Britannia, page 12
‘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.
CHAPTER TEN
‘The centurion’s down!’ a voice cried out. ‘Let’s get the bastards!’
‘No!’ Cato called back, then blocked the retreat of two men trying to push him aside. ‘You and you! With me. Let’s go.’
He did not give them a chance to hesitate, thrusting them towards the gorge, then increasing his pace to take the lead as he made for the stricken centurion. Some of the other legionaries were already dragging their injured comrades out of the danger zone, and on the far side of the barricade, the enemy cheered at the spectacle of the retreating Romans.
Their cries were met with a thin chorus from those on top of the crags as they ceased their attack and the last of the rocks thudded on to the ground. All the same, Cato kept his shield up as he rushed forward to Crispus and crouched down beside him. Grunting with effort, he turned the centurion over and saw the misshapen ruin of his shoulder and the deep dent in the side of his helmet. Crispus’s face was covered with mud, and Cato wiped it away as best he could.
‘I’ll cover you,’ he told the legionaries. ‘You take his arms and get him away from here.’
As soon as they moved him, Crispus let out a gasp and then howled in agony as his head lolled back.
‘Keep going!’ Cato urged as they dragged the body through the mud towards the safety of the second line of legionaries. There was a shout from the enemy as they caught sight of the officer’s crest on Cato’s helmet, and three men scrambled over the barricade, jumped down and raced towards him. He drew his sword, raised his shield and placed himself between the enemy and Crispus and the legionaries. Two of the tribesmen were armed with spears, while the third, a short distance ahead of his companions, carried a sword and round shield. Their expressions were wild, eyes glaring and lips drawn back in snarls, as if they were intoxicated. This would be a short, savage contest, Cato realised as he braced his boots in the mud and held his sword ready. The sodden ground, churned up by the nailed boots of the legionaries, slowed the enemy down as they advanced, desperate to claim the head of a Roman officer for a trophy.
Cato held his ground, determined to buy time for Crispus, and gritted his teeth as the swordsman closed in. There was no pause, no sizing up his opponent. The tribesman punched his shield into Cato’s and brought his sword round in an arc in a bid to decapitate the Roman. Cato swung his shield out and up just in time to block the edge of the sword, and it glanced over his head. He made to thrust back with his own sword, but his foot slipped and robbed his attack of any power, the blade striking a winding blow on the furs over the man’s chest.
Both men recovered their balance at the same instant and made to strike a head blow. The blades clashed sharply and held as each tried to overpower the other. One slip in the mud would be fatal, Cato realised, trying to get as much purchase as possible on the slippery ground. His features twisted into a tight grimace as he matched his strength against that of the enemy, their faces barely a foot apart. Over the man’s shoulder he could see the spearmen edging out around their comrade in order to get a clear strike at the side of the Roman officer. There was no time for a man-on-man duel. Cato abruptly angled his sword to let the warrior’s blade slide sharply towards his shoulder, trusting to the armour to protect him. As soon as his own sword was free, he raised his right arm and hammered the butt of the handle down on his opponent’s head with a sharp crack. At the same moment, the edge of the warrior’s sword struck a numbing blow to Cato’s shoulder. The tribesman staggered back, blundering into the nearest of the spearmen so that he slipped in the mud and had to thrust his weapon into the ground to steady his balance. The swordsman fell, arms outstretched, knocking his comrade to his knees as he did so.
Cato swung quickly towards the other spearman and tried to advance his shield, but the blow to his shoulder had weakened his arm, and his head remained exposed. The man thrust at his eyes, and he tilted his head to one side and flicked the spear tip aside with the point of his sword. At once the weapon was snatched back ready for another thrust. The initial impact of the blow to his shoulder was fading, but Cato lowered his shield a little further to tempt the warrior to aim high again. The tribesman steadied his grip on the spear shaft and punched forward. Cato was ready for him. Dropping the shield, he snatched at the spear, just behind the leaf-shaped blade, and viciously wrenched the wooden shaft towards him. His opponent held on tightly and lurched forward, losing his balance as he stumbled towards Cato. The prefect’s short sword swung up, catching the warrior in the side and penetrating deeply into his vitals. Cato twisted his wrist from side to side and ripped the blade free, then thrust the shaft of the spear back towards its owner, who fell into a sitting position and hunched over his wound with a loud groan.
Cato saw that the remaining spearman was a youth, despite his matted hair and straggling beard. He glanced from the unconscious swordsman to his wounded friend, then lowered his spear and took a cautious step towards the Roman. Brandishing his sword, Cato filled his lungs and bellowed with all the rage he could muster, ‘If you don’t want to join ’em, then fuck off!’
The vehemence of the words carried ample meaning, and the tribesman recoiled a step, torn between pride and the prospect of fighting the man who had struck down two of his comrades in less time than it took to draw a handful of breaths. He carefully retreated another pace, keeping his spear up and staring hard at Cato.
‘That’s better,’ Cato nodded. ‘Now piss off like a good boy, eh?’
The youth retreated further, and Cato kept a keen eye on him as he bent down to retrieve his shield and cautiously edge back towards his own men. When he was sure he was no longer in immediate danger, he turned and trotted after the two legionaries dragging Crispus to safety. The men who had fallen back from the first assault were already re-forming about their standards at the rear of the cohort, while the injured were laid out to one side to wait for the surgeon and his medics to come forward to treat them. As the centurion passed through the ranks of the legionaries, they looked on in shock and anger at their stricken commander.
The two men released their grip on Crispus’s arms, and the centurion lay on his back, eyes fluttering as he moaned. Cato set his shield aside and knelt beside him. He saw the blood trickling from the centurion’s nose and mingling with the rainwater running over his cheeks.
‘Crispus . . . Crispus! Can you hear me?’
The centurion blinked and opened his eyes, staring straight up at Cato. He frowned and then licked his lips as he made to speak. ‘Lu . . . luck has nothing . . . to do with it.’
He grimaced, and his eyes rolled up as his body trembled. Cato looked up. ‘Surgeon! Over here!’
Pausinus and his bandage dressers were already examining the first victims of the boulders and those who had been wounded on the barricade. The surgeon swiftly tied off a strip of linen and hurried over. He hunkered down opposite Cato and laid his fingers gently on the crushed shoulder.
‘His days of soldiering are over, if he lives.’ He sensed the trembling and then noticed the dent in the centurion’s helmet. ‘Help me get this off.’
While Pausinus steadied the helmet in his hands, Cato undid the chin strap and eased the cheek flaps aside. Then the surgeon eased the helmet free, together with the felt skullcap. The latter snagged on something, and Crispus gasped as blood seeped out from under its rim. Before the surgeon could react, the wounded man jerked violently and the cap came free with a large flap of bloodied scalp and a jagged piece of bone to reveal the terrible damage done by the rock that had struck the side of Crispus’s head. Blood and brains slooshed out of the cavity opened up by the removal of the skullcap as the centurion writhed and shuddered and then went limp.
Cato looked down at him in horror.
The surgeon packed the felt cap against the wound and eased himself back. ‘He’s done for. Nothing I can do to save him, sir.’
‘Nothing?’
Pausinus picked up Crispus’s wrist and felt for a pulse, then let it drop. ‘He’s dead.’
Cato placed a hand on the centurion’s forearm but sensed nothing. No movement at all. He swallowed. ‘All right . . . Then see to the others.’
As Pausinus moved away, Cato gave the centurion’s forearm a last squeeze. ‘Rest easy in the shades, Centurion Crispus,’ he muttered. ‘You have earned it. Rest well with our fallen comrades.’
He took a calming breath, then rose to his feet and turned back towards the gorge. The enemy warriors were still cheering defiantly. All around Cato, the legionaries glared back. He sensed their bitter, angry mood and their thirst for revenge. The fire of battle burned in their veins, and they were keen to avenge their fallen comrades. That was all very well, he thought, but what could be done? The Deceanglians had chosen a fine position to mount their delaying action. Until the crags were cleared, there could be no further assault on the barricade blocking the gorge. And to reach the men who had broken up the attack would mean a steep climb, all the while exposed to yet more rocks tumbling down on the heads of the Roman soldiers. It would be murderous work.
He reluctantly concluded that there was no alternative but to find another route around the gorge. He went in search of Tribune Livonius and found him watching from the rise, with the mounted contingent of the Blood Crows.
‘Good to see you’re safe, sir,’ Livonius greeted him. ‘That was quite a trap the natives set us.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Cato said. ‘You’ve got your campaign map with you?’
‘Yes, sir. Over there.’ He gestured to where his servant Hieropates stood by their two mules laden with the mapping tools and the tribune’s campaign supplies.
‘I want to see it, now.’
Livonius glanced up into the rain. ‘But, sir, the ink will run.’
‘Not if it’s kept out of the wet. Get some of my men to use their shields as a shelter. Do it now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the tribune hurried away, Cato turned to Miro. ‘Decurion, get down to the Fourth Cohort and find out the number of casualties. Tell Centurion Festinus that he’s in command. The optio of the First Century can take charge of the unit for the present.’
‘Yes, sir . . . Centurion Crispus?’
‘He’s dead,’ Cato responded bluntly. ‘Now get on with it.’
Miro saluted and trotted down the gentle slope as Cato made his way to where Livonius was ordering two of the Blood Crows to hold their shields steady overhead. Hieropates, leather tube tucked under his arm, moved into the makeshift shelter and removed a roll of vellum, holding it open for the tribune and Cato as they ducked under the shields. The route of the army had been clearly marked, with estimated distances between camps and notations concerning the lie of the land on either side of the route. Livonius tapped a blank area just beyond the previous night’s camp.
‘We’re roughly here. Of course, we won’t have a chance to update it until we make camp.’
Cato shot him an irritated glance. ‘Very helpful.’
He closed his eyes a moment as he recalled the day’s march. They had spent all of it struggling along the track that passed through the meandering valley. The slopes rose steeply on either side, broken by rocky outcrops. There had been no other obvious routes to take. He thought back to the site of the night before. There had been two further valleys that had led away from the spot where the army had halted. He pointed to the mark and the notes relating to the camp.
‘What about the other valleys? Is it possible we can use either of them to work round this position?’
Hieropates shook his head. ‘Not unless you want to lose two days, Prefect. I rode a few miles up each as the army was making camp. One turns to the north and bends back almost in the direction of Mediolanum. The other leads south towards Ordovician territory. But the country there was slightly more open.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘We could use that to bypass the gorge.’
‘Good.’ Cado decided. ‘If we can get round it, Quintatus can always send a small force back to clear the gorge from the other side and open our lines of communication back to Mediolanum by the most direct route. Of course, it’ll mean a delay while the army turns around and takes the southern route tomorrow.’
Livonius clicked his tongue. ‘The legate’s not going to be happy, sir.’
