The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (35 page)

As he waited for his orders to be carried out, Cato mentally retraced the route out of the valley. The track led through the pass and descended into another valley beyond. There the pass narrowed and was lined with a thick forest of pine trees. If they could reach that then a rearguard might hold the enemy off long enough for the rest of the column to get away. Or at least gain enough of a lead to reach Gobannium.

Over the heads of the men fighting he could see Caratacus and his escort, urging their warriors on. For a brief instant Cato sensed that the enemy commander was looking straight at him, still as resolutely determined to obliterate every last man of the garrison of Bruccium and every other Roman who stood in his path. Then Caratacus spurred his horse and moved to another section of his army and dismounted to wade into the fight.

Tribune Mancinus approached and stood at his side to watch the progress of the uneven struggle raging about them.

‘What do you want the draught animals for?’ Mancinus asked.

‘If you’ve read your Livy, then you should be able to guess.’

‘Livy?’ Mancinus shrugged. ‘Not on my syllabus, I regret to say, sir.’

‘Too bad. He has his uses.’ Cato saw that the animals and the Thracians were in position and the last of the three wagons had been turned about and was ready to move off. ‘We’re ready, Tribune. When I give the word the animals will cause something of a diversion. My cavalry will follow them up and try to open the way for the column. Get your men moving at once. Keep ’em closed up and their shields presented to the enemy. If you can save the wounded, do so. But if they fall out of line and can’t be rescued, leave them. Is that clear?’

‘Clear, but hard to stomach, sir.’

‘That’s too bad. We can’t afford to slow the column down for anything. Not if there’s going to be any chance of saving some of the men at least.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Good. Then let’s be about our business.’ Cato clicked his tongue and steered Hannibal past the abandoned wagons to the front of the tightly packed ranks of the Thracians. He saw the optio overseeing the tying of the last feed bags to the nervous mules and oxen herded together behind the line of auxiliaries holding the rear of the perimeter.

‘Optio, you have your tinderbox with you?’

The man patted the leather pouch hanging from a strap across his shoulder. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then get a flame going at once. Soon as you have, get your men to light some twists of straw and set the feed bags alight.’

The optio raised his eyebrows in surprise but nodded obediently and got to work. Cato made his way towards the centurion in command of the rearguard.

‘What’s your unit, Centurion?’

The officer, tough-looking and swarthy, saluted. ‘Fourth Hispanic Cohort, sir.’

‘And you?’

‘Centurion Fernandus, sir.’

‘When I give the word, I want your men to draw aside to let the animals pass. They’ll need to move quickly if they want to avoid being trampled.’

‘Yes, sir.’

All was set and Cato returned to his position at the head of the Thracians. In front of him the optio had lit a small fire, fed with handfuls of dry feed. As soon as the flames had taken he waved his men forward and they lit their tightly twisted lengths of straw and hurried to their places behind the animals, where they waited for the order. Cato settled himself in his saddle and took hold of his spear.

‘Light them up!’

At his command the legionaries thrust their makeshift torches into the feed nets and at once the dry, combustible material was set alight. Thin trails of smoke curled into the air and the flames spread rapidly. The heat and the glare alarmed the animals and they began to jostle against each other. Cato held off a moment longer, to ensure that they were agitated enough to rush forward when the opening was made for them. One of the oxen let out a loud bellow of fear and pain and stamped a foreleg.

‘Now, Fernandus!’

The auxiliary centurion snatched a breath and yelled, ‘Fourth Hispanic! Open ranks!’

The fighting line parted as the men in the centre section fell back and drew aside. They moved quickly enough to surprise the enemy who stood facing the gap, weapons raised and eyes staring. The ox bellowed again and the flames from the feed bag began to scorch its hide. With a snort it charged for the gap, trying to escape the burning hay on its rump. The other animals began to rush forward to get away from the same torment, straight at the closely packed ranks of the Silurians. There was no chance to get out of the path of the stampeding animals and the men were borne back by the impetus of the terrified brutes. With a scream the first of them fell under the hoofs and then more were trampled as the draught animals surged out of the Roman formation. Nothing could stand in the path of the panicked mules and oxen. Their bellows and braying filled the air as the flames, fanned by their frantic efforts to flee, flared behind them, adding to their terror.

Cato waited until the last of the animals had stampeded away and then advanced his spear. ‘Blood Crows! Stick it to ’em!’

Not the formal command, he knew, but one that would be unmistakable, and his men spurred their mounts and charged out of the square, through the gap. Cato and the squadron of the late Kastos charged to the left, Stellanus and the others to the right, bursting through the scattered and terrified Silures, thrusting their spears again and again, cutting down the routing enemy. As the last of the cavalry cleared the column, Tribune Mancinus gave the command to advance and the men behind the wall of shields steadily began to move back along the track leading over the pass towards Gobannium. The Silurians kept pace, wildly hacking at the shields and risking an occasional lunge at an exposed leg or gap that opened between the shields. For their part the Romans stabbed their swords at the enemy. There were still some who retained their javelins and used their greater reach to good effect, skewering any tribesmen who ventured too close to the line of shields. The men of the column left a trail of bodies, dead and dying, in their wake, mostly tribesmen but some Romans among them, who were butchered as they fell behind.

The animals had scattered, running blindly on in a futile effort to get away from the flames that scorched their backs, and it was then left to Cato and the Thracians to keep the line of march open. They charged to and fro across the track, breaking up any groups of enemy warriors attempting to make a stand in front of the box formation crawling through the pass. As Cato had hoped, the enemy fell on the abandoned wagons and ransacked them looking for valuables, armour and weapons. It was not until Caratacus rode down on his followers and drove them forwards again that the battle was renewed in earnest.

They had covered nearly a mile with little loss when they approached the slight rise before the valley narrowed. Cato was rallying his men for another rush at the enemy when Centurion Stellanus, who had ridden a short distance further ahead, suddenly reined in and stood staring down the far slope. He turned and beckoned frantically to Cato.

‘Sir! Over here!’

The enemy war bands had drawn back and were watching the Thracians warily, so in the brief lull before they came on again Cato spurred his horse ahead to join Stellanus. As he drew up beside the centurion the reason for the latter’s consternation was immediately apparent. The track was blocked by a hastily thrown up breastwork of rocks and felled trees. A line of roughly sharpened stakes angled out of the ground in front of the barricade and the trees on either side, which spread across the narrow width of the valley, right up to the crags. Behind the defences stood the enemy, weapons held ready, hurling challenges. As Cato and then a handful of Thracians joined the centurion, their jeering increased until it echoed mockingly off the mountains on either side.

For a moment, Cato was confused. He had not seen any war bands hurrying past to get ahead of the column. Then it hit him. These were the men who had been following Mancinus. Far from disappearing, they had dogged his footsteps just long enough to ensure that he walked into the trap, and then set about putting in place the last element of their commander’s plan. Cato could not help but admire the shrewd intelligence of the Catuvellaunian king. Once again he had outwitted his Roman opponents.

The moment passed and Cato’s admiration turned to cold dread. There was only the most slender chance of survival now. They must break through, or they would most certainly die where they stood.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

‘You must hold this ground until the job is done,’ Cato explained to Mancinus. ‘A third of the men are already down. I’ll need a century of the Gaulish auxiliaries to cut through the barricade. That leaves you short-handed. Stellanus will do what he can to cover the flanks but it’ll be down to the rest of the escort and the garrison replacements to hold the enemy back.’

The tribune nodded and adjusted his grip on the handle of his shield. ‘We’ll do our duty, sir.’

Back in the direction of Bruccium, the Silurians were massing across the width of the valley, building themselves up for another rush at the shields of the Romans with a rising chorus of battle cries.

Cato smiled at the tribune. ‘In this instance duty is not enough. I need you and the men to be bloody heroes.’

Mancinus smiled back. ‘Those who are about to die . . .’

Cato shook his head. ‘That’s not quite what I had in mind. I’ll see you and your men on the far side of the barricade once we’re through.’

‘Yes, sir. Good luck.’

Cato nodded and strode off to join the auxiliaries of the First Century of Fernandus’s cohort. They had formed up in a blunt column, eight abreast and ten deep, in close order. Cato had left his spear and Hannibal in the hands of one of the walking wounded and drew his sword as he took his place in the front rank of the century. The commander of the cohort looked at him uncertainly.

‘Sir, I should be leading this attack. These are my men.’

‘And it is my order they are carrying out. I will not ask them to risk a danger I wouldn’t face myself.’

Fernandus shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

Cato nodded. ‘Get back to the rest of your cohort. Something tells me the enemy won’t wait much longer before they come on again.’

The centurion bowed his head and turned to trot back towards his men, lined up to the right of the legionaries who were holding the centre, while the replacements intended for the fort held the left. Beyond that there were barely ten men in each of the remaining Thracian squadrons at the end of each line. They would hold Caratacus and his horde back for the first charge, but after that it was in the lap of the gods. Cato cleared his mind and shifted his shield round in front of his left shoulder and drew his sword level.

‘Advance, at my pace!’ he ordered. The auxiliaries tensed around and behind him, faces set in determined expressions. They knew as well as he that their survival and that of their comrades depended on them breaking through the barricade and then holding the breach open long enough for the rest of the column to retreat along the track between the pine trees.

‘One! Two!’ Cato intoned repeatedly, and the tight formation tramped forward towards the line of stakes less than a hundred paces ahead. Beyond, the enemy warriors lining the makeshift defences brandished their weapons and dared their enemy to come on and do battle. Behind him Cato could hear the blast of war horns and a great roar as the rest of the Silurians rushed towards the thin Roman line covering the retreat.

Step by step the auxiliaries made their way along the track towards the enemy and then Cato saw a man clamber atop the barricade and whirl a leather thong above his head.

‘Shields up! Form tortoise!’

The inner ranks of the formation lifted their shields, rank by rank, from the front, and behind the shields the century became a crowded world of gloom, panted breath, the smell of sweat and muttered prayers to the gods. The muffled sounds from beyond were suddenly drowned out by the loud rattle of slingshot striking home, battering the leather surface of the shields. Cato lowered his head so that he was just able to see over the rim of his shield and raised his voice as he continued to intone the pace. ‘One! Two!’

There was a cry of pain as one of the auxiliaries was struck on the shin, the shot smashing the bone. He fell out of formation and covered his body with his shield as another man took his place. The bombardment intensified as they reached the line of stakes and Cato called the formation to a halt. He ordered two men to work the first of the stakes free. Another auxiliary was struck as a stone glanced off a shield and hit him in the face, breaking his cheek and blinding him in one eye. He let out a brief groan but kept his place.

‘Good lad,’ Cato called across to him.

The first stake came out and then another. And all the time slingshot, accompanied by rocks, smashed against the shields. Then there was a shout and the blare of a horn and Cato risked a look over his shield and saw enemy warriors clambering over the barricade and rushing forward to engage the auxiliaries.

‘Here they come! Brace yourselves!’

A moment later Cato felt his shield crash against him. He staggered back a pace before thrusting savagely forward and restoring the line at the front of the formation. More blows landed and hands tried to rip away the shield as the tribesmen attempted to get at their enemy. But the auxiliaries held their ground and punched their swords out, stabbing at the warriors surrounding them. The two men working the stakes continued their task, grunting as they wrenched them from the ground.

Suddenly there was a deafening crack and splinters shot through the confines behind the shields and a broad shaft of light pierced the gloom. Cato glanced round and saw that a huge Silurian warrior, stripped to a loincloth, his powerful body covered with swirling tattoos, was swinging a heavy war hammer back for another blow. His first had shattered the shield and caved in the chest of the man holding it. He now lay on the ground blinking as blood gurgled and sprayed from his lips. The hammer whirled round in a vicious arc and struck again, sending another man flying into his comrades.

‘Shit!’ Cato muttered as two warriors forced themselves into the gap. One carried a hunting spear and thrust it into the stomach of an auxiliary. The second tribesman darted in, clutching a small axe which he swung into the forearm of another of the auxiliaries. The formation was breaking up as the other men instinctively backed away.

‘Hold your positions!’ Cato bellowed. Then fingers closed round the edge of his shield and tried to wrench it from him. Cato hacked at the knuckles with his sword and was rewarded with a sharp cry of agony as two digits went flying and the warrior snatched his ruined hand back. Cato saw the giant with the war hammer smash another man down using an overhead blow that crushed the auxiliary’s helmet and the skull beneath it. Blood exploded from the face and ears of his victim. More of the enemy had thrust their way into the formation. Cato could see at once that it would not hold and it would be suicide to continue with his original plan.

With a bitter stab of frustration he sucked in a deep breath. ‘Fall back! Fall back!’

He kept his shield up as he cautiously retreated step by step. The other men closed ranks and fell into step as Cato called out the timing. The enemy stayed with them, the giant leading the attack, his weapon whirling and crushing one auxiliary after another. Cato knew that he had to be dealt with before he broke the spirit of the surviving men of the century. He halted the formation, then waited for the hammer to rise up again, ready for another overhead blow. Cato launched himself forward, slamming his shield up and into the giant’s face. His nose broke with a soft crack and Cato swung his sword in a short arc round the edge of the shield and stabbed him in the armpit. There was not enough power in the blow to break through the man’s ribs and the blade carved a shallow tear across his tattoed flesh. Cato did not wait to finish the job but fell back and continued to order the retreat of the century. He saw blood streaming down the giant’s face as the man staggered back, dazed. His comrades let out a groan of anxiety at the sight and fell back from the shields of the auxiliaries, long enough for a gap to open up between the two sides. There were far more Silurians lying on the ground than Romans and the sight of the wall of shields, and the lethal points of the swords pricking out between them, was enough to deter the enemy from renewing their attack. They contented themselves with jeering at the retreating Romans before one of their chiefs had the wit to bellow at his men to replant the stakes that had been torn up.

Cato led the men back out of slingshot range and then ordered them to form line to cover the rear of the rest of the column. By the time he could turn his attention to the fight across the main battle line, the enemy were already falling back. But they had exacted as heavy a price as they had paid and the line was no more than one deep across most of its length. The next attack would undoubtedly break it, Cato realised. He hurried across to Tribune Mancinus who was having a wound to his arm dressed by an orderly.

‘We can’t get through,’ Cato informed him.

‘I saw.’ Mancinus puffed his cheeks. ‘Can’t fight our way through to Bruccium. Can’t retreat to Gobannium. Not much of a choice left, sir.’

‘No.’ Cato pointed to a small knoll near the middle of the pass. ‘That’s the spot for us.’

The tribune considered the position and shrugged. ‘As good as any place for a last stand.’

‘We’d better take up position before Caratacus comes for us again.’

Mancinus nodded and waved the orderly away as soon as the dressing was tied off. The three wagons were driven up to the top of the knoll and the teams of beasts were led a short distance away before the drivers cut their throats. Cato ordered Stellanus to gather the Thracians, of whom twelve still lived, though they had saved three more of the mounts.

‘We’ll stay by the wagons and plug any gaps if the enemy cut through.’

Stellanus cocked an eyebrow. ‘If?’

Cato ignored the comment and watched the legionaries and auxiliaries begin to fall back around the hillock. The enemy knew that the end was near and began to edge forward as Caratacus beckoned to the men of his blocking force to join in the kill. The bloodied giant had recovered from the blow to his head and nimbly climbed over the barricades and threaded his way through the stakes to lead his party, somewhat larger in number than the surviving Romans, swinging his hammer as he came.

The last of the men trudged into place on the knoll and turned to face the enemy. Many were already wounded and had bloodied rags hastily tied about their limbs. Shields had been battered and some shield trims had split under the impact of swords and axes. Stellanus held Hannibal for him and Cato climbed into the saddle. From his vantage point he looked round the small ring of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder in silence as they waited. The injured in the wagons could only look on helplessly. Some held swords or daggers, though Cato was not sure if they meant to fight until the last breath or end their lives rather than face the possibility of torment from the Silurians. The standard-bearers of the two cohorts stood on the drivers’ benches of one of the wagons where the units’ colours would fly above the heads of the men until the end.

Mancinus made his way over to Cato and offered his hand. ‘It’s a shame that it has been such a short acquaintance, sir. A pity you didn’t remain in the fort.’

Cato sighed and gestured towards the reinforcement contingent. ‘They were to join my command. I couldn’t stand by and let them be cut down.’

Mancinus smiled. ‘You have a rather old-fashioned view of what the duty of a commander is.’

‘That may be, but rank comes with burdens as well as privileges.’ Cato cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Lads! It’s too bad we’re here, but there’s one duty left to us now. Take as many of the bastards down with us as we can. Every one who dies by our hand is one less for Rome to deal with. We will be avenged. You can be sure of that. That’s work for our comrades. Let’s do ’em proud! As for the enemy, let’s show them how Romans die!’ He drew his sword and thrust it above his head. ‘For Rome, and for the Emperor!’

‘For Rome!’ Mancinus repeated, in part, and the cry spread around the knoll as the men prepared to sell their lives dearly.

Cato saw the enemy commander and his companions riding at the head of the oncoming ranks of the Silurians and he wondered if Caratacus might offer them a chance to surrender. If so, he knew he could not accept. After the cruel destruction that Quertus had visited on the kinfolk of the tribesmen, there would be no mercy shown to Roman prisoners, and they could only expect to live long enough to be given a pitiless and painful end. But Caratacus gave no sign that he intended to offer them terms. As he called out to his men, there was a distinct note of triumph in the words he spoke in his native tongue. The enemy warriors flowed round the knoll until they completely encircled it and only then began to close in. Their shouts were deafening and their faces etched with hate and triumph as they waved their fists and pumped their shields and weapons at the Romans. It was only at the last moment, when they were no more than a few paces away, that some instinct spread through the Silurian ranks and they charged home, slamming into the shields and desperately trying to work gaps between them to strike at the men behind.

For a while the line held and the Romans fought with a desperate savagery that matched that of their opponents. Bodies fell in front of the shields and the Silurians had to clamber over their comrades to get at the legionaries and auxiliaries. But one by one the defenders of the knoll began to fall, and with each casualty the ring closed tighter about the wagons and the handful of horsemen beside them. Cato resolved to lead them in one final dash towards Caratacus, hoping by some miracle to get close enough to make an attempt on the life of the enemy commander. But Caratacus held back, with his men, watching the destruction of the last of the relief column.

Cato snatched a brief moment to think about the manner of his death. It was true that it had been foolhardy to ride to the aid of the men around him, yet he could not have lived with himself if he had not. And there was the euphoria following his defeat of Quertus. It was not just the Thracian who had been defeated, but Cato’s fear of certain death. It had been liberating to trust his life to his courage and skill at arms. Perhaps it was that sense of triumph that had led him to this end. That, and the hope that his actions might help save these men. Now that they were doomed, he resolved that he would make his sacrifice of value to Macro at least. If they killed enough of the Silurians, that might undermine their will to continue attacking the fort. There was some comfort in the thought that his last service in life would be to help the truest friend he had ever known.