Another blow came, further splintering the damaged timber, but Cato sensed that the blow had not been as forceful. Then he thought that the enemy cheers from the track had died down, though it was hard to be sure since his heart pounded in his chest and his head rang with the heavy throb of the blood pulsing through him. There was more cheering now, and it took Cato a moment to realise that those were Roman cheers. Cheers, catcalls and shouts of contempt.
‘They must have pulled back!’ one of Cato’s men shouted.
‘Quiet there!’ Septimus shouted. ‘Stay in position!’
The cheering continued, and there were no more blows from the battering ram. Cato waited a moment longer until he was satisfied that it was safe, then ordered his men to fall back to their reserve position. They stood panting and tired, but desperately relieved that the defences held, and that they themselves were still alive.
‘Centurion Cato!’ Tullius called down from the rampart.
Cato took a quick breath and forced himself to stand erect before he replied. ‘Sir?’
‘Your men have had their rest. You’re relieving Antonius. Get your men up here as soon as the Fifth Century get off the wall.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Rest?’ one of Cato’s men muttered. ‘Who’s he fucking kidding?’
Some of the other legionaries started grumbling and Septimus wheeled round on them. ‘Shut your mouths! Save it for the bloody natives!’
The grumbling stopped, but the air of sullen resentment hung over them like a shroud. As the men of the Fifth Century filed down from the rampart and passed Cato, he saw that many of them were wounded, some barely able to stay on their feet.
‘Bad up there?’ one of Cato’s men asked.
‘They’re bloody crazy,’ came the reply from the dazed optio of the Fifth Century. ‘Never seen anything like it. Just threw themselves at the wall like they wanted to die … bloody madmen.’
‘Optio!’ Cato beckoned him closer. ‘Where’s Centurion Antonius?’
‘Dead …’
‘Dead, sir!’ Cato snapped at him. ‘It’s “sir” when you’re addressing a superior officer!’
The optio stiffened to attention. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
Cato nodded, then leaned closer and continued softly, ‘You’re in command now, Optio. You set the standard. Don’t let your men down.’
‘No, sir.’
Cato stared at him for a moment, to make sure that his nerve had steadied. ‘Carry on.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Cato!’ Tullius bellowed. ‘What are you waiting for! Get your arse up here!’
‘At once, sir!’
The men of the Sixth Century hefted their shields and followed Cato up on to the rampart. He was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes when he looked over the palisade. The optio’s comment about the madness of the enemy was fully borne out. They lay heaped before the palisade. A great tangle of bloodied limbs, shields and weapons stretched from the rampart in a rough triangle, with its apex on the track that led into the marsh. Here and there the injured still moved. Cato watched a man with a javelin in his spine claw his way back to his comrades re-forming for the next assault a hundred paces down the track. He dragged his nerveless legs a short distance from the mound of bodies before his strength gave out and he collapsed on the hard earth of the track, his gleaming torso heaving from the effort.
‘A welcome sight.’
Cato tore his gaze away from the crippled enemy warrior. Tullius had thrust his way through the defenders and had observed the young centurion’s shock at the bloody vista before the defences.
Cato stared at him, and nodded dumbly. Tullius looked down the track and shook his head in wonder. ‘Looks like they’ll be having another go any moment now. You’d better get your men ready.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted and glanced along the palisade towards the thin line of men that stretched out towards the redoubt where he could see Macro smiling as he did the rounds of his men, giving them a slap of encouragement on the shoulder as he passed by. He caught sight of Cato and flashed him a brief thumbs-up. Cato nodded, and turned his mind to his immediate duty. He saw a number of legionaries sprawled along the line of the palisade. They would be a hazard to have underfoot when the next attack came.
‘Get those bodies off the rampart!’
There was no sense of ceremony as his men heaved their comrades’ corpses down the slope, limbs flopping loosely as they tumbled. As soon as the task was complete Cato ordered them to stand to and his men faced the enemy, swords drawn. As he walked down the line Cato was pleased to see that there was no sign of fear in their expressions, just the resigned determination of seasoned veterans. They would hold their position and fight until they were cut down, or the enemy gave way. Cato was pleased by their composure, but the pleasure was tinged with regret. If only Vespasian and General Plautius could see them now. The shame of decimation was behind them, and they would sell their lives like heroes. Unless the legate arrived in time the only witnesses to their valour would be the enemy. And the native warriors were so insanely intent on obliterating the cohort that they be insensible to the courage of the Romans. Cato smiled to himself. It was a strange thing, this life in the legions. Two years he had served under the Eagles, and yet each battle always felt like the first and last. He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to the peculiar intensity of sensation that went with every battle.
‘Man approaching!’
The voice was distant, and Cato could not place the direction at first. Then, as he saw heads turn to glance back behind the wall, he followed suit and saw the lookout Macro had posted waving his arm to attract attention and then point back towards the column of smoke that marked the site of the fort. No one moved. One man represented no threat, just a source of curiosity, and they waited for further information about the approaching figure.
The lookout turned his back to them for a while and then called out, ‘One of ours!’
An icy tingle of dread rippled up Cato’s spine. Supposing it was Maximius? Or Felix? Their arrival would result in his death just as surely as an enemy sword-thrust. Then he angrily told himself that such a fear was wholly baseless. He already knew who that man must be, long before he ran over the brow of the hill and staggered down towards the rampart.
‘Sir!’ the lookout shouted towards the defenders. ‘It’s Nepos.’
Tullius turned to seek Cato out. ‘Centurion Cato, come with me.’
They climbed down and marched towards Nepos as the legionary covered the last stretch of the slope leading down from the hill.
Tullius drew up in front of him. ‘Make your report! What happened at the fort?’
Nepos struggled for breath and, licking his lips, he glanced quickly at Cato.
‘Tell him what happened,’ said Cato.
‘The villagers, sir, they ransacked the place … set it on fire … I left the tent to see … to see what was happening. They saw me; gave chase … I tried to get back to the headquarters tent … but some of ’em had got there before me.’
Tullius shot a horrified look at Cato before turning back to the legionary. ‘And Maximius? Felix?’
Nepos lowered his head, struggling for breath.
‘What happened?’ Tullius grabbed his arm. ‘Tell me!’
‘They’re dead, sir. Nothing I could do to save them. The villagers went after me. I had to run …’
The man was spent and had nothing further to add. Tullius released his grip and stared back towards the diffuse column of smoke hanging over the valley.
‘Poor bastards.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nodded. ‘But how could we know the villagers would attack the fort?’
‘We should never have left them there.’
‘Sir, we weren’t to know. And we had to deal with the threat from Caratacus.’ Cato spoke calmly, and with direct emphasis. ‘No one is to blame. Fortunes of war. Nothing we can do about it now, sir.’
Centuri
on Tullius looked at him, and was silent for a moment. ‘No. Nothing.’
‘And now, sir,’ Cato continued, ‘the enemy’s building up for another attack. We should get back on the wall. Nepos?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Take some equipment from one of the casualties, then join me on the rampart.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Tullius watched the man trot across to one of the bodies and help himself to a sword, helmet and shield. ‘I hope he’s telling the truth.’
‘Of course he is, sir. After what Maximius has been doing to the locals recently, I’d be surprised if they didn’t take the chance to get their revenge at the first opportunity. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t anyone else?’
Tullius turned to look at Cato, fixing him with a searching stare. ‘There’s nothing you want to tell me?’
Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.’
‘What did you—’
Before Centurion Tullius could ask his question there was a cry from the palisade.
‘Enemy’s on the move!’
Chapter Forty
This time the enemy was more cautious. Caratacus had managed to rein his warriors in, and the head of the column approaching along the narrow track was composed of men carrying shields. Instead of the usual Celtic rush, the enemy advanced slowly, struggling to keep in the unfamiliar formation as a number of them held shields overhead. It was crudely handled but clearly based on the model they had deployed when Caratacus had forced the crossing of the Tamesis. If barbarians continued picking up more tricks of the trade from the legions, Cato reflected, Rome was going to have its hands full in a few more years.
Septimus gave his centurion a wry look. ‘Much more of this and we might as well sign them on as an auxiliary cohort.’
‘Give me an ally rather than an enemy every time,’ Cato muttered. He glanced beyond the approaching shield wall and saw Caratacus directing the operation from further down the track, well out of javelin and slingshot range. The enemy leader stood on his chariot, while an attendant was busy tying a rough dressing around his shoulder. When the front rank of the enemy column was no more than fifty paces from the Roman defences Caratacus cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted an order for them to halt. The warriors shuffled to a stop, adjusted their line, and began to spread out each side of the track, to the very fringes of the marsh. When the line was ready the men holding the upper tier of shields moved forward, into position, and then all fell still. Caratacus turned to a compact group of men standing beside his chariot and waved them up the track. Cato saw that they carried no swords or shields, just heavy haversacks hanging across their chests, and something that flickered like thin snakes drooping from their hands.
‘lingers …’ He drew a deep breath and called a warning out to his men. ‘Prepare to receive slingshot! Shields up.’
All along the palisade the men lifted the rims of their shields and hunched down behind them as they braced for the fusillade of missiles that were far more deadly than arrows, and the supply of which would take a lot longer to exhaust than javelins. Cato, poised to duck down as soon as the enemy loosed the first volley, kept watch over his shield. The slingers ran down to the shield wall, then spread out to give themselves room to swing the leather cords that stretched out to the pouches containing the shot. A low whirring began to build up as the first slingers prepared to unleash their missiles.
‘Here it comes!’ Septimus bellowed. ‘Heads down!’
The whirring peaked and then suddenly the air was filled with a thwipping noise an instant before the shot struck home with a series of sharp cracks all along the palisade. With a loud ringing one clattered against Cato’s shield boss, knocking it in so that as Cato loosened his grip he felt the dented metal brush against the back of his knuckles. A lucky shot, Cato smiled ruefully, and of course it had to strike his shield. An instant later one of the slingers was even more lucky. A heavy round stone passed clear through a gap in the crude palisade and smashed into the ankle of a legionary just to one side of Cato. The man cried out as his bones were pulverised by the impact and he crumpled to one side, clutching at his ankle, and starting to howl in agony.
Cato turned towards his optio. ‘Septimus! Get him off the rampart!’
Under the cover of his shield the optio clambered over to the injured man, grabbed him by the forearm and dragged him bodily down the rear of the rampart to where the rest of the injured lay along the base of the defences. No one could be spared to attend to their wounds while the cohort was under attack, and they lay in the hot afternoon sun, some crying out, but most of them still, biting back on their pain. Those who could, saw to their own injuries and then tried to help the men around them. Septimus hauled his casualty over to the end of the row of injured and then scurried back into position on the palisade.
As the rattling fusillade continued, more shots found their targets and took a slow steady toll of dead and wounded, even as they continued to batter and splinter the broad shields that lined the top of the rampart. Time was on the Romans’ side, Cato comforted himself as he hunched down and gritted his teeth as another slingshot cracked against the surface of his shield. The longer Caratacus kept this up, the closer Vespasian came to closing the trap. But there was no sense in the Third Cohort exposing themselves to more damage than necessary.
‘Stay down!’ Cato called to his men as he dropped back out of line and scrambled along the rampart to where Tullius sheltered behind his shield.
‘Sir!’ Cato called. Tullius glanced round.
‘Sir, shouldn’t we pull the men back on to the reverse slope, out of the line of fire?’
Tullius shook his head. ‘They can take it. Besides, we don’t want the enemy thinking we’ll duck a fight.’
‘This isn’t a fight, sir.’ Cato waved his hand to the growing line of casualties below the rampart. ‘It’s just a waste of good men.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Centurion!’ Tullius snapped at him. ‘Now return to your position.’
Cato considered protesting, but the glint in Tullius’ eyes showed that the veteran was in no mood to listen. He’d clearly had enough of Cato’s advice and it would be dangerous to push him any further.
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted and made his way back to his men, still suffering the intense bombardment of slingshot in resigned silence. There was no let-up, no diminishing of the volume of missiles smashing and cracking the palisade and the men who defended it, and Cato wondered how many of them would be left by the time dusk gathered over the marshes. By then, the legate would surely have arrived.
‘There’s movement down the track!’ Septimus called out, and Cato risked a glimpse round the edge of his shield. Behind the slingers, streaming past Caratacus on his chariot, came a dense body of men, many of whom were carrying bundles of wood and crudely constructed ladders.
Cato ducked his head back and shouted to his men, ‘Sixth Century! Draw swords!’
There was a drawn-out chorus of rasping noises as the men drew their weapons, and then the legionaries of the other centuries followed suit. The Romans tensed their muscles, anxiously waiting for the order to rise up and confront the fresh wave of attackers. Cato took another look. A gap had opened up in the enemy shield wall, and beyond that the slingers parted each side of the track as the assault party rushed through, running the remaining distance to the Roman defences. Over their heads the slingers resumed their bombardment of the Third Cohort. There was none of the usual shouting of war cries as the native warriors reached the edge of the ditch and started to pick their way across the bodies of their comrades who had died in the earlier assaults. With Romans waiting ahead of them, and their own men flinging slingshot from behind them, they just wanted to get the attack over with as quickly as possible. The bundles of wood were cast down where the ditch still yawned before the low rampart and the warriors streamed across, throwing themselves up the steep slope on the far side.
‘Stand up!’ Tullius r
oared out, and the other officers echoed the call along the rampart. The legionaries rose to their feet, moved up to the palisade and raised their blades, ready to meet the attack. The last few slingshot zipped through the air, bringing down one more Roman before the natives were forced to stop their bombardment for fear of hitting their own men. There was almost no interlude between the last of the shot flying overhead and the first clashes of weapons along the rampart. The makeshift ladders were thrust up against the palisade and the Celt warriors swarmed up and attempted to swing themselves over the rampart and engulf the defenders. From the flanking redoubts Cordus and Macro urged their men on, hurling and throwing whatever missiles they had left into the flanks of the attacking force.
Cato tightened his grip on his sword and shield, and pressed forward. The roughly hewn top of a ladder slapped up against the palisade immediately to his left and an instant later a burly warrior clambered up, reached an arm over the palisade and began to pull himself up. Cato thrust the point of his sword at the side of the man’s head and felt the thud and crunch of bone jar down his arm. The man dropped away and Cato turned to the nearest legionary.
‘Here! Help me!’
Pushing the guard of his sword hand against the top of the ladder Cato tried to heave it back on top of the attackers. But there was already a man on the lowest rung, and the Briton swung himself up as fast as he could, meeting Cato’s terrified gaze with a mad glint of triumph in his eyes.
‘No you fucking don’t, mate!’ The legionary cut with ferocious strength, his sword cleaving the man’s skull and splattering himself and his centurion with blood and brains. As the man fell Cato thrust the ladder away from the palisade and nodded his thanks to the legionary.
Cato glanced round and saw that so far not one of the enemy had secured a foothold on the rampart. But even as he watched, a short distance to his right a section of the palisade was wrenched away from the rampart, showering the attackers with rubble as the loosened earth behind it collapsed. With a cry, the legionary who had been fighting immediately above them, tumbled forward into the mass of warriors below and was butchered as he sprawled on the slope.
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