‘They must be scouting ahead of Caratacus’ army. He’s sent them to check the fords.’
‘Why attack the fort?’
‘Because they might have spotted the scouting force. Maybe Caratacus didn’t want anyone left alive to make any report on his movements.’
‘Why kill them like they did? Why did they do that then?’
‘They’re barbarians,’ Cato shrugged. ‘They can’t help themselves.’
‘Bollocks! They’re murderers … butchers! That’s all. And now they’ll pay for it.’
‘Sir,’ Macro intervened, ‘what about our orders?’
Maximius ignored him and turned towards the column, filling his lungs. ‘Cohort! Prepare to advance!’
‘If we leave the ford uncovered and Caratacus makes for it—’ Maximius turned to him with a forced smile. ‘Macro, there’s time enough to deal with our friends and then secure the ford. Trust me.’
‘But the trenching tools are in the fort, sir.’
‘We can return for those afterwards …’
‘If we have to come back for them—’
‘Damn you, Macro!’ Maximius shouted, hands balling into fists. ‘Take your century, then. Get the bloody tools and I’ll see you at the ford.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Cohort!’ Maximius raised his arm and then swept it forward. ‘Advance!’
‘Third Century!’ Macro shouted. ‘Fall out of line!’
Macro’s men shuffled off the track and the rest of the cohort followed Centurion Maximius as he quick marched across the slope towards the Tamesis. With a brief glance at the back of the cohort commander Macro grasped Cato by the arm.
‘Look here. Things are turning to shit. Maximius has lost it. If he tries anything that puts you and the rest of the lads in any danger …’
Cato nodded slowly. to do what I have to, if it comes to that. See you at the ford.’
‘Right. Watch yourself, lad.’
‘I always do.’ Cato made himself smile, then turned towards his men.
Macro watched his friend drop into line alongside Figulus, then the Sixth Century tramped by and as the rear of the last rank moved off round the hill Macro ordered his men up the slope. Apart from the steady chink and jingle of the men’s equipment the only sound was the raw grating cry of the crows fighting over the fresh corpses in the fort.
Chapter Nine
Nearly an hour later the cohort caught up with the Britons. A compact mass of infantry was marching quickly upriver, towards the ford that the cohort had been ordered to defend. From the outset it was clear that they would not reach the ford first, but their leader was a game individual who would at least give it a try and drove his men on as the Romans remorselessly closed in at a tangent. Then the Britons changed their minds and abruptly reversed their direction, heading away from the ford as they made a last desperate bid to escape their pursuers. Maximius gave orders to the decurion in charge of the scouts to skirmish ahead of the enemy column and slow it down.
So the scouts started to dart in, throwing a few of their light javelins at the leading ranks of the Britons, and then galloping back to safety. When this minor distraction failed to have much effect on the enemy’s pace the decurion drew up his men and feigned a few charges, forcing the Britons to halt momentarily to brace themselves for the impact. It did not take long for the enemy to see through the feint and they ignored the third charge, forcing the scouts to quickly break off and scurry away to safety. Even so, some time had been bought for Maximius and his men. A little more than an hour after the cohort had left the fort behind them the Britons turned to face their pursuers.
‘Cohort … halt!’ Maximius bellowed. ‘Deploy into line!’
While the five centuries moved quietly into position the Britons formed up into a crude wedge, two hundred paces away, with their backs to the broad sweep of the river. At once they began to beat their weapons against their shields and raised their voices in a cacophony of jeers, contempt and challenges as they worked themselves up into a frenzy. Most of the legionaries had seen this performance many times in the last year and yet the din and the mad capering of their enemies still worked on their nerves as the Romans braced themselves for the ‘Celtic rush’ that seemed to be the tribes’ only tactical manoeuvre.
Cato walked slowly along in front of his men. The Sixth Century was on the left of the Roman line. Some of the younger faces, and a few of the veterans, wore eloquent expressions of doubt and fear, and needed some form of distraction. Cato stopped and turned his back to the enemy.
‘I wouldn’t worry about that lot!’ He had to shout to be heard clearly above the rising roar of the enemy’s battle cries. ‘In a moment they’ll charge us. All we have to do is stand firm, give ’em six inches of the short sword and they’ll break in no time. Most of us have been here before and know the form. For the rest of you, once it’s all over, you’ll wonder what you were ever worried about.’ Cato grinned. ‘Trust me, I’m a centurion!’
A few men laughed, and Cato was glad to see a release of the nervous tension he had marked in some of those faces an instant before.
‘You tell ’em, boy!’ a voice cried out from somewhere amongst the rear ranks.
Figulus spun round. ‘Who said that? Who the fuck said that?’ The optio thrust his way through the front line. ‘Which one of you pricks just signed his own death warrant?’
‘Optio!’ Cato called out. ‘Get back to your post!’
‘Yes, sir!’ Figulus glowered at the men around him before shoving back through the broad shields to take his place alongside the century’s standard bearer. Cato met his eyes and gave him a slight nod of approval; the optio’s intervention had forestalled any wider breach of discipline. Very well, if some of the men didn’t want his encouragement they could wait for the charge in silence.
Fortunately patience was not numbered among the Celtic virtues, and with a sudden great roar the natives rippled forward and charged across the open ground towards the still, red line of Roman shields, above which polished helmets glinted in the harsh sunlight. Cato made himself turn round slowly to face the enemy. His keen eyesight took in the myriad details of lime-washed hair, tattoos and swirling patterns painted on to bare, glistening flesh, brilliant reflections shimmering off swords and helmets. Spears jabbed the air and every face amongst them was twisted and strained with savage expressions of rage and bloodlust that were the stuff of nightmares.
Cato was terrified, and for an instant the urge to turn and run seized his limbs. Then the horror of showing his fear in front of his men rescued him and he welcomed the cold chill of fright that pulsed through him and keyed up every muscle, and every one of his senses, in readiness for the imminent need to kill and to live. He made himself stand still a few heartbeats longer and face the howling mob racing across the grass towards the Roman line. Then he turned and walked towards the front rank of his century.
‘Standard to the rear!’ Cato thought he heard a tremor in his voice and concentrated on steadying it for the next order. ‘Keep your shields up!’
As he assumed his position in the middle of the front rank Cato took a firm grasp on the handle of the shield Figulus held ready for him, and drew his sword.
At the far end of the cohort, Maximius cupped a hand to his mouth and roared out an order, only just audible above the din of the charging tribesmen. ‘Front rank … ready javelins!’
The front rank rippled forward as the men advanced two paces and halted.
‘Prepare!’
The men twisted at the waist and reached back with their right arms, angling the shafts of their javelins up towards the sky. Then they tensed, waiting for the final order. Maximius faced the enemy, gauging the gap between the Britons and his cohort. He let them come on, sprinting across the rich green tufts of grass. When they were no more than thirty paces away he swung back to his men.
‘Release!’
There was a deep grunt from the front rank as their arms shot the javelins
forward and a slender veil of dark shafts curved up, slowing as they reached the peak of their trajectory, then dipped, picking up speed, and clattered and thudded into the ranks of the enemy. The range was short, and scores of the Britons were struck down – pierced through by the heavy iron heads of the Roman javelins.
‘Rear ranks, down javelins and move forward!’ Maximius yelled, and the rest of the cohort stepped into position behind the men of the front rank, who quickly drew their swords and braced themselves for the impact of the charge. An instant later the Britons hurled themselves upon the Roman line, hacking and thrusting at the wide curved shields with their long swords and spears. Some, more powerfully built than their comrades, burst through the gaps between the shields, and straight on to the points of the swords of the men in the rank behind. Cato, tall and thin, was thrust back by a body piling into the surface of his shield. He gave ground, but as the enemy warrior plunged into the Sixth Century, he was cut down by the frenzied thrusts of the man to the left of Cato. The centurion briefly nodded his thanks to Velius and thrust his way back into line.
Once the immediate impact of the charge had been absorbed the Roman line quickly re-formed and the Britons were whittled down as they vented their rage and frustration on the red shields. Cato blocked the blows of the enemies in front of him, and thrust his blade out between his shield and that of the man next to him whenever a Briton dared to come within range. When he could, Cato glanced to each side to try to snatch some overview of how the fight was progressing. Despite the initial ferocity of their charge, the Britons were outnumbered and outfought, and the Roman line was never in danger of being broken.
Above the clash and thud and cries of battle Cato heard a command being passed along the cohort, and saw, away to his right, the First Century edge forward. Then he heard Centurion Felix’s voice, nearby, bellow an order.
‘Advance!’
As the Fifth began to press forward Cato repeated the order to his men and the legionaries leaned into the curve of their shields and pressed into the loose ranks of the enemy. With the Roman line thrusting forwards, the tribesmen had even less space to wield their longer blades and the exultant battle cries of a moment earlier died in their throats as each man sought to get away from the vicious blades of the short swords that stabbed out from between the broad shields. As it was only a skirmish there was no mass of bodies behind them to pin them in place and the Britons began to back away. Cato, watching over the metal rim of his shield, saw the men in front of him give ground, then there was a clear gap between the two sides. The legionaries continued to tramp forwards in close formation, then they passed over the line of those struck down by the javelin volley. They killed the injured as they passed by and moved steadily on. There was no pretence of further resistance now, and the Britons broke and fled.
Ahead lay the river, and as soon as they realised the danger of being caught in between the iron and the water the Britons started to run towards the flanks of the cohort, hoping to escape round them while they still could. But the decurion and his men lay in wait with a half-squadron at each end of the Roman line. They spurred their horses on and cut down the fleeing warriors without mercy. Denied any escape on the flanks the Britons turned once more towards the river and, with the current gliding peacefully at their backs they made ready to die. Cato estimated that there were more than a hundred of them left, and many had lost or abandoned their weapons and stood with clenched fists and bared teeth, wild-eyed with terror. They were finished, he realised. All that was left to them now was death or surrender. Cato drew a deep breath and called out in Celtic.
‘Drop your weapons! Drop them, or die!’
The warriors’ eyes turned towards him, some filled with defiance, some with hope. Still the legionaries closed in on them, and the warriors retreated, splashing into the shallows of the Tamesis, then wading out until water reached their waists.
‘Throw your weapons down!’ Cato ordered. ‘Do it!’
At once one of the warriors turned and tossed his sword out into deeper waters. Another followed suit, and then the rest threw down their weapons and stood in the slow current watching the Romans anxiously.
Cato turned down the line of the cohort, cupping a hand to his mouth.
‘Halt! Halt!’
The centuries slowed and then stood still, a few paces short of the river bank. Cato saw the cohort commander break away from the end of the first cohort and come trotting down the line towards him.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Maximius barked as he reached Cato.
‘I told them to surrender, sir.’
‘Surrender?’ Maximius raised his eyebrows in frank astonishment. ‘Who said anything about taking prisoners?’
Cato frowned. ‘But, sir, I thought you wanted prisoners …’
‘After what they did? What the hell were you thinking?’
‘I was trying to save lives, sir. Ours as well as theirs.’
‘I see.’ Maximius glanced round at the Sixth Century and leaned closer to their centurion before he continued quietly. ‘This is no time for noble sentiments, young Cato. We can’t afford to burden ourselves with prisoners. Besides, you didn’t see what they did to the men back in the fort. My friend Porcinus … They have to die.’
‘Sir, they’re unarmed. They’ve surrendered. It wouldn’t be right. Not now.’
‘Wouldn’t be right?’ Maximius laughed and shook his head. ‘This isn’t a game. There aren’t any rules here, Cato.’
There was no mercy in the commander’s eyes, and Cato desperately tried another tack.
‘Sir, they might have valuable intelligence. If we send them to the rear for interrogation—’
‘No. I can’t afford to detach men for guard duties.’ Maximius drew his lips back in a faint smile. He turned round to Cato’s men. ‘Get them out of there! Get ’em out and bind their hands. Use strips from their clothing.’
The men of the Sixth Century lay their shields down and started dragging the Britons out of the river. The prisoners were thrown face first on to the ground, their arms pinned to their backs as the legionaries bound them securely. When the last of them had been dealt with, Maximius stood over them with a look of bitter satisfaction. Cato stood to one side, relieved that they had been spared.
‘That’s them sorted, sir. Won’t be giving us any more problems today.’
‘No.’
‘And we can come back for them later, sir.’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose they might try to escape, but they won’t get far.’
‘No, they won’t. Not after we’ve dealt with them.’
‘Sir?’ Cato felt a chill ripple up through the hairs on the back of his neck.
Maximius ignored him, and turned to the men of the Sixth Century. ‘Blind them.’
Figulus frowned, not sure that he had heard right.
‘I said blind them. Put their eyes out. Use your daggers.’
Cato opened his mouth to protest, but was too horrified to find the right words. While he paused the cohort commander sprang towards Figulus, snatched the optio’s dagger from its scabbard and leaned over the nearest prisoner.
‘Here, like this …’
There was a piercing shriek of the purest terror and agony that Cato had ever heard and he felt his stomach knot, as if he would throw up. The cohort commander worked his sword arm about, and then slowly stood up, a bitter look etched on his face as he turned round. At his side his arm hung loose, blood dripping from the dagger that was tightly clenched in his fist. Behind him the Briton writhed on the ground, still screaming as blood gushed from his eye sockets and spattered the grass around his head.
‘There!’ Maximius handed the dagger back to Figulus. ‘That’s how it’s done. Now get on with it.’
Figulus regarded him with horror, then looked to Cato pleadingly.
Maximius glared at the optio. ‘Why, you—’
‘Optio!’ Cato shouted. ‘You have your orders. Carry them out
!’
‘Yes …’ Figulus nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He turned to the nearest men. ‘Get the blades out. You heard the centurion!’
As the men started on their bloody work and the hot afternoon was pierced by terrible screams, Maximius nodded his satisfaction.
‘We’re done here then. Soon as your lot have finished the cohort moves on to the ford.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied. ‘Best move quickly then.’
‘Yes. We had.’ Maximius suddenly looked worried, and spun round and strode off towards his men. The last of the prisoners was quickly dealt with and the men of the Sixth Century cleaned their blades and retrieved their shields and javelins before forming up at the end of the small Roman column. The cohort had suffered only seven dead, and a handful of men had been injured. Their wounds were bound and they headed back towards the shelter of the fort. The rest of the cohort waited for Maximius to give the order to march, and then they tramped forward, along the bank towards the ford.
Behind them the pitiful cries and screams of the prisoners faded slowly, accompanied by the shrill calls of the crows who were already wheeling above the battleground as they sought out fresh pickings amongst the dead and dying that littered the bright green grass below.
Chapter Ten
The ford was situated at a point where the Tamesis narrowed to less than half its usual width. In the middle of the river was a small island with a handful of willows growing either side of the track. The end of their long branches dipped down into the current and provided a green glimmering shade. Centurion Macro looked longingly at the shade as he mopped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hairy forearm. In a fleeting moment of fancy Macro imagined himself resting on his back under the willow, boots off and feet trailing in the cool water of the Tamesis. It was tempting … too tempting. He frowned and strode across the tiny island towards the north bank of the river. There was a shallow stretch of shingle over which the current swept, its disturbed surface glittering in the sunlight.
As soon as the Third Century had reached the ford, Macro had waded across to test the depth. The water came up to his waist when he reached the deepest part between the small island and each bank. Although his footing was firm enough the current was strong and might easily sweep away anyone who was careless as they crossed. Macro posted one section on the far bank to keep watch for the enemy and immediately set about preparing his defences. It was, perhaps, a hundred paces to the far bank and the width of the ford was no more than ten paces. Either side of the shingle bar the depth increased quickly and the riverbed was soft and covered with long reeds that slowly waved like hair beneath the surface of the river.
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