‘Watch it!’ Cato shouted to his men. ‘They’re pulling up the palisade!’
While their comrades had been keeping the legionaries occupied with their ladder assault, small groups of the enemy had been digging away at the foundations of the palisade and working the timbers loose. Already, as Cato looked along the line of the rampart he saw other sections being pulled away. As soon as a gap had opened up in the palisade Celt warriors swarmed up and heaved themselves on to the rampart.
‘Shit!’ Septimus cried out angrily. ‘We should have dug them in deeper!’
‘Too late for that now.’ Cato turned back to the enemy, and hacked his sword down at a man being hoisted up by his companions. The warrior was armed with a long-handled axe and managed to block the centurion’s blow, but in doing so overbalanced and tumbled back on to the slope.
Elsewhere the Sixth Century was not doing so well. In two places where the palisade had been ripped down a handful of warriors had won a foothold on the rampart and were bodily heaving the defenders back to create more space for their comrades to climb up after them.
‘Septimus!’
‘Sir?’
Cato indicated the nearest breach in the palisade. ‘Take six men. Push them out, before it’s too late. Move!’
The optio recognised the danger at once, and made for the breach, pulling men out of the line as he made his way along the rampart. As the legionaries approached the breach they formed up into a compact battering ram of flesh and metal, and charged home on a two-shield front, all that the narrow walkway permitted. They crashed into the enemy warriors and cut them down before the Celts recovered from the shock of the impact. The dead and injured were thrown down on top of the enemy still struggling to squeeze through the gap and up on to the rampart. Septimus and his men hunched round the crumbling earth and hacked at any enemy foolhardy enough to make another attempt at breaking into the Roman line. But beyond them Cato saw that the situation at the second breach was far more serious. The enemy had won some space on the rampart and were quickly feeding men into the gap. Turning round Cato shouted at the nearest man not engaged in the fight along the palisade.
‘Run round that lot to Centurion Macro. Tell him he needs to drive them off the wall and plug the gap. I can’t spare any men. Go!’
As the legionary half ran, half slithered down the slope Cato felt a dull vibration under his feet and, realising what it must be, he glanced towards the gate. Behind the rampart the reserves were hurrying forward to counter the impact as best as they could. In front of the rampart the enemy warriors had retrieved the battering ram, from where it lay amongst the bodies on the track, and were renewing their attack on the gate.
Cato realised that the cohort was losing control of the fight. The timbers of the gate had been designed to control the movement of natives into and out of the marsh, not to withstand a determined assault. The enemy would burst through them soon enough. If that failed then they must eventually create enough gaps in the palisade that the legionaries couldn’t defend them all. In either event, the cohort was doomed.
Overcome by bloodlust, some of the enemy who had hauled themselves up on to the rampart now spied the line of casualties along the base of the rampart and charged down upon them with whooping cries of triumph. Wounded and almost defenceless, the Roman casualties could do little to protect themselves as the Britons butchered them on the ground. But the temptation of an easy kill was their undoing, as it diverted them away from ensuring that they held on to the opening they had torn in the Roman defences. With as loud a roar as they could muster, Macro and half of his men were sweeping along the rampart from the direction of the redoubt, charging down and cutting through the knot of warriors who were desperately trying to hold the way open for the men struggling to feed into the gap. A moment’s delay and the Celts would have had more than enough men through the gap to hold off Macro’s relief force. As it was, they were steadily killed, or pushed back, until the last of them was ejected from the rampart. Their comrades slaughtering the Roman wounded realised the danger, and struggled up the slope to fight for the precious stretch of bloody earth around the gap in the palisade. But they were too late and too few to make a difference, and they died before they even reached the top of the slope, tumbling back down to sprawl amongst the bodies of the men they had so mercilessly killed only moments earlier.
As soon as the rampart was secured Cato looked round to see what progress the enemy warriors were making on the gate. The slow pounding rhythm continued relentlessly, and then there was a splintering crash as the first of the timbers gave way. That was it then, Cato decided, with a heavy sinking feeling in his chest. A few more blows, then the gate would be shattered enough for the attackers to wrench the remnants aside, pour through the opening and tear the surviving men of the Third Cohort to pieces.
Then he was aware that the pounding had stopped, and looking both ways along the rampart he saw that more and more of his men were standing back, disengaged. They lowered their shields and leaned on the rims, exhausted and gasping for breath. Before them the Celts were falling back from the ramparts, streaming away towards Caratacus, still standing, feet astride, atop his chariot. Only, now, he was looking down the track, in the opposite direction to the Third Cohort.
‘Sir!’ Septimus pushed his way through the defenders towards Cato. ‘Can you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘Listen.’
Cato strained his ears, but all he could hear, above the pounding of blood through his weary body, was the panicked cries of the enemy warriors retreating from the ramparts, and jamming into a dense, immovable mass around their commander’s chariot. Cato shook his head and Septimus thumped his fist down on the palisade.
‘Just listen, sir!’
Cato tried again, and this time, there was something else, over and above the rising cries of despair and panic from the enemy: a distant clash and clatter of weapons and the thin tinny blare of a trumpet. And only one army on this island used trumpets that sounded like that. Cato grinned as a wave of pure relief washed over him and filled his heart with joy.
‘It’s the legate. It has to be.’
‘Of course it bloody is, sir!’ the optio laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Bastard had to leave it until the last moment, didn’t he?’
As more of the legionaries became aware of the noise they looked round at each other in delight, and then started cheering and making obscene gestures at the fleeing enemy. The ferocious arrogance with which the native warriors had attacked the cohort earlier in the afternoon had evaporated the moment word spread through their ranks that a powerful enemy force had appeared behind them. Now their only thought was for escape and survival. Only Caratacus’ bodyguard held firm – a small tight-knit unit of aristocrats and elite warriors that struggled to maintain a tight cordon around their king, contemptuously thrusting aside the frightened masses that streamed past them. Already, some of the enemy had realised that the marsh was their only hope of salvation, and they struck out from the track, wading out amongst the rushes, and struggling when they reached the expanse of mud beyond, stumbling through the ooze that clung to their legs and made every pace a test of strength and ultimately endurance.
‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’
Cato turned to see Macro at his shoulder. The older centurion was staring sadly at the spectacle on the track. ‘A broken army is a bloody pitiful thing.’
‘As sights go, that one will do me nicely.’
‘Heads up,’ Macro said quietly, looking past Cato’s shoulder. ‘Here’s Tullius … Congratulations, sir!’
‘Eh?’ Tullius looked anything but pleased, and Cato saw that his stare was fixed beyond the broken native force, towards the distant standards of the Second Legion, twinkling in the late afternoon sunlight. ‘I wonder if Vespasian will be so quick to offer his congratulations.’
Tullius gave Macro and Cato a meaningful look before he turned towards the nearest troops. ‘Get out of here
!’
As soon as the legionaries had shuffled out of earshot Centurion Tullius faced his subordinates and spoke in a low, urgent tone.
‘What are we going to tell the legate?’
Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘Tell him? Sorry, sir, I don’t understand.’
Tullius leaned closer and stabbed Cato’s chest with his finger. ‘Don’t be fucking cute with me, lad. I’m talking about Maximius. How are we going to explain that one away?’
‘Pardon me, sir, but there’s nothing to explain away, provided we stick to our story. With Antonius dead, there’s only you, Macro, me and Nepos who know what really happened.’
‘Scratch Nepos from the list,’ said Macro, jerking his thumb along the rampart. ‘He’s back there. Spearthrust went right through him. He didn’t have time to find himself any armour before he got into the fight. Shame.’
‘Yes, a shame,’ Cato repeated slowly. ‘So only three of us left now, sir. All we have to do is stick with the story we gave out to Cordus. It’s not perfect, but it’s all we’ve got, and there’s nothing anybody can prove beyond what we tell them.’
‘What if Nepos was wrong? What if Maximius is still alive. Or Felix?’
‘They’re dead,’ Cato said firmly.
‘What if they’re not? We should tell the truth. Tell Vespasian that Maximius was endangering the cohort. That we had to restrain him in order to save the men, and to catch Caratacus in this trap.’ A sudden gleam of inspiration burned in the old centurion’s eyes. ‘We won this victory. We made it possible. That’s got to count for something.’
‘No.’ Macro shook his head. ‘No, it won’t. If we tell the truth then we’re admitting mutiny. You know what the general’s like. Even if Vespasian spares us, Plautius bloody well won’t. It’ll be a nice chance to demonstrate what a fine disciplinarian he is. I won’t be put to death for that bastard Maximius. The lad’s right. We have to stick to our story if we want to come out of this alive, and hope that Maximius and Felix are dead.’
Tullius turned his gaze towards Cato and frowned. ‘You seem pretty confident that they are dead.’
Cato returned his stare without any expression on his face, then replied, ‘I don’t see how they could have survived the villagers’ attack. Nepos was sure they’d been killed. That’s good enough for me.’
‘Let’s pray it’s good enough for Vespasian,’ Macro added softly.
Tullius stared over the rampart towards the approaching legion, still hidden from view by the bend in the track. He chewed his lip for a moment and then nodded. ‘All right then … we stick by the story. But there’s one last thing we can do to help our cause.’
Macro looked at him suspiciously. ‘Oh? What’s that then, sir?’
‘Give Caratacus to the legate.’ Centurion Tullius had shifted his gaze to the enemy commander still beleaguered by the crush of men around his chariot and bodyguards. Tullius issued his orders without once turning to look at the other officers. ‘I want you to take two sections down there and capture him.’
Macro laughed. ‘You what?’
‘I said, take two sections down there and take him prisoner. You and Cato.’
‘That’s madness. You trying to get us killed or something? … Oh.’ Macro’s surprised expression turned to a sneer. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’
Still Tullius refused to look at them as he spoke with an icy formality. ‘You have your orders. Now be so good as to carry them out. At once.’
Macro glanced round to make sure he would not be overheard. ‘Now listen here, you bastard—’
‘Sir!’ Cato grasped his arm and held him back. ‘Let’s go.’
‘What?’ Macro glared at his friend. ‘Are you mad?’
‘The cohort commander is right, sir. If we can give Caratacus to the legate, then we should be in the clear. Please, sir, let’s get moving before he gets away.’
Macro felt himself being dragged back, and was sure that the world had gone mad. What other explanation could there be for Cato’s connivance with Tullius’ absurd order? As Cato summoned the men that Tullius had allowed for the task, Macro looked at his companion with a deeply concerned expression. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘We have to do it, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘How would it look if we had a blazing row in front of the men? They’re already suspicious enough as it is.’
‘But he’s trying to get us killed.’
‘Of course he is.’ Cato turned to face his friend directly. ‘It makes sense. If we’re dead he can blame the whole thing on us, and never have to worry that his part in Maximius’ death will be revealed. But if we live, and take Caratacus prisoner, then at least he’s got something impressive to throw in front of the legate. Either way, he’s better off than if we all sit and wait for Vespasian to arrive and pass judgement.’
‘What about us?’
‘If we capture Caratacus, then we’re in a better situation too.’ Cato shrugged. ‘If we stay and face the legate empty-handed, then I’d say our chances are less than even.’
Macro stared at him a moment, before replying, ‘I’d hate to come across you on a gambling table.’
Cato frowned. ‘This isn’t a throw of the dice, sir. It’s the logical thing to do under present conditions. It makes most sense.’
‘If you say so, lad. If we’re going, we might as well get on with it.’
The battered gates were thrown open and the two sections, with Macro and Cato at their head, marched out in a tight formation. They trod carefully over the tangle of bodies, dead and living, that sprawled before the Roman defences. A few of the enemy injured still attempted to resist, and Macro had to dodge to one side to avoid a feeble slash at his leg. He swivelled round, sword drawn back ready to strike and saw his assailant, a little boy, lying propped up against the corpse of a huge warrior. The boy held a dagger in one hand and the hand of the dead giant in the other. A javelin head had ripped a gaping hole in the boy’s chest and his torso was covered in a glistening coating of blood. Macro shook his head, lowered his sword and rejoined the formation.
As they picked their way towards the enemy commander the bodies began to thin out, the footing became more reliable and they increased their pace towards Caratacus and his bodyguard.
‘Halt!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Form wedge on me!’
Cato took up position at his friend’s shoulder and the rest of the men fanned out on each side with a small reserve of six men inside the wedge to give body to its initial penetration of the enemy line. The enemy scattered ahead of them, no longer willing to fight, even though they outnumbered the small Roman formation. Only Caratacus and his bodyguard stood firm. The enemy commander raised his arm and shouted an order. His bodyguard moved forward and formed up across the track. Cato counted twenty-two of them. An almost even contest then, and a true test of each side’s elite fighting men. The contrasts in size, equipment and appearance could not have been more marked. The bodyguards were all huge men, tattooed with ornate swirling patterns. Each carried a long sword or spear, an oval shield and most had helmets and chain-mail armour. As the Romans approached the Celts roared out their battle cries, insults and cries of defiance. Beyond them Caratacus looked on with a haughty expression of pride in his men.
Macro caught the expression as well and raised the point of his sword towards the enemy commander.
‘That’s right, mate!’ he called out. ‘We’re coming for you!’
Caratacus sneered. Macro laughed and glanced back at his men. ‘Be ready to charge the moment I give the word. Go in hard and stick it to ’em!’
The two sides were no more than twenty paces apart and Cato felt sure that Macro must order them to charge now, while there was still time, but the veteran centurion continued the approach at a measured pace for a moment longer. The tension shattered as Caratacus screamed an order and his men launched themselves forwards.
‘Charge!’ Macro roared, and Cato broke into a run.
An
instant later the two small bands collided with a chorus of thuds and grunts and a sharp ringing of clashing blades. The Roman formation cleaved a passage through the loose enemy line and the legionaries turned outwards to fight the enemy warriors. The impact had borne a handful to the ground and they were killed before they could recover their breath and climb back on their feet. The Roman formation disintegrated after the charge, and around him Cato saw Romans and warriors locked in a series of duels.
With a savage cry one of the enemy, a dark-haired brute with a blue tattoo of a horse across his chest, charged at Cato, swinging his sword down towards the crest of the centurion’s helmet. Cato swung his sword up at an angle and parried the blow away from his head, letting it rattle and scrape its way down his shield. The wild strike had exposed the enemy’s side and Cato slammed his sword home into the man’s ribs, breaking two apart as the point of the sword drove through flesh and muscle to pierce the man’s heart. Blood pumped from the wound after Cato wrenched the blade back. He poised for another strike, but the man was finished, and slumped to his knees, muttered a curse and then toppled on to his back.
Cato turned and saw the back of a man fighting one of his legionaries. This was no formal fencing match, but a fight to the death, and he plunged his sword into the man’s spine without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Watch it!’ Cato shouted as the legionary nodded his thanks, then his face turned to an agonised expression of surprise as a spearhead erupted through his throat, tearing a metal plate free from the leather straps that bound the segmented armour together. The legionary lurched forward and over, wrenching the spear from the grip of the man behind him. Dodging round his mortally wounded comrade, Cato leaped at the unarmed man and slashed at his eyes, blinding him and almost severing his nose. The warrior screamed as his hands clutched at his face. Cato quickly turned and looked for another foe.
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