‘Form the men up here,’ Cato ordered. ‘Hold my horse. I’ll be back directly.’
Leaving the decurion with the reins, Cato jogged forward up the final rise and along the top of the crags. He slowed down as he saw the ground begin to fall away and continued in a crouch as he fumbled with the ties under his helmet and took it off in case the red plume and gleaming metal drew the enemy’s attention. There was a stunted bush ahead, growing at an angle determined by the prevailing wind that swept across the mountains. He used that for cover as he gazed down on the battle raging along the side of the hill. The top of the crags were nearly a hundred feet above Caratacus’s second line of defence and Cato could see clearly along the length of the battle line.
The legionaries had reached the barricade made of rocks and stone with roughly cut and sharpened branches embedded, the points angled down the slope. As Cato watched he saw parties of men sheltering beneath their broad shields while their comrades used their hands and swords to pull down sections of the barricade. The more courageous of the legionaries had clambered up to engage the enemy. It was an unequal struggle as the Romans were heavily encumbered and could never get enough numbers forward before the enemy responded in overwhelming numbers, hacking the attackers down and driving the survivors back into the massed ranks below. A hundred paces further down, the men of the Ninth crouched down behind their shields. Tribune Otho, with his ostentatious red plume, had dismounted and was striding up and down in front of the colour party where the square drop of the vexillation standard hung limply in the rain. More bodies littered the slope behind the Ninth. Turning his gaze back to the fight, Cato saw that the native warriors were densely packed behind the cover of the barricade. Above them the ground evened out and there was a lumpy plateau stretching across the top of the hill where hundreds of crude shelters had been constructed in a haphazard fashion. A cluster of simple tents occupied the centre of the camp. Caratacus’s headquarters, Cato guessed. Hundreds of wounded warriors sat or lay out of the rain and wind. Their injuries were tended by native women in cloaks, binding up cuts and broken limbs.
Cato had seen enough to grasp the lay of the land and crept back down out of sight before running back to join his column. The Blood Crows were standing by their horses in each of the three squadrons. Beside them stood Macro’s two centuries of legionaries, one under his personal command, the other in the charge of the towering figure of Centurion Crispus, a man who had been promoted from optio after the siege at Bruccium.
‘Officers! On me!’ Cato called out as loudly as he dared. They hurried over to him and the cold rain and biting wind caused Cato to tremble as he waited for them. He cursed his weak body and forced it to be still, in case the other officers mistook his feeling cold for fear. They needed to have every confidence in him if they were to survive their part in the battle.
Cato gestured towards the top of the crags. ‘The battle line is just the other side of the high ground. The general’s second attack has reached the barricade, and there it will stall. Unless we intervene.’ He looked round the small group of junior officers to make sure they understood. ‘This is the plan. Centurion Macro and the infantry will go round the crags, staying out of sight as far as possible, before they launch an attack on the enemy’s flank. Make as much noise as you can and go in hard. Drive ’em back. You won’t have the element of surprise for long, nor be able to maintain the impetus of the charge. But you must drive them back far enough so that the lads of the Fourteenth can break through the flank and back you up. If we move quickly enough we can roll up their line from this end. Are you clear about that? Centurion Macro? Are your men up for it?’
Macro grinned and clapped his hands together. ‘Just let the bastards try and stop us, sir!’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Cato nodded, then turned to the three decurions. ‘Miro, take your squadron and cover Macro’s flank. You must stop them trying to get round our infantry. Charge any groups that look like forming up. Keep ’em on the move. Don’t give them a chance to recover.’
Miro nodded grimly.
‘I’ll lead the other two squadrons. We’ll head up to the top of the hill and ride through their camp. We’ll scatter any fighting men up there and then wheel and charge over the crest and down the slope, straight into the rear of the enemy line. If all goes well, the attack from two directions will be enough to distract them just long enough for our lads in the Fourteenth to get round and over the barricade. Then it’s all over . . . Everyone clear on what part they must play?’
Centurion Crispus shook his head in wonder. ‘You don’t fucking ask for much, sir.’
Macro punched his subordinate on the shoulder. ‘You’ll get used to his funny ways, if you live long enough.’
‘That’s it then, gentlemen. Let’s do it.’
Macro and his men moved forward first, striding along the track and then branching off towards the battlefield. Cato and the horsemen followed. Where the track divided, Cato turned to Miro and nodded. ‘Fortuna ride with you.’
‘And you, sir.’
‘I’ll see you afterwards.’
They exchanged a salute and Cato waved the remaining two squadrons forward as he made for the crest of the hill and the enemy camp that lay beyond.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The ache in Macro’s limbs began to ease as he felt the blood pump through his veins. His muscles felt tense and tight and there was the familiar lightness in his heart as he anticipated the fight to come. Unlike Cato, he had no doubts that this was the reason why the gods had put him on the earth. This was what he had been born to do. He was a soldier, trained for this end, and by Mithras, he would do honour to his profession. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the line of men following him, breathing heavily and grim-faced. Although he had commanded them for less than half a year he knew them well. They fought hard and would not let him down.
They double-timed round the top of the crags as the rain lashed down from the dark clouds scudding overhead. Then the track levelled off for a short distance before dipping down towards the right flank of the enemy line. A flash of sheet lightning lit up the hillside, freezing men locked in combat. Then the light went and an instant later the air reverberated with the roar of thunder. The enemy’s attention was fixed on the men of the Fourteenth, still struggling in vain to find a way over or through the defences. The nearest of them stood where the barricade ran up against a sheer cliff, fifty paces away. Macro stopped his men and waited until the two centuries were formed into a tight column behind him. Then he wiped his hand on the side of his tunic and drew his sword. He hefted his shield, raised his sword into the rain and swept it forward.
The soft thud of nailed boots and the chink of equipment blended with the patter of the rain on helmets and shoulders and the rising din of the battle. Macro increased the pace to a trot as they descended the gentle slope. To his left he saw movement and his gaze flickered to the horsemen fanning out to cover his flank. They were no more than twenty paces from the enemy when a robed man shouting encouragement a short distance behind his comrades paused as he heard the sound of men approaching. He turned and Macro saw his eyes widen in alarm before his jaw gaped and he let out a desperate cry.
‘Fourth Cohort!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Charge!’
He increased his pace to a jog, the fastest any man could run in such heavy armour and equipment and roared the legion’s name, ‘Gemina!’
‘GEMINA!’ The cry echoed from his men’s lips and Macro made for the man who had first seen them. Others had turned towards them now, the triumphant war cries of a moment earlier dying on their lips. Too late the robed man began to turn, and slipped, and then Macro smashed him to the ground with his shield and ran on. Hundreds of enemy warriors stretched out behind the barricade in front of him, but the sight only heartened Macro as he charged in amongst the hapless defenders at the end of the line. A spearman, stripped to the waist, brac
ed himself and thrust the point at Macro. He flicked his sword and deflected the point down into the ground and then thrust his blade into the man’s leading arm, tearing through flesh and muscle before ripping it free. He punched his shield out, feeling the heavy impact as it knocked the spearman back. Macro rushed by, feeling a limb squirm beneath his boot before he launched himself into a group of lightly armed men clustered at the end of the barricade.
A sword cracked against his shield and scraped down to the boss with a sharp clang. Macro punched the shield to one side and then recovered before stabbing his sword to the right. He felt a slight pressure as it inflicted a flesh wound, and then his men piled in on either side, punching their shields and thrusting their swords, just as they had been trained to do. Macro saw the barricade in front of him, a jumble of soil and rocks, with the body of a young warrior sprawled on top. Around him the legionaries had cleared the area at the base of the cliff and several of the enemy lay in the mud bleeding out.
‘Go left!’ Macros shouted. ‘Roll up the bastards’ flank!’
The frantic charge continued without mercy. The tribesmen were still reeling from the shock of the flank attack and Macro was determined to keep up the impetus for as long as he could before the enemy realised how few men he had. The moment the ruse was discovered Caratacus was sure to send his reserves to deal with the threat. The enemy were falling back ahead of the legionaries, running diagonally up the slope to escape their attackers, straight into the path of Miro and his squadron of Blood Crows. They slashed to the left and right, cutting down the fugitives and adding to the panic spreading through the right flank of Caratacus’s army.
Macro drew up and looked round for Crispus. The centurion was a short distance behind, looming above his men as he ordered them to follow up Macro’s century.
‘Crispus! On me! Crispus!’
The centurion glanced round, saw Macro and nodded. A moment later the two officers stood together, gasping for breath. Macro pointed his sword at the barricade.
‘Get your men to start pulling that apart. We have to let the lads on the other side through as quickly as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Crispus bowed his head curtly and called the nearest two sections of his men to him and they lowered their shields, sheathed their blades and desperately began to pull the rocks aside.
‘The rest of you follow me!’ Macro beckoned to the remaining sections of Crispus’s century and rejoined the charge. He passed more fallen warriors, and then the first of his men, lying on his back, his face smashed into a bloody pulp by an axe blow. Angling slightly up the slope for a better view, Macro could see that the enemy had been driven back over a hundred feet and were starting to bunch up. There was no escape for them, yet the dense mass of men would mean that the charge would stall as the legionaries could not press on. But for the moment there was still ground to be made and Macro roared to his men, ‘On! On! Carve ’em up!’
Beyond, some distance away, he could see a large warrior on horseback riding down the line to investigate the disturbance on the flank. The rain had soaked the man’s long hair and yet there was something about him that struck Macro as familiar and then he guessed he was looking at the commander. Caratacus himself. At once the rider gestured towards the flank and men began to pull away from the battle line and form a new line, thirty paces up the slope. As soon as he had gathered two or three hundred of his warriors, Caratacus led them along the slope at a trot. There was not much time before they reached the fighting and tipped the balance, Macro realised.
He looked back and saw Crispus and his men toiling away. They had removed the largest of the rocks and were working away at the earth, using their swords to shovel the muddy soil aside. Some of the legionaries from the other side, streaked in dirt, had clambered up on to the barricade to help them. But it would take a little while yet to open a gap large enough for a steady flow of men to reinforce Macro’s weak cohort.
There was nothing more he could do, other than fight, and Macro strode forward to join his men in battle. Pushing his way to the front, he saw a heavyset warrior with a bedraggled white beard and a torso covered in swirling blue tattoos. The rain gleamed on his skin as he swung an axe above his head and then slammed it down on to the edge of a legionary’s shield. The heavy blade shattered the metal trim and splintered the wood as it carved through the shield, and crushed the shoulder of the Roman behind. He let out a gasp as the air was driven from his lungs and then stumbled back, his ruined shield splashing into the mud. His foe let out a hiss of triumph and stepped forward, halting the advance of the Romans to his front and allowing his comrades to stop and gather their wits. ‘Sa!’
Macro met the mad gaze of the warrior as he began to swing his axe again. Before the man could strike, Macro feinted with his sword and his opponent instinctively flinched, lowering his axe as he retreated. Macro took another pace and followed up with a thrust of his shield, a light blow but it drove the man back against his comrades. Now Macro had the man trapped and he moved in for the kill, stabbing low, into the thigh, twisting the blade and withdrawing it before striking again, higher up, throwing his weight behind the blow which pierced the warrior’s stomach. He let out an explosive groan and dropped his axe as he staggered back.
‘Forwards!’ Macro paused to shout. ‘Come on, lads!’
Macro knew that the pace of the attack was slowing. His men were tiring, and the enemy was recovering from the shock of the sudden appearance of the small force on their flank. More men were angling up the slope to meet the Romans, and behind them Caratacus and his hastily gathered reserve were sweeping towards Macro. A quick glance back revealed Crispus and his men still toiling away and no sign yet of their comrades below coming to the support of the Fourth Cohort.
The impetus of the attack faded and Macro found himself merely standing his ground as he fought alongside his men and held the enemy at bay. A party of native spearman had got in amongst Miro and his squadron and were savagely piking the horses and riders, and driving the Thracians back, so that they threatened to uncover the flank of their legionary comrades. Macro looked further up the slope, towards the crest, for any sign of Cato and his two squadrons, but saw no movement there.
‘Come on, lad,’ he muttered. ‘While there’s still time.’
Caratacus and his men closed in, less than a hundred paces away, and their commander slowed their pace to allow the slowest to catch up so that the reinforcements would throw their full weight in when they charged down the slope and trapped Macro and his cohort against the barricade. There would be no escape if that happened.
A dull cheer caught Macro’s ear and he saw that Crispus and his men had succeeded in opening a small breach, just wide enough for a single man to pass through. The first of the men from below scrambled through and ran to join Macro’s small force holding the enemy at bay, then another, as Crispus urged his men to widen the gap. But it was too late. No more than twenty men had passed through the barricade by the time Caratacus and his party began their charge, surging at an angle down the slope towards Macro with a savage roar. The last of Miro’s squadron was swept aside and the survivors turned and spurred their mounts back towards the top of the crag.
Macro felt his heart burn with frustration. If only there had been a little more time. A hundred more men would have made all the difference to holding the position while the breach was widened for the cohorts trapped on the other side to pour through and swing the balance of the battle in the Romans’ favour. But he might as well wish for the moon, Macro realised, as he turned to face the oncoming enemy squarely, boots braced in the mud, his shield raised and his sword lowered, ready to strike. Above the trim of his shield he could see Caratacus looming high in his saddle, one hand clutching the reins, the other waving his sword. His mouth gaped and the tendons on his neck stood out as he screamed his war cry.
‘For fuck’s sake, Cato,’ Macro raged. ‘Wher
e are you?’
As the two squadrons reached the crest of the hill Cato gave the order to form line and the sixty horsemen fanned out across the uneven ground. Glancing right and left to make sure the line kept up, Cato walked them to the edge of the plateau. He lifted his oval shield up and held it close to his side as he reached for the long-bladed sword hanging in the saddle scabbard.
‘Blood Crows! At the trot! Advance!’
The line edged into motion, towards the nearest shelters and the wounded men, and the women who tended them. The horsemen were quickly spotted and cries of alarm spread across the enemy camp as the dreaded Blood Crow banner was recognised. Those who could walk scrambled to their feet and turned to flee. The rest pressed themselves into whatever cover they could find, snatching up weapons to try and defend themselves.
Blinking away the raindrops that stung his face, Cato drew a breath and called out, ‘At the canter!’
The men held formation as they burst upon the enemy camp, long blades hacking left and right, the riders leaning from their saddles to strike those on the ground. They killed scores of the helpless enemy and those who could ran for their lives, spreading the terror through the camp. Cato indulged his men a while longer, carefully gauging the distance they had advanced, anxious not to go too far before they changed direction. A third of the way across the plateau he reined in and raised his sword to draw the attention of his men.
‘Blood Crows! Halt! Halt! Form up on me!’
Wheeling his mount to face the side of the hill where the battle was raging, Cato waited anxiously for his men to break off their butchering of the enemy wounded and take up position on either side of their commander. A quick glance round revealed only one riderless horse standing on the plateau. Cato nodded. It had gone well so far. If Macro and his men had played their part then the enemy’s attention would be drawn to the attack on their flank, and they would not be prepared for a second blow from a different direction. But if Macro had failed then Cato fully realised that he was about to lead what was left of the Blood Crows to complete annihilation. He felt a curious calm at the prospect. His only palpable regret was the thought of Julia grieving his death. He thrust all such thoughts aside and cleared his throat that he might give his order clearly and calmly.
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