Britannia, page 31
‘Maybe, sir. But the trick of it will be living long enough to enjoy having a reputation in the first place.’
The comment drew some welcome laughter from the other officers, and the tension over their difficult duty eased a fraction. Then Cato sensed a blur of motion pass his eye and felt something brush his cheek. Glancing up, he saw the swirling veil of snowflakes settling over the mountains. The others were looking at it too, and there was a brief silence before Valens coughed.
‘You have your orders, gentlemen. Prefect Parminius, begin pulling your men out the moment it is safe to do so. Keep your heads, keep your men quiet, and may Fortuna march at your sides. Dismissed!’
The snowfall increased and began to blot out the surrounding terrain, and the light from the enemy’s fires diminished into faint blooms of red. As soon as he was sure that the withdrawal could not be observed, Valens gave the order to the archers, and Parminius led his men down towards the coastal route being pursued by the rest of the army. When they were almost out of sight, the First Cohort of the legion followed, the men wrapped up in their cloaks as they hoisted their yokes on to their shoulders and trudged off quietly through the steady sweep of snow layering the rocks, trees and ground. The legate mounted his horse and rode off with the last of the detachment, leaving the rearguard of the Fourth Cohort and the Blood Crows behind.
As the dim figures of the legionaries dissolved into the gloom, Cato turned to Macro with a grim expression. ‘Time to get started.’
‘Can’t say I’m terribly keen on this,’ said Macro. ‘It’s not the kind of send-off the poor lads expected when they joined up.’
‘They’re dead, Macro. They won’t be aware of any indignity. Besides, if it were me, and I knew that I could still help my mates, then it would please me.’
Macro eyed him doubtfully. ‘I suppose.’
‘Besides, it fooled us when the enemy did something similar earlier in the campaign. To work, then. I’ll get the Thracians forward and let the other side know we’re still here. The Fourth can start work on moving the bodies. No time to waste, Macro. The sooner it’s done, the better. It could stop snowing, and the last thing we want is the enemy to see what we’re up to.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded and turned away to gather his men for the job. Half remained under arms, standing to along the thin line of defences facing the valley. The others approached the wagons and began to unload the corpses. The bodies were taken over to the campfires and posed around them, propped up seated or standing as if they were taking advantage of the warmth of the fires. Once they were in position, Macro ordered that the fires be built up so that they would burn until long after the living Romans had left the scene. When the snow did stop, the enemy would see the bodies huddled around the fires clearly enough, and would no doubt wait until dawn, when the field defences would be visible, before preparing to attack. By which time the Romans would have stolen several miles’ march on them. More importantly, they would not be caught between the Druids on Mona and their allies debouching from the mountains.
Cato led his men forward, stopping a short distance from where the ground had been sown with caltrops. The fresh snow had covered the telltale indents where the iron spikes had been placed, and now the unblemished expanse of white neatly concealed the danger lurking beneath, waiting to cripple any man or horse unfortunate enough to step on one of the vicious devices.
‘Miro!’
‘Yes, sir?’
Cato hurriedly considered how to position the hundred mounted men he still had under his command. ‘I want a squadron posted on each flank, with two to patrol the ground between and the last one held in reserve. Don’t go beyond this point, and make sure none of the lads gets it into his head to go tearing after any enemy pickets that venture too close. We can’t afford to get drawn into a fight.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As Cato waited for his orders to be carried out, he watched for the enemy. Occasionally he caught a distant glimpse of a figure as one of their lookouts edged closer to observe the Romans, but they would always draw back out of sight. At length he was satisfied that the enemy was unlikely to mount any attacks, and he moved back to find Macro. He found him overseeing the placing of the last bodies around a fire. It was not an easy task. Some corpses had stiffened in postures that lent themselves to being set up hunched beside a fire. Others had not, and had to be propped in standing positions or laid down on the ground, their capes swaddled about them as if to preserve their body heat. It was an eerie sight. Their faces, some mutilated by their wounds, were lit by the flames, their jaws slack and their eyes blank and unseeing. In life they would have sat round just such a fire sharing wineskins, jokes and comradeship. Now their still, silent bodies seemed to mock the idea of the vibrant existence they had once shared in the army. All their memories, experiences and ambitions – gone.
Macro draped a cloak over the shoulders of the last corpse and stood up to examine his handiwork. Then he patted the head gently and turned away with a sad expression, catching sight of Cato.
‘It’s done, sir. They’re all in position.’
‘Good job, Macro.’
‘Can’t say I am happy about it, even if I understand why it has to be done. These lads deserve a proper funeral.’
‘They’ll be properly honoured when we reach Deva. I swear it.’
Macro chuckled. ‘You mean if we reach Deva?’
Cato cocked his head. ‘What’s this, Macro? Are you losing heart so soon? You haven’t even started to lay into the enemy. Must be a sign of your years.’
Macro frowned. ‘On that subject, with the deepest of respect, sir, I would kindly ask you to just fuck off out of it.’
Cato laughed. ‘That’s better! There’s been too much doom and gloom of late . . .’
Then his expression changed and he clenched his mouth shut tightly for an instant before he regained control over the grief that threatened once again to overwhelm him. He knew that he could not afford to give in to his private tragedy. Not now, when the lives of his men depended upon him concentrating all his efforts on doing his duty. There would be time to dwell on Julia’s death later. And if he did not survive the challenges of the coming days, then so much the better. He would be spared the awful anguish of losing his beautiful wife and they would be reunited in the shades that followed this life. He did his best to thrust all thoughts of Julia aside as he drew a long, deep breath and his expression became serious.
‘You must get your men out of here, Centurion.’
‘What about the wagons, sir?’
Cato looked round and saw the vehicles, snow drifting up against the wheels. The mule teams stood in their traces, heads down, as flakes settled lightly on their hides before immediately starting to melt.
‘Leave them behind. They’ll only slow us down.’
‘And the mules?’
That was a different matter. Mules were valuable and could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. In other circumstances Cato would have ordered Macro to kill them all, but they might be of use to the army. ‘Unharness them and take ’em with you. They can carry kit, or casualties. And if the time comes, they are always useful as meals on the hoof.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro made a face. ‘Not my first choice of meat.’
‘With what may lie ahead, I doubt it will be the worst thing we eat. You’d better get going, Macro. And be certain to take that horse I assigned to you.’
They clasped forearms and Macro spoke. ‘Don’t take any unnecessary risks, you hear?’
‘We’ll be fine. The mounts are fresh and we’ll be able to keep ahead of the enemy. Just make sure you’re ready to turn and support us when we rejoin the column.’
‘I’ll see to it. Good luck, sir.’
Macro released his grip and they exchanged a salute before he turned away and called the order for his cohort to form up. The legionaries waded calf-deep through the snow to take their places, and when all were ready, Macro gave the order to advance. Cato watched as his friend climbed into the saddle of his mount and trotted to the front of the cohort to lead his men away through the flakes drifting down from the night sky. Soon they were gone, leaving the Roman lines to Cato, his men and the dead. The latter were like sculptures, thought Cato, as he watched the snow building up against them and settling on their heads, where there was no longer any warmth to melt it. They would be covered by dawn if the snow continued. Ill-defined hummocks in the winter landscape, waiting to be discovered by the enemy.
Cato pushed the morbid image aside and made his way forward to the centre of the line, where Miro and the reserve squadron stood with the Blood Crows’ standard. The men were walking up and down to keep their feet from freezing, and cupping and blowing into their hands. Their mounts stood, heads down, as a slight breeze picked up from the direction of the mountains and blew down the valley.
Cato exchanged a nod with Miro before the latter spoke. ‘How long are we staying here, sir?’
‘Long enough to give Valens and the others time to reach the main column. Till dawn at any rate.’
As he spoke, Cato realised that he had lost all sense of time, thanks to his mind being dulled by exhaustion. At that point he would have given a year’s pay just to be sitting by a fire in the warmth of a barrack block in Viroconium, sipping heated wine. Or better still, back in Rome, with Julia at her father’s house. The sharp stab of agony that came with the unbidden image drove away his weariness at once, and he cleared his throat.
‘Better make sure the horses are fed. They’ll need their strength later. Pass the word to the other squadrons.’
Miro bowed his head and spoke to his men before climbing into the saddle to carry out his orders. Cato was relieved when he left, as he had become weary of the decurion’s constant fretting. He began to pace up and down in front of the standard to keep his limbs from growing numb. The snow was already seven or eight inches deep, and he kicked it up until he had worn a narrow track as he strode to and fro, thirty steps at a time. At length Miro returned and they stood waiting as snow began to sweep in at an angle on the strengthening wind, until it became a blizzard, swishing past Cato’s ears.
It was an hour or so later, as best he could estimate, when a rider came in from the right flank, snow bursting from the ground as his mount’s hooves kicked it up.
‘Beg to report, enemy’s on the move, sir!’
‘What are they up to?’ Cato snapped. ‘Exactly.’
The rider swallowed and drew a breath. ‘We sighted a party of infantry moving to outflank us. Decurion Themistocles says he will shadow them until he receives further orders.’
Cato nodded to himself. It was time, then. The natives were clearly keen to clear the mouth of the pass as soon as possible, so that their army could move against the Romans at first light.
‘Tell the decurion to wait for the trumpet signal. The moment he hears it, he is to fall back to the campfires. Go!’
The rider pulled on his reins, swung his horse round and galloped back through the snow. Cato turned to Miro and the others. ‘Mount up!’
The men needed no encouragement to climb into their saddles, and the squadron swiftly made ready. As they waited, spears in hand, Cato stared directly ahead, squinting into the gloom. At last he saw them, a line of figures advancing across the snow. At the same time, he heard muffled shouts from his left and he turned to the trumpeter.
‘Give the signal!’
The trumpeter raised his brass horn, pressed his lips to the mouthpiece and blew. A thin, uncertain note issued from the flared end, and Cato realised that the cold must have chapped the man’s lips.
‘Spit, for Jupiter’s sake! Spit, man!’
The trumpeter turned his head aside and hawked up a gobbet before turning back to his instrument. This time he puffed his cheeks and blew, and the note was sharp and penetrating. He repeated it three times before resting, then gave the signal again. As he did so, the enemy warriors in front of the squadron halted, unsure of what lay ahead of them. Then a voice bellowed, angrily, and they came on again, apparently heedless of the caltrops that had surprised them the previous day.
‘Blood Crows!’ Cato called out. ‘Fall back!’
The Thracians wheeled about and trotted towards the glow of the fires, which still burned faintly through the gloom. A short distance further on, Cato glimpsed more horsemen to his right, and for an instant wondered if they might be the enemy, but then he saw the squadron pennant and breathed a sigh of relief. He halted Miro and his men close to what was left of the fire where he had last seen Macro. The blaze had died down and only small flames flickered in the wind amid the embers and ash. Around the fireplace, the bodies were almost covered in snow. Cato waited anxiously for the first squadron to reach them, then two more came in: those assigned to patrol the front. Then the left flank. Only Themistocles and his squadron remained out in the blizzard.
Corvinus approached Cato with an anxious expression as he reined in alongside. ‘They’re moving round the left flank, sir. We saw ’em just after I heard the signal.’
‘They’re trying to force both ends of the line. Makes sense,’ Cato replied. Then he heard shouts to his right, and the unmistakable clash of steel. All the men with him instantly turned towards the sound, and it took a beat before Cato recovered his wits and shouted the order to form a line to the right. The Blood Crows hurriedly fanned out, hefting their shields up to cover their bodies and adjusting the grip on their spears. The sounds drew louder, and then Cato saw the first of the flank squadron’s riders tearing through the snow towards them. He rode ahead of the line to intercept the man and saw that he had been wounded in the leg, blood dripping from his boot, black in the night.
‘What’s happened?’ Cato demanded. ‘I ordered Themistocles to stay clear of any fight.’
‘The decurion’s dead,’ the man responded, breathing hard as his horse snorted. ‘We kept ’em in sight and then they hit us from three sides. Lost several men before we even knew what had happened.’ He glanced back over his shoulder in alarm. More riders were emerging from the gloom, and Cato ordered them to form up behind Thraxis.
He turned back to the wounded man. ‘How many of them?’
‘I— I don’t know, sir. A hundred. Maybe more.’
‘Right, get to the rear!’
Cato returned to his position in the centre of the line and waited until it seemed that the last of the riders had rejoined the cohort, then he craned his neck forward and squinted until he saw the enemy, scattered figures on foot charging forward wildly. If they reached the fires, the ruse would be spotted at once. If they could be checked violently now, and driven off, then it might delay any pursuit until after first light. He drew his sword and swept it forward.
‘Blood Crows! Advance!’
He urged his horse into a walk and then at once increased the pace to a trot, then a canter. The distance between the riders and the oncoming natives decreased rapidly. At the very last moment, no more than thirty feet from the nearest of the enemy, Cato bellowed the order to charge, and the Blood Crows roared an inchoate war cry as they spurred their mounts on and lowered the tips of their spears. Snowflakes pattered into Cato’s face and he had to blink them from his eyes as he braced himself in the saddle and held his sword out high and to the side ready to strike. The natives had been triumphantly pursuing a broken enemy but were now on the receiving end, and their cheers died in their throats as the Blood Crows charged at them. Cato saw several men in a loose cluster directly ahead of him and steered straight at them.
The natives scattered, hurling themselves aside into the snow. One, slower than his companions, went down directly beneath the horse, his cry cut off as the weight of the beast crushed his chest. Cato slashed his sword at the last man in his path, and the blade cut into his back and shoulder and drove the native down on to his knees. Then he wheeled round and turned on those who had avoided his charge. Two men kept low and ran crouching from his path. The last braced himself as he wielded an axe. Cato swerved to take the blow on his shield and then twisted in his saddle to make a cut at the man’s head. His opponent had swift reactions and blocked with his shield in turn, then backed off. His attention fixed on the Roman officer, he never saw the Thracian coming up behind him, spear lowered, and he lurched forward, off his feet, as the bloodied point burst out of his throat.
Cato saw that the charge had completely crushed the enemy, who were now streaming back in the direction they had come, some abandoning their weapons as they sought to escape the Blood Crows. Thraxis and the trumpeter were close by, and Cato turned to them.
‘Sound the recall!’
The shrill note rose above the wind and the scattered sounds of combat, and the officers bellowed to their men to return to their standards. Some took more persuading than others until threatened with punishment. But soon the last of the enemy had disappeared, save those who had been cut down in the charge, and the Blood Crows re-formed into their squadrons. Themistocles and several of his men were missing, and Cato took personal command of the survivors. When the men were all in place, he turned his mount towards the coast and waved them forward.
Already he could see further into the distance and make out more detail, and he realised that dawn was not far off. He glanced back towards the fires and the still forms of the dead and prayed to Fortuna that the enemy would take some time to recover following the charge, and would be held up further by the sight of the Roman soldiers still in place. Long enough for the Blood Crows to steal a sufficient advance before they were cut off by the enemy making the crossing from Mona.
As the sky brightened, so the snow began to abate, until only light flakes, like dust, were carried on the breeze. Cato and his men hunched their heads down into the folds of their hooded cloaks. To their left loomed the vast outline of the army’s camp, sprawling over the uneven ground. There, too, fires had been lit, stoked up and left to burn, their smoke rising at an angle, giving the appearance that the Romans were still there. Along the palisade and in the towers stood the distant figures of more of the army’s dead. The effect was quite convincing, Cato thought, and it should fool the enemy for a while yet.
