Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (50 page)

As more and more of the enemy piled into the mêlée the legionaries began to move towards Cato again, only this time they were not giving ground, they were being driven back. Watching them draw closer Cato knew that it was only a matter of time before Septimus lost so many men that the survivors would no longer be able to hold their formation. Then they would be broken and cut down. The leap-frog withdrawal of the sixth century would no longer be possible, Cato realised. Their only chance was to stay together now.

As Septimus’ men began to pass through the gap left open for them, Cato called out to the optio, ‘Form your men up behind me. We can’t afford to divide the century any more.’

Septimus nodded and turned to deploy his men as the five fresh sections under Cato’s command took over the fight.

Tightening the grip on his sword and hefting the shield forwards and up, Cato stepped forward and pushed into the front line. At once a heavy blow from an axe drove his shield back into him. But this dense fighting at close quarters was what the Roman legions trained for, and Cato rode back with the blow. Then, transferring his weight on to his back foot he launched himself against the enemy and felt his shield smash into a body with a loud thud. There was a grunt of pain and surprise, and Cato rammed his short sword forward, round the edge of the shield, and was rewarded by the shock of an impact that ran up his arm. He withdrew the blade, noting the blood dripping six inches from the point. A fatal injury in all probability and, he realised with surprise, he had never even seen the man who had suffered it.

Another impact on his shield, and this time fingers curled over the top of it, inches from his face, and wrenched it back. Cato held on with all his strength, then swung his helmet forward, crushing the enemy’s knuckles with the solid iron cross brace above his brow. The fingers were snatched back and Cato thrust his shield forward, into space this time, and then stepped back to draw a breath.

‘Sixth Century! Sixth Century, give ground! Optio?’

‘Sir!’

‘Call the time!’

‘Yes, sir . . . One! . . . Two! . . . One! . . . Two!’

At every command the men in each rank carefully retreated a pace in the face of the enemy. Cato was content to yield control of the pace to the optio. Once the fighting started in earnest the world of the men engaged in a deadly contest became a whirling chaos of weapons clashing, men grunting, cursing and screaming their defiance and agony. Instinct, honed by relentless years of training, took over, and any sense of the passage of time was lost in the savage intensity of surviving the moment.

There were few chances for lucid thought as Cato fought to stay alive, but he snatched glimpses of Caratacus, only fifteen or twenty feet away, urging his warriors on, bellowing a war cry that carried clearly over the cacophony of battle and drove his men to new heights of ferocity.

‘One!’ Septimus called out.

If only Caratacus could be killed, Cato managed to think, as he drew back another step. He chopped at a bare foot raised to kick at his shield.

‘Two!’

If Caratacus fell, then maybe the fight would go out of these demons, who seemed to know no fear as they threw themselves at the line of Roman shields. The legionaries in the front rank were starting to tire and the first two men to die were cut down and killed in quick succession. Their places were instantly filled by men from the second rank, and the retreat continued under the relentless attack. One by one, more legionaries fell, to join the native dead and wounded trampled down by the wave of warriors that flowed down the track.

Cato thrust his shield into the face of an older warrior, no less savage than his younger comrades, and backed out of the front line.

‘Take my place!’ he shouted into the ear of a legionary in the second rank, and the man pressed forward, shield out and sword ready to thrust into the mêlée. The centurion pushed his way through the dense pack of Romans, until he found Septimus, standing beside the century’s standard-bearer.

The optio nodded a greeting. ‘Hot work, sir.’

‘Hot as it gets.’ Cato made himself smile, desperate to give the impression of calm professional detachment that Macro managed to achieve. He looked up the track towards the cohort’s fortifications, now just beyond the final bend in their return journey.

Septimus followed the direction of his centurion’s glance. ‘Shall I send a runner back for more men, sir?’

The thought of more legionaries hurrying forward to support their retreat was a comforting, tempting prospect. But Cato realised that such a request, even if Tullius agreed to it, would only place more men in danger and weaken the cohort where its soldiers were most necessary: on the rampart, denying Caratacus and his warriors any escape from the marsh.

He shook his head. ‘No. We’re on our own.’

The optio nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough, sir. But we’re not going to be able to hold them back for much longer. If they break the line, we’re finished.’

The line was now no more than five deep and Cato knew that if they could not reach the fortifications soon, then the enemy would be able simply to brush aside the few remaining legionaries. He had to act now, and gamble his remaining javelins on one last cast of the dice.

Cato turned to his optio.’I'm going to give the order to use the last javelins in one volley. When it strikes, we fall back. If we’re lucky we can make it most of the way back to the cohort before the enemy come on again. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir. Is that wise - to use them all up?’

‘Maybe not. But we’d better use the javelins while we still can, eh?’

Septimus nodded.

‘Rear ranks!’ Cato shouted, his voice rough and grating in his dry throat. ‘Ready javelins. Aim long. Aim for that big bastard on the chariot!’

The retreat had stopped and while the men in the front rank fought off the enemy, those behind, still carrying their javelins, quickly opened their ranks and swung back their throwing arms.

‘Remember, aim long! Javelins, loose!’

This time the thin spread of dark shafts arced up high, gleaming as they reached the top of their trajectory, then dipped down sharply to plunge into the tight mass of men around Caratacus and his chariot. Cato was watching this final volley with an intense stare and saw a javelin strike through Caratacus’ shoulder, carrying the enemy commander down on to the bed of his chariot and out of sight. Above the cries of the injured a deep groan sounded from the throats of the British warriors as they realised that their leader had been struck. The column wavered as those at the front turned to see what had happened, then they began to ebb back towards the chariot, disengaging from the Romans. Cato saw his chance and took it.

‘Fall back! Fall back!’

The remnants of the Sixth Century started to march away from the enemy, the rearmost men keeping a close watch behind them as they made best speed towards the safety of the distant cohort. Cato led them round the final corner and ahead of them the track led straight towards the hastily erected fortifications, no more than two hundred paces away. The temptation to run for it was overwhelming but Cato knew that he and his men must retire in good order.

‘Don’t run, lads! Keep in formation!’

Behind them, there was a shout, an order, and Cato recognised the voice of Caratacus, bellowing at his men to renew the assault. They took up his cry with a roar.

Cato glanced at his optio. ‘That didn’t last long.’

‘No, sir,’ Septimus smiled ruefully. ‘Not much gets between your average Celt and the prospect of a good fight.’

Ahead of them, Cato could see figures rushing to man the rampart that stretched across the track and a short distance into the marsh on either side, ending in a small redoubt on each flank. A hundred and fifty paces to go, and there was a glimmer of light from the gate as it was heaved open. Cato glanced back and saw the first of the enemy warriors burst round the bend, weapons raised and mouths gaping as they screamed out their war cries. With a pounding of hoofs and a rumble of wheels, Caratacus’ chariot lurched round the corner. The enemy commander stood over the axle, one hand clasped to his injured shoulder, the other jabbing his war spear towards the enemy. Cato could only admire his ruthless sense of purpose that spared him no agony.

When the Sixth Century had halved the distance to the fortifications Cato glanced back again and was shocked to see that the enemy were almost upon them. Ahead, on either side of the track, lay the defensive ditch, strewn with sharpened stakes. Then the earth rampart, where the rest of the cohort leaned over the palisade, shouting desperate encouragement to their comrades. Cato realised that he and his men weren’t going to make the gate before the enemy crashed into them.

‘Halt! Form up to the rear!’

Even with the open gate tantalisingly close to them the men of the Sixth Century readily obeyed the order. They quickly turned, raised their shields and closed ranks into a compact defensive formation. But this time, when the enemy charged home, the legionaries reeled under the impact. The line of shields was driven in, sending one of the men sprawling back. Before anyone could step into his place a huge Celtic warrior burst in amongst them, whirling an axe over his head. An instant later it swept down towards the legionary who had been thrown back on to the ground. He saw the blade coming and threw up an arm to protect his face. The axe barely shuddered as it cut clean through the man’s forearm, shattered his helmet and buried itself deep in his skull.

‘Take him down!’ Cato screamed hoarsely. ‘Kill him!’

Three swords thrust into the warrior and he gave an explosive grunt and sagged to his knees, the deadly axe dropping from his nerveless fingers as he died. But before the gap he had forced in the Roman line could be filled, another warrior leaped forward and landed astride his fallen comrade, slashing at the nearest legionary with his long sword. The Roman just managed to turn enough for the blow to land on the shoulder of his segmented armour and there was a dull crack as his collarbone shattered under the impact.

More enemy warriors burst in amongst the men of the Sixth Century, and Cato knew that any formation was no longer possible. He thrust himself forward into the dense brawl, pushed up against the back of one of his men and braced his legs to help heave the man forwards. But the pressure from the enemy warriors was irresistible, urged on by Caratacus, roaring his encouragement. Cato felt himself being forced back, step by step, until the century was astride the ditch and the ramparts loomed up behind him. The man in front of him shuddered, convulsed and then fell to the side, into the ditch and was impaled on the sharpened stakes lining the bottom. Then Cato was in the middle of the fight, crouching low, shield close and sword held horizontal, ready to thrust.

On either side of him legionaries and Celts were locked in a bitter and merciless struggle. The collapse of the Roman formation meant that both sides were pressed together in a tight pack where slashing weapons were useless and the short swords of the legions came into their own. The Britons knew they were outclassed and now punched and clawed at the Romans, fingers and fists scrabbling for purchase on any unprotected Roman flesh. With a shrill scream a young warrior hurled himself upon Cato, one hand clenched round the wrist of his sword arm, the other groping for his throat. For an instant Cato panicked, his muscles frozen in helpess terror, then the instinct for self-preservation made him release his grip on the shield, ball his spare hand into a fist and smash it into the cheek of the enemy warrior. The man just blinked and continued in his fanatical effort to throttle the Roman centurion. Cato tried once more, with no effect, then dropped his hand to the dagger at his waist. Snatching it out, he thrust it up and forwards, into the stomach of his attacker. The young man’s look of hatred turned into one of surprise and pain. Cato thrust again with all his remaining strength, and felt his dagger rip sideways, and a sudden warm gush over his hand and forearm as the enemy went limp and slid away, but was still held up by the press of bodies around him.

‘Run for it!’ Cato shouted to the surviving men of his century. ‘Run!’

There was a loosening of the mêlée as the legionaries backed away, or simply turned and dashed for the small opening in the crudely constructed gateway. It was now a running battle, with Romans slashing around them as they ran for safety and the Britons worrying them like hunting dogs trying to bring down their prey. Cato made for the standard-bearer and was relieved to see Septimus already at the bearer’s side, hacking away at any Britons that dared to venture too close. Then the three of them, back to back, shuffled towards the gate, up the last few feet of the narrow ramp leading between the enfilading defences. Above them their comrades dare not shower the attackers with their javelins for fear of hitting their own men.

Cato sensed the gatepost at his shoulder and shoved the bearer inside. ‘You too, Optio!’

‘Sir!’ Septimus began to protest, but Cato cut him short. ‘That’s an order.’

With his back to the gatepost, Cato wrenched up a fallen shield and faced the enemy. One by one his men fought their way past him, while the centurion thrust and hacked with his short sword to keep Caratacus’ men at bay. At last, there seemed to be no more Romans alive in front of the defences, but Cato felt compelled to take a last look to be certain. A strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him inside the gate.

‘Close it!’ Macro shouted, and two squads of legionaries threw their weight behind the rough timber as the enemy warriors thrust against the far side, struggling to push it open. But the legionaries were better organised and quickly closed the gate and fastened the locking bar in place as the timbers shook under the impact.