Britannia, page 20
For two days they drove their mounts on as hard as they dared, alternating between a steady trot and walking, as the ground permitted. There was too much urgency to advance with caution, and Macro put his trust in a good sword and fierce determination should they run into any armed natives. They passed several villages nestled in valleys, skirting round them without provoking the natives into any attempt to pursue them, and his heart grew heavier as he realised that this could only be because the enemy was gathering every available warrior to hurl against the Roman column when they decided to close the trap. For all he knew, that might already have happened, and the crows and ravens were even now picking over the stiff, cold corpses of the Roman army, their sharp beaks plucking at torn flesh. If that was the case, then he and his small party were riding to their deaths, but the thought did not daunt him. If there was the slightest chance of saving Cato and the others, he was content to put his life at risk, and he drove his men on and fought back against the throbbing agony in his leg. He was gratified to see that although the scar tissue flushed red at times, there was no sign that the hard riding was holding back his recovery.
Each night they camped in whatever shelter they could find, not daring to light a fire for fear of attracting unwelcome attention. They chewed on strips of dried meat and hard bread, washed down with spring water, before doing their best to find warmth, huddled in their thick cloaks as sleep came fitfully.
The morning of the third day, the discomfort of the cold, clammy air of the mountains was made worse by the gathering of dark clouds. By noon it was raining heavily, and the gloom was such that it might have been the thin light of dawn or dusk. Macro, not wishing to run into the enemy, sent Lomus a short distance ahead, then hunched down into his saddle and stared ahead over the straggling mane of his horse as he swayed gently from side to side. As far as he could estimate, they had covered sixty miles, and should strike across the route taken by Quintatus at any moment. There would be no mistaking the passage of such a large body of men. The ground would have been churned up by nailed boots, hooves and the wheels of heavy carts, leaving a wide scar etched across the landscape. They would only have to follow that to catch up with the column, or encounter one of the outposts constructed in its wake to protect the line of communication back to the fortified supply depot at Mediolanum.
He had almost ridden into Lomus before he realised it, and reined in sharply as the auxiliary saluted and thrust an arm back the way he had come.
‘Sir, we’ve found it. The track’s just over there.’
Macro felt a surge of warm relief in his heart. ‘Let’s see.’
They rode on and stopped at the edge of the broad swathe of mud in which myriad puddles shimmered dully in the falling rain. Macro looked in both directions along the line the army had taken, but saw no sign of life. He gestured to the men to follow him, and turned his mount to the left to follow the route, keeping clear of the glutinous strip of mud that would suck down the horses’ hooves. There was no knowing how far ahead of them the army lay, but at least they would be able to find them easily enough now, he reflected contentedly. When they did, and he had reported to the legate, there would be hot food, warming fires and shelter from this pestilential rain.
Late in the afternoon, the rain eased off into a fine mizzle and they passed the outline of a vast marching camp, levelled as far as possible, in accordance with Roman practice, to deny the enemy any potential field fortifications. The ground where the remains of the camp lay was flat and close to a river winding through the valley. Beyond, the route climbed a gentle ridge, and Macro’s party urged their weary mounts to make one last effort before they stopped and made camp for the night. There was a forest of tall pine trees running off the ridge towards the steep side of a hill, and Macro decided that would be a good place to halt. He was bone weary and his leg ached abominably, and the prospect of sleeping on a mattress of pine branches, partly sheltered from the elements, seemed like luxury.
Lomus was riding out ahead once again as they reached the crest of the ridge, and Macro was about to order him to make for the treeline when the auxiliary abruptly reined in and craned his neck. An instant later he turned and waved frantically.
‘Up here, sir! Quick!’
Macro spurred his tired mount up alongside Lomus and stared down the far slope into the shallow vale below. Half a mile ahead lay a small wagon convoy, perhaps five of the large four-wheeled vehicles drawn by oxen that were used to move supplies. There was also one small covered cart halfway down the line. Around them, the remains of the convoy’s escort, a half-century of auxiliaries, Macro estimated, were fighting for their lives against a contingent of native warriors, perhaps sixty or seventy strong, hacking and slashing at the hated Roman invaders.
The rest of Macro’s men reached the ridge and fanned out on either side of the centurion.
‘What should we do, sir?’ asked Pandarus.
‘Do?’ Macro’s lips stretched into a smile as he reached up to check his helmet strap was secure. His first thought was the need to complete his mission and warn Quintatus of the trap he was marching into. And then there was the enemy in front of him and comrades in peril. Macro and his men might be enough to turn the tide, he calculated. He drew his sword and held the blade against his thigh, where there was little danger of it causing harm to his comrades. ‘What do we do? We get stuck into those bastards. But first, you there!’
He pointed to one of his men. ‘You stay here out of the fight. If it goes badly for us, you find a way to get through and warn the legate. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. The rest of you – on me!’
He kicked in his heels, and his horse snorted before it plunged down the slope towards the beleaguered supply convoy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Macro and his detachment of Blood Crows kept well clear of the quagmire marking the line of march taken by Legate Quintatus and his army. Instead they thundered down the grassy slope, swords drawn, drenched capes rippling behind them. The pain in Macro’s leg was like fire as the limb lurched against the side of his horse, but he pushed it aside as he got caught up in the excitement and exhilaration of imminent action. Pandarus and some of the others were drawing ahead, and Macro snatched a breath to call out to them.
‘Hold the line! Damn you, hold the line!’
He understood the urge to get into the fight, but as an officer he had long since learned the need to keep his men together to strike as one, rather than fritter away the impact of a good charge piecemeal. At his command, Pandarus and the others obediently slowed their pace to let the rest catch up, and they continued in a line abreast. Macro’s shout had also alerted the enemy, however, and the nearest had already called a warning to their comrades. Most were still closely engaged with the men of the escort and fought on heedlessly, but a handful, perhaps twenty in all, turned towards the riders and clustered around the end of the rearmost wagon, shields raised and spears and swords readied. Macro saw the driver splayed back across his bench, arms outstretched, while a smaller figure, a boy, lay slumped at his side. Beads of rain sprayed into Macro’s face, and he had to blink them away as he approached the enemy warriors. In the last fifty paces the tribesmen braced themselves, and the Romans raised their swords and held their shields close to cover as much of their left side as possible.
‘Blood Crows! Charge!’ bellowed Macro, and pressed his snorting mount into a final dash, steering the horse to pass to the right of the wagon. He fixed his attention on a trio of natives by the rear wheel. None of them had armour, two carried wicker shields and there was only one sword between them, the others hefting axes. Poorly equipped as they were, Macro could see the fearless gleam in their eyes as they held their ground and snarled their defiance at him. At the last moment, he twitched his reins and his horse swerved abruptly towards the wagon, crushing the men against the wheel. Smashing his shield out, he caught one man square in the face with the iron boss, cracking his jaw and splitting his lips. Then he swivelled as far as his saddle allowed and plunged his sword down, driving the point into the native’s shoulder. The horse instinctively lurched away, driving on past the wheel and leaving the men behind. Macro knew that there was no time to come about and finish them off. What mattered was the impact of the wild charge.
Keep going. Knock them down. Strike hard and keep striking. Break their will!
The Blood Crows were getting stuck in on either side of the wagon, hacking and thrusting with their spears and punching out with their shields as they roared their savage battle cry over and over.
Another opponent stepped out in front of Macro. A tall, broad man with a solid kite shield and a heavy spear, the kind used to hunt boar. His long hair was plastered to his scalp and glistened with rain, and he shook a strand from his eye and braced his feet wide as the Roman officer bore down on him. Macro moved to repeat the manoeuvre that had knocked the first three natives aside, but this foe was far more skilled than his companions and quickly dodged round to keep himself on Macro’s sword-arm side. He pounced forward and raised his shield to block the Roman’s desperate blow, and then made to strike with his spear. Snatching his blade back, Macro swept it out at an angle, just catching the tip of the spear and parrying it aside. He spurred his horse forward, pulling sharply on the reins and turning in to the warrior. The blow was only glancing and the man was able to back away and recover his balance as Macro came on, thrusting his shield into his foe’s with a series of clatters and striking out with his sword. But the warrior was too quick on his feet and knocked the blade aside, or shifted easily from his opponent’s path, and Macro gritted his teeth in angry frustration.
Abruptly the warrior leapt back, creating a gap between himself and Macro’s horse, and then thrust his spear at the beast, tearing a gash in its matted flank. A shrill whinny cut through the air, and the horse reared up and lashed out with its hooves, knocking the warrior’s shield aside before sending the native flying violently backwards into the mud and puddles with a great splash. He had the presence of mind to grasp the shaft of his hunting spear tightly, and as Macro loomed over him and leaned forward to strike him on the ground, he thrust the weapon up with both hands to block the blows.
‘Just die, you bastard!’ Macro snarled in frustration. He struck again, and at the last moment changed the angle of the blow so that the edge of the blade cut diagonally across the knuckles of the man’s right hand, biting through flesh and crushing and shattering bones. Two severed fingers leapt from the spear shaft, and the others hung nervelessly from the mangled hand before the tip of the spear dropped into the mud. With only his left hand in action, the warrior roared with rage and tried to adjust his grip so he could still strike back. But Macro had already won the contest and now leaned forward as far as he could to drive the point of his sword into his opponent’s neck, tearing open the blood vessels so that the warrior slumped back, blood gushing from the wound.
Sitting back in his saddle, Macro raised his sword and quickly looked round. Most of the enemy around the wagon had been cut down. A handful were fleeing across the open ground towards the nearest trees. A short distance ahead of the wagon, Lomus had ridden straight into another party of tribesmen and was sweeping his cavalry sword in vicious arcs that scattered the enemy and laid open those who were too slow to escape his reach. The fight was still in the balance further along the supply convoy, with the lead vehicle already in the hands of the Deceanglian warriors, who were too busy looting the contents to pay much attention to the arrival of the Roman horsemen.
Macro’s attention was drawn to the melee around the small cart in the middle of the column. Ten or so of the escort had gathered about their optio, who held the standard in one hand while fighting off the enemy with his sword in the other. Standing at his side was a slender figure in a gleaming black cuirass decorated with swirling silver motifs. The ribbon tied over the cuirass signified his rank – a senior tribune – and Macro briefly wondered how he had become attached to a small supply convoy. The tribune and his men were hemmed in and fought shoulder to shoulder in a tight formation about the cart as their foes hacked at their oval shields with axes and swords.
Macro’s mouth was dry, and he had to clear his throat before he called out to the rest of his men, ‘Follow me! Follow me!’
He waited just long enough to see that the others were responding to the order before slapping the flat of his blade against his horse’s rump and steering the beast towards the struggle around the cart. The rest of the surviving auxiliaries were fighting back to back or individually as the Blood Crows dashed by, slashing at any foe who came within reach of their swords. Then they were in amongst the men surrounding the cart, horses pushing into the throng as blades clashed with shrill rings and sparks flew brightly in the gloom. Macro held his shield close to his side, covering his leg as much as possible while cutting and thrusting at any target that presented itself. The sudden appearance of the reinforcements had unnerved the tribesmen, and they tried to back away from the ferocious men looming over them on horseback.
‘That’s it, lads!’ the tribune cried. ‘The bastards are breaking! Kill ’em!’
The men from the escort surged forward, slamming their shields into the enemy and punching their short swords out with fresh vigour now that the tables had been turned. A handful of the enemy backed away and ran, and their example quickly spread to their comrades, who retreated after them. Macro saw Lomus urge his horse forward to pursue the warriors streaming away, and shouted after him.
‘Lomus! Leave ’em. Optio!’
‘Sir?’ Pandarus reined in and turned to his superior.
‘Take the men and drive the rest of the natives off. But that’s all. No pursuit beyond a hundred paces from the wagons. I don’t want them blundering into any trap. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir!’
Pandarus called his men to form on him and trotted towards the three wagons at the front of the convoy, cutting down any tribesmen who tried to stand their ground. Meanwhile Macro turned to the tribune and exchanged a quick salute.
The tribune offered a relieved smile as he stepped forward. ‘And to whom do I owe my thanks for the timely intervention?’
‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, First Century, Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth, sir.’
‘Well met, Centurion. I am Tribune Caius Porcinus Glaber. Not attached to any legion, as it happens. Not yet, at least. And who are those men with you? They do not look like any legionaries I have ever encountered. Unless the Fourteenth has decided to go native.’
Macro chuckled. ‘They’re Blood Crows, sir. That’s to say, Second Thracian Cavalry, but known to most as the Blood Crows.’
The tribune arched an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like they’ve earned themselves something of a fierce reputation.’
‘Ask the enemy, sir. There’s not a barbarian in these mountains that has not heard of the Blood Crows, and who doesn’t fear them.’
‘I see.’ The tribune scrutinised him closely before he continued. ‘And what is a legionary centurion doing in command of a handful of auxiliary cavalrymen? If you hadn’t ridden to our rescue, I might think you were deserters. I’d be grateful if you’d explain yourself, Centurion Macro.’
‘I have important intelligence for Legate Quintatus, sir. These men are from the garrison of the fort I command.’
The tribune looked round to see the last of the enemy disappearing into the trees, and nodded with approval. ‘Then I congratulate you on the quality of your men. The Blood Crows are a credit to you.’
‘The cohort is commanded by Prefect Cato, sir. I was left in command of the fort after a wound stopped me marching with him.’ Macro touched his leg gently.
‘Prefect Cato . . .’ Glaber’s brow creased into a frown.
‘We’d better get the convoy moving again, sir. Where is the commander of the escort?’
‘Over there. Poor bastard.’ The tribune gestured towards a corpse face down in the mud a short distance away. His crest had been trodden into the ground and was barely visible.
Macro turned his gaze towards the optio, still standing with the standard at the side of the cart. ‘Then that makes you the new escort commander. Gather your men, see to the wounded and get the wagons ready to move. We need to find an outpost or a patrol before that lot get their balls back and have another crack. Carry on.’
The optio planted the standard firmly in the ground beside the cart before he strode away to round up the survivors of the escort.
‘Do you really think they’ll come back?’ asked Glaber.
Macro puffed his cheeks. ‘I hope not. But with the Druids stirring the shit up, the locals have something of a fanatical edge to them, and they’re hard to predict. Best we don’t stick around and see what happens, eh?’
‘Fair enough.’ Glaber chuckled.
Macro glanced up and down the supply convoy and noted that several of the mules had been injured and were braying in agony as they struggled in their traces. A handful had been killed outright and had collapsed on to the muddy track. The wagon drivers and their assistants had also suffered losses in the attack, and the dazed survivors were quickly set to work by the optio to remove the stricken animals from their harness.
