Britannia, page 38
‘At ease. Save your strength for the enemy, eh?’
He smiled at them, then moved to the vantage point from where he had observed the tribesmen during the night. Already he could see more clearly than shortly before. Hundreds of bodies were strewn across the snow in the mouth of the gorge, and heaped up along the approaches to the crags. The enemy had suffered more grievously than he had thought, and while he took a professional pride in the performance of the rearguard, he well knew that the Druids would seek to avenge the fallen in whatever cruel way they could.
The light continued to strengthen, as did the glow along the eastern horizon. Then, just as the first rays of the sun flooded over a distant ridge, a war horn rang out, followed by others, and the enemy began to advance yet again, gradually increasing their pace until they let out a great cheer and burst into a sprint as they raced into the mouth of the gorge and up the sides of the slopes.
This time there was just a handful of rocks left to throw at the tribesmen, and only a few were put out of action before they reached the top. The Blood Crows still had the advantage of not being breathless, and of holding the high ground, but Cato could see that they would not be able to fend the enemy off this time. He drew his sword and took his place in the centre of the line as the Thracians, weary and grim-faced, lowered the points of their spears and braced themselves. There was no loud clash of shields as there was when two sides met on the level, just the steady arrival of one warrior after another, taking his place opposite a Thracian and starting a duel.
Cato was confronted by a hard-breathing cloaked figure with a kite shield and an axe. As the tribesman went to raise his weapon, the prefect plunged forward, shield smashing into shield with a loud thud that sent the man back a pace, at the same time punching his sword into his foe’s armpit, driving the point through his ribs and into his heart. A savage twist of the blade and a wrench freed the point, and bright blood gushed from the wound. Cato stepped back and readied himself for the next enemy. On either side the Blood Crows blocked blows with their shields and thrust out with their spears. As before, more of the enemy fell than the Thracians, but now there were no men to replace the gaps, and the line was forced to draw closer together to hold their position.
Then the inevitable happened. Two warriors managed to work their way further up the slope and round the flank of the Blood Crows’ line, where they fell upon a Thracian as he was fighting the man to his front. Caught between attacks on two sides, he hesitated before turning to face the men above him. The opponent he had been duelling with charged into his shield and knocked him to the ground, and the two warriors uphill fell upon him, hacking brutally with their swords. He struggled to rise, but the blows carved through his arms and neck and he fell back helplessly.
Cato had caught the incident during a quick glance and knew that his men must fall back and try to link up with the legionaries to give a better account of themselves before the end.
‘Blood Crows! Retreat! With me!’
He slashed with his sword and cut deep into a warrior’s shoulder, then turned and began to run back across the top of the crags to the route leading down to the rear of the gorge. His men raced after him, pursued by the tribesmen, who were still labouring for breath following the steep climb. They reached the slope and began to scramble and slither down, while behind them the enemy cheered as they saw that the Romans were on the run.
A short distance from the bottom, Cato looked up and saw some of the legionaries falling back from the gorge, and heard more cheers echoing off the cliffs on either side. He felt his heart lurch with anxiety as he realised that the tribesmen must have broken through the barricade. Then he saw Macro supporting the legate as he withdrew, surrounded by a small group of legionaries and the Fourth Cohort’s standard, and he knew that it was all over. As he reached the even ground at the foot of the slope, he turned to his men. ‘It’s every man for himself now. Good luck, lads!’
He ran towards Macro, intending to join his friend for the last stand. Some of the legionaries were running for the horse lines instead, desperate to escape the coming slaughter, and Cato could not blame them. Then he was aware of a figure charging in from the side, and just had time to check himself and half turn before the warrior slammed into him and knocked him over, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. He released his grip on his shield and thrust himself up, raising his sword just in time to block the blade swinging down towards him. He heard the clash and scrape of metal on metal, he saw the sparks and realised in an instant that he had only deflected the blade. Then there was a blow to his brow, as though he had been struck by a white-hot bar. Instantly blood poured from the gash and over his eyes, blinding him.
‘No, you bastard!’ Miro’s voice rang out, and there was a deep grunt and someone fell into the snow at Cato’s side. Then he felt a hand pulling him to his feet.
‘Come on, sir. This way!’
Cato was dazed and stumbled along, guided by the Thracian. He reached up and wiped the blood from his eyes, glimpsing the chaotic scene as the enemy poured out of the gorge and fell upon the surviving Romans. He was thrust inside a group of legionaries and there was Macro, looking at him anxiously. ‘Cato, my poor lad.’
‘I’m all right.’ Cato’s voice was thick with fatigue and concussion. ‘Lost my sword. Give me another.’
Then there was Quintatus, grimacing in pain from the wound in his thigh. He stared at Cato. ‘Get him out of here, Macro,’ he ordered. ‘He’s no use to us.You two have done enough. Rome will need you again.’
Macro opened his mouth to protest, but the legate thrust his arm towards the horse line and shouted, ‘Go! Get the fuck out of here now!’
Cato shook his head. ‘No . . . I will fight . . .’
Macro sheathed his sword and dropped his shield, and took Cato’s arm. ‘Sorry, my friend. You heard the legate. Miro, give me a hand here.’
‘No!’ Cato shouted, struggling to pull himself free as more blood covered his eyes. He heard Macro’s voice close to his ear.
‘Sorry about this.’
Then he felt a blow to his head, and everything went black.
‘Miro! With me.’ Macro sheathed his sword and ducked to brace his shoulder against Cato’s midriff before rising to lift his friend on to his shoulder. He stepped forward, out of the circle of legionaries, and strode quickly towards the remaining horses, while Miro kept close to his side, ready to ward off any attacks. By the time they reached the horses Cato was stirring again, mumbling incoherently as the blood oozed over his brow and covered his cheeks. Macro manhandled him into a saddle and placed his hands on the saddle horns.
‘Hold on to these, Cato.’
He was gratified as he felt his friend’s fists tense around the smooth leather-covered posts that held the riders in position. Then he looked to his own mount, pulled himself into the saddle and took his reins, as well as those of Cato’s horse, before he turned to Miro.
‘Come on! Don’t just stand there. Mount up!’
Miro took a step towards the nearest remaining horse, and then stopped. He turned back to Macro and shook his head. ‘I’m staying. You go, sir. Save the prefect.’
‘Don’t be a fool!’ Macro snapped. ‘The three of us stand a better chance.’
‘I’m sorry, sir . . . This is for Thraxis.’ Miro hefted his shield, raised his spear and paced swiftly towards the melee spilling out of the gorge, then broke into a run as he cried out: ‘Blood Crows! Blood Crows!’
Macro took a firm grip on Cato’s reins in his right hand and urged his mount forward, trotting after the other Romans who were fleeing along the valley. He increased the pace to a steady canter, making sure that Cato was steady in his saddle. He was recovering consciousness but blinded by the blood caking his eyes as he grimly held on to the saddle horns to keep him in place.
A short distance ahead the track entered some trees and Macro slowed to take one look back at the gorge. The Fourth’s standard rose above a dense swarm of tribesmen. He could just make out the glint of a handful of legionary helmets and the plumed crest of Quintatus, then the standard toppled out of sight, and there was a brief glint of a Roman sword thrust towards the heavens. Then it was gone and the natives let out a savage cheer as they waved their fists and bloodstained weapons wildly in the air.
With a leaden heart Macro turned away and spurred his horse on into the trees, blocking out the sight of the scene. All that remained now was to carry out the legate’s final order and save Cato.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Three days later, at noon, the sentry on the western gatehouse of the fortress at Mediolanum was rubbing his hands and wriggling his toes in his boots. There had been heavier snow over the last day than any before, and a thick blanket covered everything. The shingled roofs of the barracks blocks stretching out in neat rows behind the wall were gleaming white and unblemished, and piles of snow lined the passages between the buildings where fatigue parties had cleared the ground. A futile effort, as the snow merely covered it anew. Smoke trailed from the openings in the barrack block roofs as the men inside huddled round their fires to keep warm.
The barracks were crowded with extra bodies, the remains of Quintatus’s column, who had started to appear out of the blizzard over the preceding two days in a steady stream of stumbling, exhausted, starving figures led by Camp Prefect Silvanus and Tribune Livonius. Less than three thousand of them, a third of the army that had set out to humble the Druids and their allies. Many had abandoned their kit and kept only their cloaks and whatever other clothes they had to wrap around their bodies. As they arrived, they were given shelter and warmth beside the fireplaces, and supplied with food and drink, which they devoured greedily. Some just sat staring mutely into the middle distance, too traumatised to accept that they were safe and their ordeal was over.
Nor were they the only new arrivals at the fortress. A few days earlier, Didius Gallus and some of his retinue had taken up residence in the headquarters block while the freshly appointed governor tried to take stock of what his interim predecessor had been up to. There were rumours spreading of Gallus’s fury about the campaign to rid the empire of the final nest of Druids. Legate Quintatus would be severely disciplined and sent back to Rome to explain himself to the emperor, it was said. Few were under any illusions about how that confrontation would end. The legate’s days were numbered.
The sentry was not having much luck keeping warm, and decided to pace to and fro across the tower in order to keep his feet from going numb. He tried not to think about the long hours he was required to get through before he was relieved at the change of watch. Not for the first time, he wondered at the wisdom of attempting to tame this wild island with its barbaric inhabitants. His home was Hispania, and he longed for the warm shores he had left behind when he had chosen to serve in an auxiliary cohort that was sent to join the army in Britannia shortly afterwards. That had been a bitter joke of the gods, he reflected sourly, and they had continued to get their laughs at his expense ever since.
He crossed to the front of the tower and looked out into the driving snow once again. It was hard to see anything more than a hundred paces away from the fortress, and for all he knew, the enemy could be out there, watching and waiting. Though if that were the case, he smiled to himself, they were even more stupid than he had been when he had decided to join the army. No man should be abroad in this weather.
He broke off from his thoughts and leaned on the wooden rail of the tower, squinting into the snow and blinking away the flakes that landed on his eyes. There had been a movement, he was sure of it. A fleeting glimpse of something darker against the white of the winter landscape. Then there was a fresh gust of wind and he saw more clearly. Two figures walking slowly towards the fortress. The sentry hurried across to the hatch leading down into the tower and called down.
‘Optio! There’s someone approaching the fort.’
Inside the tower, the optio stirred within the folds of his cloak. He was sitting close to a grate where a small fire burned, giving off enough smoke to make the air in the room acrid.
‘More of ours, or theirs?’
‘I can’t tell yet, sir.’
‘All right. I’ll have a look.’
The optio went across to the small shuttered opening that looked out over the approaches to the gate. As he slipped the latch and drew in the solid timber cover, a blast of icy wind and snow made him curse. He peered out and saw the men approaching. There was no sign of anything that might reveal an enemy ruse. He watched a moment longer as one of the men tripped and went down on his knees and the other bent down to help him back up. Then he closed the hatch, slipped the catch back in place and made his way down to the squad room at the base of the tower where the rest of the section were taking shelter.
‘Get the gate open, boys. Some more stragglers coming in.’
‘More?’ One of the men raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought we’d seen the last of them.’
‘Apparently not. And there may be others. Let’s go. Move yourselves!’
The men grumbled as they got up and emerged from the door beside the gate. They lifted the locking bar from its receivers and made to open the gate, but the snow had drifted sufficiently to make the task impossible.
‘Fuck,’ the optio growled. ‘Clear that away!’
He stood by, arms folded, as his men used their hands to remove enough snow to draw one of the gates back and create an opening. Then he stepped outside cautiously. The two men were now no more than twenty paces away, and he could see from the medal harnesses revealed as a gust blew their cloaks aside that they were both officers. One, the centurion, was shorter than his comrade, and his beard was thick and curly where it protruded from the hood of his cloak. The other was taller, his head swathed in a strip of cloth. His face looked gaunt and was stained with streaks of dried blood. They staggered forward across the causeway over the ditch, and the optio went forward to help them.
The taller officer held up his hand. ‘No . . . need. We can manage.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The optio stepped aside as the two walked stiffly past him and into the fort. Then he followed them through the opening and gave the order for the gate to be sealed again before turning to the new arrivals. ‘Come inside, sir. There’s a fire on the second level, and I have some food you can share.’
There was no mistaking the gleam of hunger in their eyes before the taller officer nodded. ‘Thank you. We’ll do that. Then we must report to headquarters.’
‘I’ll send a man to the governor to tell him you’re here, sir.’
‘The new governor?’ The two officers exchanged a look. ‘Already?’
‘Got here a few days back, sir. Who should I say you are?’
‘Prefect Cato of the Second Thracian Cavalry, and this is Centurion Macro of the Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. I was in command of the rearguard of Legate Quintatus’s army.’
‘The legate hasn’t come in yet, sir.’
‘He won’t. He’s dead. What about our men? Have you seen any men from our units?’
The optio thought a moment. ‘Only a handful, sir. Twenty or so. That’s all.’
He left the two officers alone while he sent a runner to headquarters. For a while the new arrivals sat in numbed silence. Then Cato let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped. ‘That’s too bad . . . Too bad. Then we are the last of them, Macro. They’re nearly all gone. It’s the end of the Blood Crows. I’ve lost everything, Macro. My men . . . And Julia.’ He sat heavily on a stool and shook his head.
Macro eased himself down beside his friend and leaned his back against the wall, letting the tension drain from his body. He took long, deep breaths as his body warmed.
‘The Blood Crows will always be remembered, lad. Always. By every one of the men they gave their lives to save. I can’t begin to imagine your sorrow over Julia, but she will live on in your son. Try and take comfort in that. You still have Lucius. I am sure he’ll be a fine boy. And a man you can be proud of. Hold on to that, eh?’
Cato opened his eyes and stared at Macro bleakly before he forced himself to nod. ‘I’ll try.’
They sat in silence for a while longer, warming themselves and accepting the offering of the optio’s food and wine. It was enough to take the edge off their appetite before they had a proper meal.
There was a blast of cold air as the door opened and a heavily muffled figure entered the gatehouse then quickly shut the door behind them. He flipped his hood back and lowered the scarf that had covered his nose and mouth as he quickly looked round the room and fixed his stare on the two officers. Approaching them, he took out a stylus and waxed tablet from the folds of his cloak and addressed Cato,
‘Excuse me, sir. I’m Tribune Gaius Portius. In charge of supplies here. I was just told the final contingent of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth and the Second Thracian had arrived. I need to draw their rations. But I can’t seem to find the men.’
Macro’s lips parted thinly. ‘You have found them. That’s us.’
Portius frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘We are what’s left of the rearguard. And we’ll have our rations, thank you. Right now I could eat for the rest of the lads and come back for seconds. So you see to it. You get back to headquarters directly and you make sure there’s a bloody feast waiting for us when the prefect and I get there. A feast fit for heroes. Understand?’ Macro glared at him and the young tribune wilted.
