The Eagle's Prey

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Take him down!’ Cato screamed hoarsely. ‘Kill him!’

  Three swords thrust into the warrior and he gave an explosive grunt and sagged to his knees, the deadly axe dropping from his nerveless fingers as he died. But before the gap he had forced in the Roman line could be filled, another warrior leaped forward and landed astride his fallen comrade, slashing at the nearest legionary with his long sword. The Roman just managed to turn enough for the blow to land on the shoulder of his segmented armour and there was a loud crack as his collarbone shattered under the impact.

  More enemy warriors burst in amongst the men of the Sixth Century, and Cato knew that any formation was no longer possible. He thrust himself forward into the dense brawl, pushed up against the back of one of his men and braced his legs to help heave the man forwards. But the pressure from the enemy warriors was irresistible, urged on by Caratacus, roaring his encouragement. Cato felt himself being forced back, step by step, until the century was astride the ditch and the ramparts loomed up behind him. The man in front of him shuddered, convulsed and then fell to the side, into the ditch and was impaled on the sharpened stakes lining the bottom. Then Cato was in the middle of the fight, crouching low, shield close and sword held horizontal, ready to thrust.

  On either side of him legionaries and Celts were locked in a bitter and merciless struggle. The collapse of the Roman formation meant that both sides were pressed together in a tight pack where slashing weapons were useless and the short swords of the legions came into their own. The Britons knew they were outclassed and now punched and clawed at the Romans, fingers and fists scrabbling for purchase on any unprotected Roman flesh. With a shrill scream a young warrior hurled himself upon Cato, one hand clenched round the wrist of his sword arm, the other groping for his throat. For an instant Cato panicked, his muscles frozen in helpess terror, then the instinct for self-preservation made him release his grip on the shield, ball his spare hand into a fist and smash it into the cheek of the enemy warrior. The man just blinked and continued in his fanatical effort to throttle the Roman centurion. Cato tried once more, with no effect, then dropped his hand to the dagger at his waist. Snatching it out, he thrust it up and forwards, into the stomach of his attacker. The young man’s look of hatred turned into one of surprise and pain. Cato thrust again with all his remaining strength, and felt his dagger rip sideways, and a sudden warm gush over his hand and forearm as the enemy went limp and slid away, but was still held up by the press of bodies around him.

  ‘Run for it!’ Cato shouted to the surviving men of his century. ‘Run!’

  There was a loosening of the mêlée as the legionaries backed away, or simply turned and dashed for the small opening in the crudely constructed gateway. It was now a running battle, with Romans slashing around them as they ran for safety and the Britons worrying them like hunting dogs trying to bring down their prey. Cato made for the standard-bearer and was relieved to see Septimus already at the bearer’s side, hacking away at any Britons that dared to venture too close. Then the three of them, back to back, shuffled towards the gate, up the last few feet of the narrow ramp leading between the enfilading defences. Above them their comrades dare not shower the attackers with their javelins for fear of hitting their own men.

  Cato sensed the gatepost at his shoulder and shoved the bearer inside. ‘You too, Optio!’

  ‘Sir!’ Septimus began to protest, but Cato cut him short. ‘That’s an order.’

  With his back to the gatepost, Cato wrenched up a fallen shield and faced the enemy. One by one his men fought their way past him, while the centurion thrust and hacked with his short sword to keep Caratacus’ men at bay. At last, there seemed to be no more Romans alive in front of the defences, but Cato felt compelled to take a last look to be certain. A strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him inside the gate.

  ‘Close it!’ Macro shouted, and two squads of legionaries threw their weight behind the rough timber as the enemy warriors thrust against the far side, struggling to push it open. But the legionaries were better organised and quickly closed the gate and fastened the locking bar in place as the timbers shook under the impact.

  ‘Let ’em have it!’ Tullius shouted from the rampart, and Cato saw the legionaries throw volley after volley of javelins down into the tightly packed bodies on the far side of the gate. Screams rent the air and then the pounding on the gate stopped, and the shouts and cries of the enemy drew away.

  Cato squatted on the ground, one hand resting on his shield, the other in a fist about the handle of his short sword which he used to support his exhausted body.

  ‘You all right, lad?’

  Cato looked up, and shook his head at Macro. ‘Could use a drink.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Macro smiled as he reached for his canteen. ‘All I’ve got is water.’

  ‘That’ll have to do.’

  Cato gulped down several lukewarm mouthfuls, and passed the canteen back to Macro. Then he slowly rose to his feet and stared over Macro’s shoulder.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Look.’ Cato pointed. A thin trail of smoke was rising up from the direction of the fort.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘Now what?’ Macro growled. ‘They can’t have got round us, surely?’

  ‘No. That’s not possible.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Cato nodded his head towards the marsh. ‘That’s Caratacus’ vanguard out there; the first of his men to reach us.’

  ‘So who’s that over at the fort?’

  Before Cato could reply Centurion Tullius came running over to them, an anxious expression on his face. ‘You’ve seen it, then?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied evenly. ‘That’s why we’re facing in that direction.’

  ‘They’ve got behind us. Right behind us.’ Tullius’ mind raced ahead. ‘We’ve had it. Once they’ve finished at the fort, they’ll attack here. We’ll be caught between them and cut to pieces. We should never have left the fort. Maximius was right.’ Tullius turned to face Cato. ‘It’s all your fault. Your plan, and now it’s a bloody disaster. I should never had listened to you.’

  Cato kept his mouth shut, feeling first anger and then contempt for his superior, but conscious that he must let none of this show. Now was not the time to defend himself against such spineless accusations. He had to handle the situation carefully, before the old centurion panicked and made a rash, genuinely disastrous decision. Besides, Cato knew that Tullius was wrong.

  ‘I must have been mad to listen to you,’ Tullius continued bitterly. ‘Mad. I should never have set you free. In fact, I think you should be relieved of your command.’

  ‘Now hold on a moment, sir.’ Macro stepped forward. ‘That ain’t fair. We all agreed to the plan. The lad’s not to blame.’

  Tullius turned his bitter gaze to Macro. ‘Perhaps I should have you both put in irons.’

  ‘Sir,’ Cato interrupted quietly, ‘we shouldn’t be doing this. Not in front of the men.’

  Tullius glanced round, and saw that the nearest legionaries were looking at them curiously. ‘Get back to your stations! Keep your bloody eyes on the enemy!’

  The men glanced away and tried to look as if they had never been interested in the officers’ confrontation in the first place. Tullius made sure that none of them was eavesdropping before he turned back to Cato and Macro.

  ‘I’ll deal with you two later. Right now I need every man who can hold a weapon. But I promise you, if by some miracle we get out of this alive, there will be a full accounting for this balls-up.’

  Macro’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath and leaned forward to respond in kind. But Cato grasped his forearm and spoke before his friend could make a bad situation any worse.

  ‘Yes, sir. We agree. But let’s deal with the attack first. You can do what you like with us later.’

  Centurion Tullius nodded. ‘Very well. We have to get out of this trap.’

  ‘If we quit the rampart,’ said Macro, ‘whi
le that lot are licking their wounds and working themselves up for another attempt, we might make it back to the fort before they can catch us. We’d stand a better chance there.’

  ‘Assuming that the force sacking the fort is small enough for us to overcome,’ Tullius replied. He stared at the smoke billowing up in the distance. ‘In any case, we don’t know how badly they’ve damaged the defences.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What now, Cato? Another brilliant plan?’

  ‘No, sir. I just think there’s no point in returning to the fort. We don’t know what we might find there. The defences could still be standing; they might not. In which case we’re better off staying here. Besides, I don’t think whoever’s having a go at the fort need concern us.’

  ‘Oh, really? And what makes you think that?’

  Cato ignored the sarcasm. ‘It’s not Caratacus’ men. It’s more likely to be the natives from the village. A chance for them to have their revenge. They’ll just take what they can and destroy the rest. Then, my guess is, they’ll panic and run for cover.’

  ‘Your guess …’

  ‘If Cato’s right,’ Macro looked anxiously back towards the smoke, ‘what about Maximius and Felix? And that Nepos? We have to send someone back to save them. Let me go, sir. I’ll take half a century and—’

  ‘There’s no point,’ Cato cut in. ‘They’re already dead. Whoever’s there - villagers or the enemy – won’t have spared them. Besides, as the cohort commander says, we need every man here to hold off Caratacus. Hold him off long enough for Vespasian to arrive.’

  ‘If he arrives,’ Macro replied.

  ‘All right then,’ Cato nodded, ‘if he arrives. But that’s what everything hangs on now. If the legion’s not coming then nothing we can do will make a difference. We’ll be overwhelmed and wiped out. But if the legate is coming, then we must hold on here for as long as possible. That’s all that matters now.’ Cato stared determinedly at Centurion Tullius. ‘Sir, we’ve no choice. We have to make a stand.’

  Tullius was silent for a moment as he struggled to come up with an alternative to Cato’s bleak outline of their predicament. But the more he thought about it, the less choice there was, and in the end he slapped his thigh with frustration.

  ‘All right, then. We stay and fight. Macro?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I want a man posted on that hilltop, to keep watch for any force coming at us from the fort. See to it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Tullius nodded and then strode over towards the gate and clambered up the steps on to the rampart.

  Macro turned towards Cato, his cheeks puffing as he blew a sigh of relief. ‘That was close. For a moment there I thought he was going to slap us in chains. You really think it’s the villagers having a go at the fort?’

  Cato shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have left the others behind,’ Macro reflected guiltily. ‘Do you think there’s any chance—’

  ‘No. None.’ Cato turned to him with a deadpan expression.

  Macro frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  A shout echoed from the rampart. ‘Enemy’s on the move!’

  The two centurions scrambled up on to the rampart and pushed their way through the legionaries packed along the palisade, until they reached Tullius. Antonius and Cordus were with him, staring out over the palisade towards the enemy warriors streaming along the track towards the fortifications. Cato noted a number of bodies sprawled in the ditch either side of the gate, some still writhing feebly on the sharpened stakes that lined the bottom of the ditch.

  Tullius turned to give his orders. ‘You know your positions. Go to them.’

  Cordus headed towards the right-hand redoubt where his men clustered, ready to hurl their javelins into the flank of the approaching enemy. Macro had been assigned the redoubt at the other end of the defences, and the centuries of Antonius and Tullius were to hold the length of wall in between.

  ‘What about my men, sir?’ Cato asked.

  ‘Take what’s left and form them up behind the gate. You’re the reserve. If they force the gate, you must keep them out, at all cost.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Tullius drew his sword and picked up his shield, then snarled at Cato. ‘Go. Get out of my sight.’

  Cato saluted and quickly climbed down from the rampart. The survivors of the Sixth Century were already rising wearily to their feet at his approach. He did a quick head count and found that he had forty-six men left.

  ‘Septimus!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The optio snapped smartly to attention.

  ‘Get ’em formed up behind the gate. Swords drawn and shields up. We may be needed in a hurry.’

  While the optio quickly marshalled the legionaries into position Cato went over to examine the gateway. A few timbers had already started from their rope fixings after the impact of the first assault.

  He turned back to his men. ‘First section! On me.’

  Two men stepped out of formation and came trotting over to him.

  Cato frowned. ‘Where are the rest?’

  ‘Dead and missing, sir,’ one of the legionaries replied. ‘We were pretty badly carved up out there on the track.’

  ‘Right,’ Cato responded tersely, and looked beyond the man to the rest of his unit. ‘Second section, on me.’

  Five more men came over and Cato indicated the gate. ‘We won’t need to open that again. I want it strengthened. Use the cart, turn it on its side and push it hard up against the gate. Once you’ve done that, start digging and get the earth piled up behind. Leave your shields at the foot of the rampart. Now, move!’

  They ran off to do his bidding and Cato went over to join Septimus in front of his men, standing ready to reinforce any weak point in the defences. From the far side of the rampart came the roar of the enemy, charging home. A handful of arrows and light javelins arced over the palisade. With a sharp metallic ring the helmet of one of Tullius’ men snapped back and he fell from the wall, tumbling down the reverse slope of the rampart to lie still on the ground.

  ‘Raise shields!’ Cato ordered, and the men hefted them up to cover their bodies as a steady shower of missiles struck at the defenders on the rampart, or zipped past them, occasionally clattering off the shields of the survivors of the Sixth Century. Cato continued to scan the ramparts, noting the enemy must have quickly scaled the ditch and mounted the far slope, since he could see men clearly engaged with the enemy on the far side of the palisade. The defenders were holding their own for the moment. Not one enemy head could be seen struggling to climb over the palisade. But the fight was not entirely one-sided. Already at least a dozen Roman bodies were scattered across the slope leading down from the rampart. There were more along the palisade itself. Those who were wounded tried to struggle clear of the mêlée to avoid any further injury, as well as not hindering their comrades still locked in combat with the enemy.

  In front of Cato the men he had assigned to bolster the gate had succeeded in overturning the cart and shoving it tight against the loose timbers. Now they were at work breaking up the hard ground a short distance back from the cart and shovelling the spoil against the cart. The gate shimmered under the impact of swords and axes thudding into the far side. Already, small splinters were flying through the air this side of the gate.

  Cato was racked with frustration at having to remain behind the gate, unable to see how the fight was progressing. It seemed to him that unless the enemy broke off soon they must surely overwhelm the men on the palisade.

  The fight went on and on. Up in the flanking redoubts the legionaries had expended their remaining javelins. The men who had been issued with slings were whirling the leather thongs about their heads before releasing the deadly missiles into the dense ranks massed before the defences. The rest of the legionaries were hurling rocks and larger stones in a desperate bid to break the resolve of Caratacus and his men. Cato saw Macro bend, snatch up a rock from the dwindling stockpile
and turn to hurl it with all his strength across the palisade. Macro watched the fall of the shot, and then thrust his fist into the air in a gesture of triumph. The next instant he threw himself flat as an arrow slashed through the space he had been standing in just before.

  ‘Cato!’ Tullius shouted from the palisade, just above the gate. ‘Battering ram coming up! Get your men up against the gate. Bolster it up!’

  ‘Yes, sir! Sixth Century, sheathe swords! Follow me!’

  Cato led them over the loose earth to the cart, then pressed his shield against the side of the cart and leaned into it. Men followed suit on either side, and when the surface was covered, the rest pushed up against the backs of their comrades. The hacking sounds from the far side abruptly ceased and a rising roar of cheers filled Cato’s ears.

  ‘Brace yourselves!’ he called out, and gritted his teeth.

  The next moment there was a massive crash from the far side of the gate and Cato reeled back from it as if he had been kicked by a maddened mule. As soon as he recovered his balance he threw his weight forwards again, and felt the reasurring pressure from behind as his men struggled back into position.

  ‘Here it comes again!’ someone shouted, and again the men of the Sixth Century were hurled back. But the gate still held.

  Overhead Cato heard Tullius bellowing above the din, ‘Use everything you’ve got! Hit them! Kill the bastards!’

  The ram struck the gate five more times, and on the last blow Cato saw a timber splintered inwards. One of his men screamed as a long splinter shot into his cheek, just below the eye and tore open the flesh. The legionary reached for the splinter and tugged it out, gritting his teeth. Blood gushed down his face and spattered across his armour, and he threw himself back against the gate. Brave, thought Cato, wondering for an instant how he would have reacted to such an injury. Then he focused on the gate and realised, with a sinking feeling of horror, that it would withstand only a few more blows from the battering ram before it burst apart.