Britannia, page 25
Cato drew a deep breath of relief and quickly pulled himself free, retrieving his shield and standing up just in time to see Thraxis hack at the axeman’s arm, cutting skin and breaking bone so that the man cried out. He tried to draw his axe back for another blow, but howled with agony as the broken limb refused to bear the weight of the war axe. Thraxis followed up with a thrust of his shield and knocked the man to the ground at the edge of the rampart, where he rolled down the snowy bank.
Both Thraxis and Cato paused, hearts racing, eyes and ears alert for trouble, but none of the enemy threatened them as the Blood Crows’ standard-bearer climbed in through the breach, followed by the two large auxiliaries who had pulled the posts down. Below them, more men were crowding the gap, anxious to feed through into the fight. Looking around the redoubt, Cato could see that two more parties of his men had found their way on to the ramparts and were struggling to defend their footholds while others climbed up to join them. The interior of the redoubt was perhaps fifty paces across, and from where he stood, Cato could see the formidable line of stakes studding the flank leading down into the channel. In the other direction stretched the rampart that covered the narrow channel between the mainland and the Druids’ island.
Several hundred men were defending the rampart, and so far there was no sign that they had conceded any of the breaches that had been opened up by the legions’ ballista batteries. Given the greater weight of their armour, it was not surprising that the men of the Fourteenth were taking longer than the Blood Crows to get into action, Cato realised.
A chorus of battle cries drew his attention back to his immediate surroundings, and he saw a party of enemy warriors surging along the rampart towards him and the handful of men around the Blood Crows’ standard.
‘Steady, lads,’ he said as calmly as he could. ‘They’re all mouth and no heart. Let’s show ’em why they are right to fear the Blood Crows!’
Thraxis and the others presented their shields and swords and braced their feet as they stood shoulder to shoulder, ready to hold their ground. Behind them the standard-bearer grounded the staff and held his sword ready. Cato took his place beside Thraxis, on the edge of the rampart, and gritted his teeth as he faced the enemy. They were already spilling out on to the reverse slope of the rampart, ready to envelop the small knot of Romans around the narrow breach. Those atop the rampart were moving fastest, and a moment later they crashed, shield to shield, into Thraxis and his two comrades. At once the auxiliaries thrust forward, using their nailed boots to advantage on the icy ground as they pressed the natives back against their companions following them up. Then they stabbed into the packed ranks before them, pushing their swords home, working the blades inside their enemies before tearing them free. The first of the warriors slumped to his knees and was ruthlessly thrust aside, sent sprawling down the inner slope by one of his companions anxious to throw himself into the fight.
More of the enemy were moving along the slope to get at the Romans, and Cato angled his shield down as he struck at the first of them, a pockmarked man whose face was rimmed with a thick beard and straggling hair. He carried a wicker shield and a hunting spear and he lithely sidestepped Cato’s thrust before covering his cloaked body and stabbing the broad-bladed spearhead at the Roman. Cato used his shield to deflect the blow down, and gasped as he felt the edge of the blade gash his calf just above the ankle. Raising his boot, he stamped down on the head of the spear and made a cut towards the man’s exposed hand. The edge of the sword missed and struck the spear shaft instead, splitting it and rendering the weapon useless. With a cry of bitter outrage, his enemy cast the spear aside and snatched an axe from his belt. Even though it was small, the head still looked formidable as the warrior climbed closer and swung it hard at Cato’s shield. It split the wood above the lower trim, and the native wrenched it out and struck again and again, a series of savage blows, hacking away at the shield that Cato had to keep presenting in order to protect his feet and shins.
More of the enemy were advancing along the slope, and the standard-bearer was forced to step in, sword raised towards a short but broad-shouldered youth wearing a Gallic helmet and a mail vest under his embroidered cloak. Clearly one of the local nobles, Cato decided as he blocked another blow from the axe that was relentlessly hacking the bottom of his shield to pieces. As his opponent began to swing his arm back for another strike, Cato thrust his arm up and battered the jagged edge of the shield against the man’s jaw, gouging the flesh beneath his beard so that drops of blood spattered down on to the snow at his feet. Before the warrior could recover from the surprise, the Roman struck him again, knocking him back so he tumbled down the slope into the snowdrift at the bottom.
A cry to his side drew Cato’s attention, and he turned to see the standard-bearer standing with his mouth agape as he looked down to where the nobleman had stabbed him deep in the groin. The Briton’s lips split in a cruel smile of triumph as he worked the blade around and then tore it free with a rush of blood that sprayed down the standard-bearer’s breeches. The auxiliary trembled violently, his fingers losing their grip on his sword handle and the shaft of the Blood Crows’ standard. It rippled in the cold air as it fell towards the enemy nobleman, who dropped his shield and caught the staff with a cry of jubilation, then scurried back down the slope with the standard held aloft, waving it from side to side.
It had all happened before Cato could react, and now several more of the enemy had moved along the slope between him and the nobleman. With a sick feeling of shame, he cried out in anguish, ‘The standard! Save the Standard!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Thraxis glanced round, his expression aghast as he saw the standard-bearer crumple on to the rampart. ‘The bastards have taken the standard!’
For a brief moment the fighting inside the redoubt slackened as the men of both sides took in what had happened, then the natives let out shouts of triumph and defiance while the Romans looked on in bitter shame. Four more men had climbed up behind Cato, and he turned to Thraxis and the man nearest him. ‘You two, with me. The rest, hold this position.’
He edged a few paces along the rampart to allow the others to take up positions on each side of him. ‘Let’s teach that cocky bastard a lesson. No one snatches our standard and lives long enough to celebrate it. When I give the order, we go straight for it and keep going. We stop for nothing until we have it back. Then it’s your job to keep it, Thraxis. Are you ready for that?’
Thraxis rolled his head to loosen his neck and growled. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry . . . I should never have let it happen.’
‘Later. Now it’s time to redeem ourselves. Ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Aye,’ added the other auxiliary, before spitting to the side. ‘Let’s take the fucking bastards apart, sir.’
Cato nodded, then took a deep breath as he adjusted his grip on his sword and held it firmly. ‘Let’s go!’
He started down the slope, hurrying but being careful not to slip in the snow. The others followed, just behind his shoulders, and the small wedge drove into the loose cluster of enemy warriors below. Cato increased his pace at the last moment, smashing the first man to one side, then lashed out with the guard of his sword, striking another enemy in the face and knocking him away. Thraxis, on his left, punched his shield into two more men and sent them tumbling down the slope, while the Blood Crow to his right slashed out with his blade, slicing open a warrior’s tattooed arm, cutting into the bone. The three Romans increased their pace, charging to the bottom of the slope and bursting through the last men straight at the noble, who was looking up at the standard with glee. His gaze dropped as he heard a warning cry and his eyes narrowed at the three Romans charging towards him. With a defiant snarl he punched the spike at the bottom of the staff into the ground and stepped in front of it, arms held apart in a show of contemptuous defiance for his enemies. Four more of his men, giants in chain vests and Celtic helmets, holding their ornately decorated round shields, came running across from the far side of the redoubt. These were either noblemen like their companion or his bodyguards, Cato decided.
‘Take care of them!’ he ordered. ‘This one is mine.’
Even as he spoke, he could not help a mental wince at the braggadocio of his tone, and realised that it was the sort of thing Macro might have said in such a situation. He could not help a brief laugh. Was this what it meant to be a veteran soldier, comfortable in his own skin and feeling that being on a battlefield and risking life and limb was a natural state of being? The native nobleman was frowning at him, as if irritated by Cato’s humour. He arrogantly beckoned the Roman officer closer and raised his sword as he stood tall and puffed out his chest.
‘All right then, my friend,’ Cato responded softly. ‘Let’s see what you are made of.’
A clash of blades distracted him and he glanced aside as Thraxis and the other auxiliary began their duel with the nobleman’s heavily armed companions. They were outnumbered two to one and would only be able to give Cato a limited chance of retrieving the Blood Crows’ standard. He tapped his sword against the side of his shield and strode forward to meet the warrior’s challenge.
The young nobleman’s expression intensified, his dark eyes like gleaming beads as he began to swing his blade in a circle to build up momentum. Suddenly he leapt forward and unleashed his sword, slashing it diagonally down at the crown of Cato’s helmet. Only the swiftest of reactions saved Cato as he threw up his left arm and took the blow squarely on the top of his shield. The impact jarred his arm and shoulder and drove the shield back to crash against the cross-piece on the brow of his helmet, and his jaws snapped together so that he bit into his tongue.
The pain was instant and acute and he tasted the iron tang of blood in his mouth. But there was no respite as the sword came swishing in again, battering the shield and forcing Cato to give ground. A crack opened up in the lower part of the shield and extended as the third blow landed, and Cato knew that it would not endure more than a handful of impacts before it fell apart. Without it he would be armed only with his short sword, with half the reach of his opponent, and in such a contest it was unlikely that he would survive long.
His reaction was instinctive and took him by surprise almost as much as it did his opponent. As soon as the next blow landed, he launched himself forward, throwing his full weight behind the damaged shield. He’d intended to knock the man down, but the nobleman’s reflexes were as sharp as Cato’s, and he swung aside and avoided most of the force of the impact. Cato glanced past him, and released the useless shield as he ran on a few more paces to the standard, turning beside it to face the nobleman, who came on, fully aware that the advantage had swung to him. Cato drew his sword back high behind his shoulder, as if to make a wild cut, then swung it forward and released his grip. The blade spun end over end towards his startled opponent, who took it hard on his left shoulder. It struck edge on and deflected up and over the man before falling soundlessly into the snow and ice a few feet behind him.
‘Ha!’ The nobleman smiled grimly. He shook his head and came on, sword held out ready to strike down the defenceless Roman officer.
There was only one chance for Cato now. He plucked the Blood Crows’ standard from the snow and held it in both hands, lowering the point towards his foe as if it was a spear, with the fall of dark cloth hanging down from the cross-piece. He feinted, but the other man just laughed and casually swatted the head of the standard aside with his sword and strode forward to finish Cato off. Quickly stepping back, Cato swung the end of the standard. The weighted folds of cloth fell across the warrior’s face, obscuring his vision, and he stopped dead, raising his spare hand to brush the cloth away. Pulling the staff back, Cato let it drop so that the head was between his opponent’s legs, then twisted it round so that the cross-piece was behind the man’s ankle. He yanked the shaft back viciously, and as the man’s leg came flying up, he lost his balance and fell, both arms flailing. He landed heavily, the breath driven from his lungs with a deep grunt. Cato stepped over him, and their eyes met as the nobleman struggled to bring his sword up and round to protect himself.
‘Drop it!’ Cato raised the spike at the end of the standard and pointed it at the man’s chest. There was a beat when he thought his opponent would surrender, but then the nobleman’s eyes narrowed and he made to swing his sword at Cato’s flank. Gritting his teeth, Cato bunched his arm muscles and drove the spike into the opening below the man’s chin, then pressed down hard, feeling the iron point tear through flesh and grind between bones before it burst out of his body, through the mail vest and into the ground.
The nobleman’s head snapped back and his jaws opened wide in a gasp, flecks of blood spraying out on his breath. His sword arm went limp and the blade slapped into the snow at his side as Cato worked the standard round in a crude circle to do as much damage to his opponent as he could. Then he braced a foot on the man’s mailed chest and pulled the base of the standard out, dark and slick with blood that steamed in the cold air. The young nobleman writhed weakly as he bled out, feet working in the snow, head rolling from side to side. He muttered quietly to himself, and the Roman briefly wondered if it might be a prayer, or some final words to a loved one.
Cato retrieved his sword and looked round to make sure he was in no immediate danger. Close by, Thraxis was standing over a stricken enemy, while the other Blood Crow was staggering back, nursing a wound to his thigh. Blood was flowing freely down his leg and spattering the white ground beneath. The three warriors who had come to the aid of the man Cato had felled now backed away, aghast at the mortal wounding of their leader. Their shocked reaction was swiftly shared by many of the other defenders, who fell back in a moment of doubt.
A cheer rose from some of the auxiliaries on the rampart as they saw that Cato had recaptured the standard, and their comrades added their voices. At once Cato grasped that a decisive point had been reached and raised the standard high over his head, calling to his men, ‘Blood Crows! Blood Crows! On to victory!’
The auxiliaries charged forward, hurling themselves on their shaken enemy. All the time, more of their comrades were climbing through the gaps in the palisade to add their weight to the fight. The companions of the dying nobleman quickly recovered, however, and fell back to try and rally their followers, who had abandoned half the fortification to the Romans. They still had the advantage in numbers and might yet hold the position, despite their wavering spirits. Cato knew that he had to keep the initiative.
‘Thraxis, over here!’
The Thracian trotted across. ‘Sir?’
‘Give me your shield and take the standard. Quickly, man!’
The auxiliary did as he was ordered, and a moment later he stood beside his prefect, a grim look of satisfaction on his features as he glanced up at the standard that had been entrusted to him. Cato took a firm grip on the handle of the shield and made ready to advance towards the enemy, who were re-forming their ranks on the far side of the redoubt. His throat felt hot and dry, despite the cold, and he had to clear it before he called out again.
‘Blood Crows! Rally to the standard!’
Those who were not engaged hurried across to form up on either side of Cato, and others joined them as they entered the fortification. As soon as twenty or so men had assembled, Cato swung towards the enemy and paced forward. ‘Follow me.’
The Blood Crows advanced, shields to the front and sword arms bent as they made ready to strike. On the rampart, their comrades continued to battle with the defenders there, but Cato knew that the fight for the redoubt would be won or lost here in the centre of the earthwork. No more than fifteen paces away, the enemy was facing up to receive them, a dense mass of wild-haired warriors, many sporting swirling tattoos on their faces and arms as their features fixed into expressions of defiance and hatred. There was fear there too, Cato noted, and he found an echo of that sentiment in his own heart as he did every time he went into battle. It was that instinctual desire to turn and run for safety that he had long since forced himself to master.
One of the enemy noblemen raised his sword and let out a roar before swinging the blade down, pointing it directly at Cato and launching himself into a charge. His comrades reacted a moment later and followed him, two paces behind. Cato did not react to the challenge but continued at a steady pace so that his men would enter the fight together. He almost smiled at the impulsive nature of these warriors and how it so often played into the Romans’ hands, as he aimed to demonstrate in the next few heartbeats.
The man leading the charge thrust his shield forward and swung his sword in a high arc to smash it down on Cato’s helmet and split his skull open. Cato dropped to his knee and punched his shield up to take the blow. An instant later, he lurched back under the impact of first the sword and then the warrior’s shield. As soon as the latter made contact, he swung his own sword slightly out and round before angling the point up, feeling the steel bite deeply into his opponent’s thigh. He twisted and withdrew the blade as the man staggered to a halt with an enraged bellow. Then, rising, he shoved his shield hard and pressed close to the man as he stabbed again, this time into his shoulder, tearing through muscles and opening up a terrible wound that at once started to bleed profusely. Another shove sent the man staggering back across the snow, and he fell against his followers before slumping to the ground. Those closest to him slowed and stopped in their tracks.
‘Blood Crows! Charge!’ Cato screamed the order, and with a savage cry his men burst into motion and hurled their weight behind their shields as they crashed into the wavering ranks of the tribesmen. The Thracian auxiliaries had won a reputation for their ferocity in action and now added bloody lustre to their fame as they carved their way into the dense mass of natives before them. They pressed hard, working their swords in quick savage blows, and crimson drops and splashes streaked and smeared the packed snow and ice underfoot. The viciousness of the counter-charge and the loss of their second leader quickly took its toll on the natives, and any hope they had of saving the redoubt gave way to a fight to save their skins as they began to back away, desperately warding off the Blood Crows’ swords.
