muttered.

‘Fuck me, lad, you lead a charmed life,’ Macro laughed as he and the legionary pulled more earth away to free the prefect. Cato sat up with a small cascade of dirt. He was facing down the slope and he could see that Centurion Lebauscus and his men were streaming up towards the breach, and behind them the men of the Seventh, laden with the wooden parts of the ballistas. He turned and looked up at the bastion and saw that the enemy had recovered from the shock of the collapse of the corner and were making ready to contest the breach as the legionaries swarmed up towards them.

Macro helped him up and gestured to the legionary to get forward.

‘Anything broken?’

Cato tested his limbs and shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’

His wiped his left hand on the hem of his tunic to clear the earth from his wound and saw that the hand was trembling wildly. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist tightly and tucked it against his chest before he drew his sword. ‘Let’s go.’

Macro retrieved his sword and side by side they joined the men struggling up over the loose soil. Ahead, the last of the enemy caught in the collapse of the corner of the bastion was cut down as he tried to rejoin his comrades and the legionaries clambered over him to get at his comrades waiting above. There was space for several men to defend the breach and they hefted their swords and axes as they raised their oval shields and prepared to fight. The first of the Romans came up, shield held over his head, and a Brigantian warrior swung his axe down viciously, the impact driving the legionary on to his knees. He struck again and as the blow split the wood, the legionary thrust with his sword, stabbing the man in the shin. His opponent bellowed a curse and reached down to wrench the shield aside and smashed his axe into the side of the legionary’s helmet. The Roman slumped on to the earth close to the top of the ramp and immediately two of the Brigantian’s companions bent over him, hacking at the body with their swords.

The next legionaries to climb into the breach were more wary, pausing to brace their boots and present their shields before advancing together. The defenders swung their swords and axes at them, trying to beat them back. More Brigantians pressed round the breach and those to the side hurled stones down on the Romans clambering up towards them.

Macro and Cato pressed forward with their men, gasping for breath with the effort of climbing the bank of soil that slid down under their boots and made their progress slow and laborious. The first group of legionaries into the breach were engaging the enemy and the clatter of blades and thuds of blows striking shields filled the air. As more men filled the breach, they added their weight to the struggle and pressed forward. The two officers stopped behind the closely packed ranks of their men and while Macro held his shield up, Cato stood and peered over the heads of the legionaries ahead of him.

‘We have to get the lads moving.’

Macro nodded. ‘I’ll see to it.’

Cato saw two of the Brigantians pointing him out, picking out the red crest of an officer. Cato recognised one. Belmatus. The other raised a bow and took aim, the head of the arrow foreshortening to a point as he took a steadying breath. His fingers released the string and Cato ducked down at the same time and the arrow deflected off his helmet with a glancing blow. Macro had pressed through the ranks until he was close to the front and then called out, ‘First Century! Push and pace! On my count. . One!’

The Romans had braced themselves, ready for the order, and let out a deep grunt as they threw their weight behind their shields.

‘Two!’

The men took a step forward and braced themselves for the next thrust.

‘One!’

Cato pushed forward with them, using his good hand to keep his balance. He had escaped death once this day and was desperate not to slip and be trampled into the ground by his own men. The tight mass of armoured men slowly gained ground, driving the natives back as they beat at the shield wall with their weapons in a wild frenzy. Risking a quick glance, Cato saw that he had passed between the posts still standing on either side. He took another step and his boot pressed on something solid. Looking down he saw the first legionary who had entered the breach, and died for the honour. There would be no award of a rampart crown for the man now.

Four more paces and then there was flattened grass under his boots as he entered the bastion. The legionaries were spreading out on either side and had won a foothold inside the defences, and all the time more men were pressing forward. Cato could see over the heads of those in front now. The interior of the bastion was an oval, eighty or so paces long and no more than thirty at the widest point. There were perhaps two hundred defenders and a brazier burned brightly a short distance from the few remaining faggots. Only a handful of the Brigantian rebels were still manning the rest of the palisade, loosing arrows at the Romans on the slope below.

Clutching his wounded hand to his breast, Cato drew his sword, dropping the point to make sure he did not accidently wound any of his comrades. He was surrounded by laboured breathing; this was tiring work for his men, having climbed the hill and the breach with the dead weight of their armour. Cato spared a moment’s gratitude for the lighter burden of the mail vest he had bought from the Syrian merchant, then he focused his mind again. They had to clear the bastion while they still had the strength to.

‘Keep going!’ he shouted above the din of the battle. ‘Forward!’

Macro took up the cry. He had found a space in the leading rank and stood shoulder to shoulder with the men facing the enemy. Advancing in a balanced crouch, he peered over the bronze trim of his shield, short sword stabbing out at any of the Brigantians who came within reach. The enemy had lost the contest to keep the Romans out and had backed off far enough to wield their weapons again. They fought with the desperate courage of their race, fearlessly lurching forward to hack at the line of Roman shields. The more cool-headed of them struck low, attempting crippling blows at the booted feet and shins of the Romans, or going high, over the top of the shields, to strike down at heads and shoulders. Either way, they risked exposing themselves to a quick thrust of a legionary sword.

Directly before Macro, a warrior in a mailed vest and carrying a heavy axe emerged from the press. His shaven head was adorned with swirling tattoos and a red moustache trailed either side of his snarling teeth. He roared at Macro and lifted his axe in both hands to strike. There was just time for Macro to punch the shield out and then the shield split as the axehead smashed through the trim and splintered down almost as far as the brass boss.

‘Shit. .’ Macro hissed, momentarily awed by the force of the blow.

The axehead shifted as the warrior tried to pull it free. But it was jammed and Macro pulled back savagely, trying to rip it from the man’s hands. But the Brigantian was strong and held on and axe and shield shifted to and fro briefly before the warrior let out a roar and hurled himself forward, knocking the shield back into Macro and causing him to loose balance, until he was saved by the shield of the legionary behind him. With a mighty effort the Brigantian ripped his axe free and swung it back to strike again. The backswing caught one of his comrades and the iron head crushed his nose. Then it swept forward in a powerful arc, smashing across the shield of the man to Macro’s right before passing narrowly in front of his own. The momentum of the swing reached its maximum force just as it struck the helmet of the legionary on the other side, right on the hinge of the cheekguard. The metal flap leaped aside as the edge of the axe smashed on through the soldier’s skull, bursting out through his eye sockets and bridge of his nose before reaching the end of its arc.

‘Sa!’ the Brigantian shouted in triumph. He retrieved his weapon and kicked at the shield of the stricken man as he collapsed, spraying blood across the armour of his neighbours.

Macro leaped forward, punching his ruined shield up into his opponent’s face, and was rewarded with a solid impact and a pained grunt as the splintered surface gouged into the warrior’s face. He punched forward again, driving the man back before he withdrew his shield and braced his sword to strike. He saw the man’s face, streaked with blood where a long splinter had torn open his cheek. Then he thrust his sword, the point catching the warrior in the stomach. He folded over the blade but, to Macro’s astonishment, the finely made mail vest kept the point of the sword out. The blow winded the Brigantian, however, and he staggered back into the press of warriors and out of sight.

Macro found himself in space and uttered a savage roar as he swept his sword out in a wide arc. It was sufficient to discourage his enemies just long enough for a quick glance around to assess the situation. Half the survivors of the First Century had climbed through the breach and were pushing further into the bastion. A short distance behind him he glimpsed the crest of Cato’s helmet. Then he turned back, boots braced, his ruined shield raised, sword poised, and let the ragged line of legionaries edge up beside him. Several of the defenders had been struck and lay writhing on the ground and were finished off as the Romans passed over them.

There was a shout and the enemy hurriedly pulled back. Macro paused, and saw a tall warrior standing defiantly ten paces away, Belmatus, in front of a line of archers, arrows notched. The warrior stepped back amid them and raised his sword.

‘Front rank down!’ Macro yelled. ‘Second rank, shields up!’

He went down on one knee, letting his shield drop to the ground. The man behind raised his shield and rested it at an angle on top of Macro’s. Those on either side were following suit when the warrior barked a command and the first volley of arrows struck the Roman line with a shattering chorus of rattles and cracking as many of the iron heads pierced the shields, while others deflected overhead, some shafts shattering on impact. A more ragged volley followed, then a third before it became a steady series of impacts as the less skilled archers began to lag behind.

‘Macro!’

He turned and saw that Cato had crept forward and was squatting to one side, just behind him. He had tucked his wounded hand inside the soiled strip of ribbon that passed round his waist. His other stabbed his sword into the ground to help him balance as he settled on his haunches.

‘Hot work!’ Macro grinned, blinking as a bead of sweat dripped from his brow and made his cheek itch as it rolled down to his stubbled jaw. ‘In every way. How are we doing, sir?’

‘We hold the breach. The Eighth Cohort have started up the ramp. It’s about time to unleash the men. The rate the enemy’s been going through their arrows they’ll be out of them any moment.’

‘Let ’em shoot. The lads could use the chance to catch their breath before we get stuck in.’

Cato nodded. ‘All right. But be ready when I give the word. And go in hard. I want the bastion cleared as swiftly as we can. Did you see the man giving the order to the archers?’

‘The tall bastard? Yes.’

‘That’s Venutius’s brother, Belmatus. If you get the chance, take him down. I reckon he’s the commander of the bastion. If he goes. .’

‘I’ll see to it.’

Already the barrage of arrows was beginning to slacken and Cato edged back to the rear of the century and looked down the earth ramp. Centurion Lebauscus was powering up the loose surface, barely out of breath. He paused at the top to nod a greeting to Cato and then turned to bellow at his men.

‘What the fuck’s keeping you, you ’orrible lot? Up here on the double! Last man is on a charge!’

The fittest of his men struggled up, then the standard-bearer, leaning on his staff as his chest heaved.

‘What happened to you, sir?’ Lebauscus asked as he looked Cato, still covered in loose soil, over. ‘You look like a bloody mole. When there’s trouble, you’re supposed to go to ground, not in it.’

‘Very funny, Centurion. You’ll back up Macro the moment he gets moving again. Like I said to him, go in hard. We’ll worry about taking prisoners later.’

Lebauscus grinned cruelly. ‘Yes, sir.’

The new arrivals rested behind their shields as occasional arrows whipped overhead. Cato waited until they had filled the space behind the First Century of Macro’s cohort, then he took a deep breath and called out, ‘Macro! Now!’

Macro half rose and squinted warily through the split in his shield. Most of the archers had exhausted their arrows and fallen back to join the men massing around Belmatus, tossing their bows aside and drawing their swords. Macro drew a breath.

‘First Century! Prepare to charge, and make it loud!’

The men on either side made ready, limbs tense as they awaited the order.

Macro filled his lungs and roared, ‘CHARGE!’

A great cry tore from the lips of his men as they powered forward behind their shields, swords levelled and ready to strike. The sudden eruption of battle rage momentarily stunned their opponents and the first of the legionaries plunged in amongst them before they could react. Macro slammed into one of the archers who had begun to back away and was knocked flying by the impact, crashing into two of his companions a short distance beyond. Macro followed through, striking with his shield again before delivering a vicious series of stabs at each of the men. One, armed with a short axe, leaped back after he took a wound to his side, and hurled the axe at Macro’s head. He jerked aside and felt the rush of air on his ear as the weapon spun by end over end and cracked against the shield of a legionary behind him. Macro made sure that the other two were out of the fight before he moved on. He was aware of the surge of red tunics and shields on either side of him as his men shouted the name of their legion.

‘Gemina!’

The legionaries surged forward, striking their opponents down efficiently and mercilessly. But the Brigantians quickly recovered their wits and rushed forward to meet the Romans, sword and axe against shield and armour. Only a handful had mail vests worn over padded tunics. The rest fought without armour, or even bare-chested, putting their faith in raw courage and disdain for the heavily protected enemy. It was an uneven contest and they fell one by one, inflicting only a few casualties as the men of Rome ploughed through them.

Macro paused to search for Belmatus. Then he saw him, standing beside a tattooed warrior waving a standard steadily from side to side so that all would see the golden bull on a green background in the breathless air of the baking summer’s day. A different standard flew over the Brigantian capital today, Macro mused, but he resolved that it would fall before the day was out.

He advanced on Belmatus, only lifting his shield or sword to those directly in his path. Steering a path through the wild melee, exchanging blows when necessary, he confronted the enemy leader. Belmatus had seen the crest of the centurion weaving towards him and moved to intercept him, keen to have the honour of killing an officer. Another warrior rushed in at an angle until Belmatus turned to him and bellowed angrily and the man backed off and turned to find another enemy to fight.

‘You want me all for yourself, do you?’ Macro growled as he inscribed a small ellipse with the point of his sword. ‘Then come and get me.’

For a heartbeat the two men sized each other up as Belmatus raised his longer sword and buckler and lowered himself into a crouch. The Brigantian muttered something. A curse perhaps, Macro thought, or a challenge like his own, as if they were meeting as paired fighters in the arena, and not amid the frenzy of the battle taking place for the possession of the bastion. He decided to make the first move, a feint to test the reactions of his opponent. Macro drew back his sword to make a thrust at the centre of the warrior’s chest.

Before he could strike, there was a blur of motion and a legionary slammed into Belmatus’s side, his sword taking the warrior under the armpit and disappearing deep into his chest. He let out an explosive grunt and was lifted bodily off his feet and carried another pace before he crumpled on to the ground, spluttering blood.

‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ Macro howled in rage. ‘The bastard was mine!’

The legionary braced his boot on the fallen man’s chest and ripped his blade free. He shrugged at the centurion, mumbled an apology and hurried off into the fray, leaving Macro staring at Belmatus with a disappointed expression as the latter writhed feebly on the ground, blood coursing from the fatal wound.

A short distance away the native standard-bearer was also staring at the body in horror, then he looked up as Macro advanced on him, brandishing his sword.

‘You’ll have to do instead, my friend.’

‘Na!’ The man shook his head and backed off, then turned and ran with the standard towards the rear of the bastion. As the banner fluttered over the heads of the combatants, there were groans of despair from the natives and some turned away from the fight and followed the fleeing standard-bearer. Then Macro saw what the man was heading towards: a small gate on the palisade, opposite the main fort, clearly visible in the background as it was slightly more elevated than the bastion. Panic spread quickly and the Brigantians broke away, retreating a few steps before turning and running. The legionaries went after them, slowed by the weight of their equipment. But as the natives struggled to escape the bottleneck at the gate, the Romans caught up and laid into them. Pressed together, with no space to wield their weapons, the tribesmen were at the mercy of the legionaries. But there was no mercy. Only the urge to kill. And they went about it with violent abandon, thrusting again and again. Mortally wounded men slumped down, some prevented from reaching the ground by the crush around them.

Over the slaughter, Macro saw the standard pass through the gate and disappear from sight as the standard-bearer descended the steps on the far side of the earthwork. More men fought to get through, desperate to escape the crimson blades of the Romans pressing in around them. A small party of legionaries reached the palisade and began to work along it towards the gate and then closed off the only line of retreat for the Brigantians. They began to force the survivors back towards the centre of the bastion.

Macro saw that there was no escape for the fifty or so that remained, surrounded by low mounds of their fallen comrades. He suddenly felt an intolerable ache in his limbs and the full burden of his armour, as well as the stifling heat. He licked his dry lips and forced himself to stand erect as he shouted an order.

‘Enough! Stand back!’ His voice was hoarse. Too hoarse for his men to hear clearly. He quickly spat and coughed and called out again. ‘Pull back!’

It took a moment for the order to penetrate the minds of men caught up in the fiery madness of butchery, but one by one they withdrew from the knot of defenders that still lived until a small gap opened between the two sides. Macro stepped forward, sheathing his blade. He set his split shield down on the ground and pointed a finger at the nearest Brigantian’s weapon and then at the ground.

‘Drop it!’ he snarled to emphasise his demand.

The man nervously did as he was told and tossed his sword a short distance away, beyond the bodies. At once the rest followed suit. Macro glanced round and saw the century’s optio. ‘Get ’em over to the other side and sit them down. One section to guard them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The optio bowed his head and turned to summon men to carry out the order.

Most of the interior of the bastion was devoid of any signs of the struggle. The fighting had been most fierce at the end that had been pulled down and scores of bodies lay on the ground. There were a few more scattered across the rest of the flattened ground, men who had tried to get away but had been hunted down and killed by the first legionaries of the Eighth Cohort to enter the breach. Macro was looking over the bodies when he caught sight of the shaven-headed warrior he had fought earlier. The man lay on his back, head propped up on the bloodied torso of another warrior. Macro squatted down at his side and took a fold of the mail, pursing his lips at the quality of the joints. No wonder it had kept his blade out. Macro removed the dead man’s belt, took hold of the sleeves and pulled the armour from his body. He bundled it up and deposited the mail vest with one of the men guarding the prisoners.

‘Here. Look after it. I’ll want it when this is over.’ He wagged a finger at the soldier. ‘You’d better make sure it’s still here. Understand?’

As the man saluted, Macro caught sight of Cato conferring with Centurion Lebauscus, who nodded and disappeared back down the collapsed bank of earth. Turning towards his friend, Cato came striding across.

‘I saw Belmatus back there. You got him then?’

‘I would have if some bugger hadn’t got in the way. Still, he’s dead.’

Cato looked at the heaps of bodies close to the rear gate and let out a low whistle. ‘Sweet Jupiter. What a bloodbath. .’ He crossed to the palisade and looked down in time to see the last of those who had escaped running across the narrow strip of open ground and in through the gate of the main fort. A moment later the doors shut with a dull thud and then there was the scrape of the locking bar being eased back into its brackets.

‘Let’s hope they give a good account of what happened here. Enough to persuade Venutius and his friends that they don’t want to share the same fate.’

There were warriors above them on the fort’s gatehouse and along the palisade, and some were carrying bows. Cato turned and looked at the prisoners the optio and his men were herding away from the dead. ‘Better keep them on this side of the bastion. Might discourage their friends from trying any potshots.’

Macro nodded. ‘Good idea.’

Cato looked down the track that Horatius had chosen as his route for the first attack. The ram lay abandoned inside the final bend, surrounded by bodies of the men of the Seventh Cohort. Macro saw them and shook his head in dismay.

‘They didn’t even come close. What a waste.’

‘Indeed.’ Cato sighed. ‘And we’re only halfway there.’

He gestured towards the massive defensive earthworks and the gatehouse opposite them. ‘We have the bastion. Now comes the hard part.’