The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19)

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato tightened his grip on his reins and was about to turn his mount back down the slope when a flicker of movement caught his eye. ‘Easy there.’ He pulled up sharply and half turned in his saddle, raising a hand to shade his eyes. No more than a mile away, a line of men were emerging from the trees to cross one of the areas cleared by fire. At once he dismounted and led his horse behind the nearest boulder, so that he would not give his position away as he observed the enemy.

  ‘Forty . . . fifty . . .’ he muttered as he estimated their numbers. ‘Sixty . . .’

  Several more came out before the full force was in sight. Odds of three to one. Cato grimaced. He gauged the progress of his men and the direction and fast marching pace of the enemy, and calculated that if they continued in the direction they were headed, they would reach a point on the track at almost the same time as the column.

  ‘Shit . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cato gave the order to increase the pace the moment he returned to the column, and related what he had seen to Massimilianus as they rode together behind the last wagon.

  ‘Any chance of avoiding them, sir?’

  ‘There’s a chance,’ Cato replied. ‘But only if we get far enough ahead of them by the time they reach the road that they can’t be certain if we have passed that point or not. If I was in command of that war party, I’d send men in both directions to scout the track. Even if they don’t catch sight of us, it’ll be obvious soon enough that we have got ahead of them. Then it’s a straight race to the outpost. The mules won’t be able to keep this pace up for long. When they slow down, the enemy will quickly make up the ground. It’s likely that we’ll have a fight on our hands, one way or another.’

  ‘Good.’ Massimilianus nodded with satisfaction. ‘About time we had the chance to face those bastards in a stand-up fight.’

  ‘I want you at the front of the column,’ Cato decided. ‘I’ll take charge here.’

  The centurion turned to his superior with a frown. ‘Why, sir?’

  Cato briefly considered telling him to obey orders, but it was imperative that the man understood Cato’s thinking.

  ‘I need you to set the pace and keep the men and mules going. If there’s contact with the enemy, I’ll take command of the rearguard and delay them as long as possible. With luck, that might buy you enough time to get the wagons to the safety of the outpost. If fighting starts, you are not to stop for anything. Keep the wagons moving and only deal with any of the enemy that threaten to stop you or slow you down. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Massimilianus replied grudgingly.

  ‘Then go.’

  As the centurion cantered off, Cato tested his sword to ensure it slid smoothly within the scabbard, then settled his helmet securely on his head and rocked gently backwards and forwards against the horns of the saddle to make sure they held him firmly. Then he called ahead to the men assigned to protect the wagons to join the rear of the column so that he would have a force large enough to be effective if the fighting started. Individually, mounted men could easily be defeated, but even a small force could terrify and charge down a much larger group of infantry, especially if they had not been trained to deal with cavalry.

  The column continued at pace along the road, the mules braying in protest as their drivers forced them on, flicking their whips at the rump of any beast that attempted to slow down. The cacophony of the mules, the rumble of wheels and the clopping and snorting of the horses seemed certain to betray their presence long before the enemy caught sight of them. Fortunately, the trees about them grew densely enough to hide the dust kicked up as the column moved along the road.

  As they neared the point where Cato had estimated the two forces might clash, his gaze focused on the treeline to their left. Nothing moved there, as far as he could see. The road continued straight for a few hundred paces before climbing to rising ground over a mile away where the forest gave way to scattered boulders and stunted shrubs close to one of the ruins of one of the island’s ancient towers. If they could make it there, they would have the advantage of more open ground to fight the enemy, and they would be much closer to the safety of the outpost on top of the ridge beyond. For a moment his attention was drawn to the figure of Calgarno, jolting up and down on a pile of tools at the rear of the wagon he had been loaded onto. The youth grimaced at his discomfort but Cato could not spare any more thought for his prisoner’s pain while every pace between the column and their pursuers might make the difference between life and death.

  The column rumbled around the bend in the road and Cato waved on the mounted men at the rear as he steered his horse to the side of the road and looked back the way they had come. The dust was settling in their wake, and a few heartbeats later there was no sign that they had passed this way shortly before. The enemy had not yet come into view, and he felt a surge of hope as he turned his horse and cantered to catch up with the others.

  There was a shout of alarm as he approached the men of the rearguard, and the hope of a moment before quickly transformed into fearful anxiety. He called an order to clear the path ahead, and his men steered their horses to the side of the road to make way for him. He saw the figure of the boy rise up in the rear of the wagon, his ankles and hands trailing the frayed ends of the bonds he had managed to cut through. Calgarno snatched up a pick and hurled it at the nearest rider, striking the horse on the brow so that it gave a panicked whinny and reared up, forcing Cato to yank his reins to avoid a collision.

  Calgarno leaped nimbly from the back of the wagon as it continued on, the mule driver oblivious to the drama taking place behind him.

  ‘Stop him!’ Cato yelled. ‘The boy’s escaping!’

  The nearest of the auxiliaries wrenched out his long-bladed sword and spurred his horse forward as the youth ran for the trees. Calgarno ducked and rolled over as the rider loomed above him and the blade flashed down savagely. The tip caught him on the shoulder, ripping through his tunic and scoring a shallow cut across the flesh above his shoulder blade. He let out a sharp cry of pain as he scrambled on all fours into the shadow beneath the lowest boughs of a young oak tree. The rider who had wounded him swore in frustration and swung his leg over the saddle, dropping to the ground to finish the job. Calgarno was already back on his feet, running through the trees, and the auxiliary raced after him, swerving and ducking under branches. Cato could see that it was already too late. The boy knew the ground better than his pursuer and would soon outdistance him. All that would happen was that the soldier would blunder around helplessly until the enemy found and killed him.

  ‘Leave him!’ Cato shouted as he rode back towards the wagon. ‘Get back on your horse!’

  The soldier stopped, swooped to pick up a rock and hurled it uselessly after the retreating figure, then rejoined his comrades. Glancing into the wagon, Cato noticed the edge of a saw protruding from the tools lying there and silently cursed Lupis for not placing the boy in a more secure position. He turned to the man whose horse had been hit by the pick.

  ‘Get forward and tell Massimilianus that the boy has escaped and we can expect the enemy to come after us sooner than I’d hoped. We push on and stop for nothing from now on.’

  The man nodded and spurred his mount down the road, swerving to overtake the wagons. As the dismounted man reached for the saddle horns and pulled himself back astride his mount, Cato’s racing mind was considering his choices. The simplest course would be to form up across the track and hold the enemy off for as long as possible. But it would be easy for men on foot to outflank them through the trees the moment they caught sight of the Roman mounted soldiers waiting for them. He needed a plan. Something to shock them and break their morale long enough to win some time. The present position was not suitable for what he had in mind, so he called the men to form up and they set off after the wagons.

  By the time they had reached the foot of the gentle slope that led to the more open ground that Cato had spied earlier, it was clear that th
e mule teams were tiring and could no longer keep up the same pace. Their sides rose and sank with each laboured breath, and as they began to strain into the incline, they slowed to a walk. Cato ground his teeth in frustration at the prospect of the enemy steadily closing in on them. He glanced from side to side as the trees thinned out and exposed rocky outcrops littered the slope. Ordering his men to follow the wagons for the moment, he turned his horse off the road and trotted a short distance up the slope, then turned parallel to the road and picked his way through the shrubs and rocks. A hundred paces further on, he found what he was looking for. A cluster of large rocks lay close to the road, with the ground between relatively even and open. He turned to look back down the road and saw no sign of the enemy.

  ‘On me!’ he called to the mounted rearguard. ‘Over here, quickly!’

  The men tugged their reins and trotted their horses towards him. Cato indicated the rocks and the gaps between them. ‘We’ll dismount and hide there, lads. There won’t be much time, so when I give the order to charge, I want you in the saddle and shouting your fucking hearts out as we ride down and take the enemy in the flank. There may be more of them than us, but the shock and speed of our attack will give ’em the shits before they realise it. When we hit them, go in hard. Ride them down, cut them down, but stop and re-form on me the moment I give the order to break off the attack. Any man who fails to obey and gets himself killed will have me to answer to when I eventually join him in the afterlife.’ He made himself smile slightly to put heart into them, then gestured towards the rocks. ‘Now get in there, stay out of sight and keep silent.’

  The men rode their horses in amongst the rocks and boulders and slipped to the ground, standing by their mounts’ heads, reins in one hand, as they calmed the beasts to still them. Cato glanced towards the wagons climbing the slope behind Massimilianus and his small party of horsemen. The mules were advancing at a slow walking pace, and no amount of cajoling by the drivers could make them go any faster. Looking the other way, he saw that there was no sign of the enemy yet. He took his place in the centre of the roughly aligned riders of the rearguard, leading his horse to the edge of a rock where a large spiky shrub grew, big enough to conceal him, but allowing him to see through it to make out the road no more than thirty paces away. A glance to either side showed that his men were hidden and standing by in readiness for his order to attack.

  The rumble of the wagons’ wheels, the crack of whips, the shouts of the muleteers and the occasional braying from amongst their teams began to fade into the distance as the column climbed towards the brow of the hill. As the noises diminished and the blood in Cato’s ears pulsed more calmly, he was aware of the steady drone of flies and buzz of bees amongst the sparse wild flowers growing across the slope. The sun beat down mercilessly and the air was hot and still, save for the shimmering on the ground in the distance beyond the road. Sweat pricked out on his forehead and trickled down his brow before dripping onto his cheek, tickling his skin so that he brushed his face irritably. His ears strained to pick up any sound of the approaching enemy, and he saw the tense expressions of his men as they stood silently, swatting away the odd insect. The wagons, meanwhile, had reached the top of the hill and disappeared over the crest one by one; all that remained to indicate their passage was a haze of dust hanging in the air.

  The enemy moved quietly and were almost upon the waiting soldiers before Cato became aware of their presence. Two files of men were emerging from the trees either side of the road, where the ground was not rutted and was more forgiving. Despite the heat, they were wearing animal hides belted over their dark tunics. Many had extensive tattoos on their skin and sported crudely trimmed beards. They wore their long hair in rope-like plaits, and most had leather skullcaps reinforced by iron rims and cross-pieces. Some had animal horns protruding from their caps; a mixture taken from rams, cattle and deer that added to the barbarous nature of their appearance. They were armed with spears, axes and swords, and a few had shields across their backs, slung from broad leather straps. Cato could easily imagine the terror their appearance caused when they emerged from the night to attack merchants’ convoys and the more isolated villas across the province. Scanning their ranks, he saw Calgarno, now armed with a spear.

  He tightened his grip on the reins of his horse and stroked its neck as he whispered soothingly, ‘Quiet now . . . Not a sound or sudden movement, eh?’

  There was a shout from one of the men at the head of the loose formation, and he thrust his arm towards the last of the haze hanging in the air at the top of the hill. At once, one of the men with antlered headgear ran forward to his side and shielded his eyes as he stared up the hill.

  Cato could guess at the enemy leader’s excitement now that his prey was in sight. Any moment he would halt his men and give orders for the attack. The time for Cato to strike was now, before the war band was poised to charge up the road to fall on the wagons. Steeling his nerves, he eased himself up into the saddle, bending low to stay in concealment. Then he drew his sword from its scabbard and sucked in a deep breath.

  ‘Mount up!’

  On either side came the shuffle of hooves and grunts of men as they clambered onto their horses and readied their weapons. Cato looked both ways quickly and saw that they had made ready to attack in the space of a few heartbeats. He rose up in his saddle and raised his sword. Over the bush he could see the faces of those amongst the enemy who had heard his order and now glanced anxiously at the rocks to their left.

  ‘Charge!’ he roared, the cry tearing at his throat as he arced his sword down towards the war band strung out along the road. He kicked his heels in, steering his horse around the bush and out into the open before urging it into a gallop across the narrow stretch of open ground. On either side his men emerged from the rocks, bellowing their war cries as they raised the glinting blades of the cavalry swords.

  For an instant the brigands were shocked into stillness as they stared in horror at the men charging down on them. One recovered quickly enough to hurl his spear at Cato, and it was only with a deft change of direction that he avoided the long shaft as it shot past his side and tore into the ground a short distance behind him. As the riders bore down on them, a few of the brigands turned and ran, some making for the cover of the boulders on the other side of the road, others fleeing back down the road towards the trees.

  A few heartbeats later and the riders burst through the nearest file of the enemy, slashing at their heads and shoulders. Cato made for one of the brigands with antlered headgear; a tall man with heavy shoulders who had drawn his sword and unslung his shield. His teeth bared in a snarl as he raised his sword to block the blow, and there was a sharp clang and scraping of metal as the edge of Cato’s short sword struck the flat of the brigand’s blade and slid harmlessly towards the point as Cato’s mount carried him on. He recovered his weapon and held it up, handle level with his shoulder, as he looked for a fresh opponent. The second file of brigands had broken ranks, and blades flashed in the sunlight while horses snorted and whinnied and men shouted as they hacked at the enemy around them amid the swirling dust and flying grit kicked up from the surface of the road.

  Cato caught sight of Calgarno ten feet away. The youth lowered the point of his spear and ran forward, plunging the tip into the chest of the horse to Cato’s right. The beast flung its head up and shook it from side to side with a shrill braying before it lurched aside, snatching the shaft of the spear from the youth’s hands. Before Cato could swerve his horse to attack the boy, a man ran at him on his unguarded left side with an axe raised to strike. He yanked his reins hard and his horse collided with the brigand, forcing him to stumble to one side. Before the man could recover his balance, Cato twisted in his saddle and swung his sword down, cutting deeply into his foe’s skull. The jarring impact threatened to loosen his grip on the handle, and he clenched his fingers tightly and freed the blade as the brigand swayed, blood pouring from his wound, before he released his axe and his legs collapsed
beneath him.

  Holding his sword up, Cato looked round quickly and saw that none of the brigands were in striking distance. Some were still standing their ground and attempting to fight off the mounted men, but most had broken and were fleeing. His men were bellowing hoarsely as they struck out at any of the enemy who came within reach of their swords. Cato looked for the man he had taken to be their leader, and saw him by the rocks, calling out to his men and trying to rally them. Several had already formed up round him, and their example was shaming and inspiring others to join them and face the auxiliaries. The advantage granted by the initial surprise of the attack was fading, and soon the enemy would have the numbers and the boldness to close round Cato and his men and pull them off their saddles to butcher them on the ground. It was time to break off the attack.

  ‘On me!’ he called out above the din made by his men. ‘On me! Now!’

  The nearest of the riders heard his cry and disengaged, warily edging their mounts towards their commander. Others were still caught up in the frenzied exhilaration of the charge and continued to urge their mounts across the slope on the other side of the rocks. One horse stood still, flanks heaving as blood coursed from a broken shaft protruding from its chest. Pink froth was bubbling from its flaring nostrils as the beast refused to respond to the urgings of its rider. Then one of the enemy ran up behind it and savagely swung his axe at the auxiliary’s exposed back above the saddle horns. The heavy curved edge of the weapon shattered the rider’s spine, and he convulsed and dropped his sword. His attacker grasped his arm and hauled him violently out of his saddle so that he tumbled to the ground with an explosive gasp. Then the brigand raised his axe and swung it down to batter his victim’s head, driving a dent into his helmet before the second blow found the man’s face and pulverised the nose and jaw. More blows swiftly reduced the auxiliary’s features to a gory pulp.