‘Very funny, Centurion. You’ll back up Macro the moment he gets moving again. Like I said to him, go in hard. We’ll worry about taking prisoners later.’
Lebauscus grinned cruelly. ‘Yes, sir.’
The new arrivals rested behind their shields as occasional arrows whipped overhead. Cato waited until they had filled the space behind the First Century of Macro’s cohort, then he took a deep breath and called out, ‘Macro! Now!’
Macro half rose and squinted warily through the split in his shield. Most of the archers had exhausted their arrows and fallen back to join the men massing around Belmatus, tossing their bows aside and drawing their swords. Macro drew a breath.
‘First Century! Prepare to charge, and make it loud!’
The men on either side made ready, limbs tense as they awaited the order.
Macro filled his lungs and roared, ‘CHARGE!’
A great cry tore from the lips of his men as they powered forward behind their shields, swords levelled and ready to strike. The sudden eruption of battle rage momentarily stunned their opponents and the first of the legionaries plunged in amongst them before they could react. Macro slammed into one of the archers who had begun to back away and was knocked flying by the impact, crashing into two of his companions a short distance beyond. Macro followed through, striking with his shield again before delivering a vicious series of stabs at each of the men. One, armed with a short axe, leaped back after he took a wound to his side, and hurled the axe at Macro’s head. He jerked aside and felt the rush of air on his ear as the weapon spun by end over end and cracked against the shield of a legionary behind him. Macro made sure that the other two were out of the fight before he moved on. He was aware of the surge of red tunics and shields on either side of him as his men shouted the name of their legion.
‘Gemina!’
The legionaries surged forward, striking their opponents down efficiently and mercilessly. But the Brigantians quickly recovered their wits and rushed forward to meet the Romans, sword and axe against shield and armour. Only a handful had mail vests worn over padded tunics. The rest fought without armour, or even bare-chested, putting their faith in raw courage and disdain for the heavily protected enemy. It was an uneven contest and they fell one by one, inflicting only a few casualties as the men of Rome ploughed through them.
Macro paused to search for Belmatus. Then he saw him, standing beside a tattooed warrior waving a standard steadily from side to side so that all would see the golden bull on a green background in the breathless air of the baking summer’s day. A different standard flew over the Brigantian capital today, Macro mused, but he resolved that it would fall before the day was out.
He advanced on Belmatus, only lifting his shield or sword to those directly in his path. Steering a path through the wild melee, exchanging blows when necessary, he confronted the enemy leader. Belmatus had seen the crest of the centurion weaving towards him and moved to intercept him, keen to have the honour of killing an officer. Another warrior rushed in at an angle until Belmatus turned to him and bellowed angrily and the man backed off and turned to find another enemy to fight.
‘You want me all for yourself, do you?’ Macro growled as he inscribed a small ellipse with the point of his sword. ‘Then come and get me.’
For a heartbeat the two men sized each other up as Belmatus raised his longer sword and buckler and lowered himself into a crouch. The Brigantian muttered something. A curse perhaps, Macro thought, or a challenge like his own, as if they were meeting as paired fighters in the arena, and not amid the frenzy of the battle taking place for the possession of the bastion. He decided to make the first move, a feint to test the reactions of his opponent. Macro drew back his sword to make a thrust at the centre of the warrior’s chest.
Before he could strike, there was a blur of motion and a legionary slammed into Belmatus’s side, his sword taking the warrior under the armpit and disappearing deep into his chest. He let out an explosive grunt and was lifted bodily off his feet and carried another pace before he crumpled on to the ground, spluttering blood.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ Macro howled in rage. ‘The bastard was mine!’
The legionary braced his boot on the fallen man’s chest and ripped his blade free. He shrugged at the centurion, mumbled an apology and hurried off into the fray, leaving Macro staring at Belmatus with a disappointed expression as the latter writhed feebly on the ground, blood coursing from the fatal wound.
A short distance away the native standard-bearer was also staring at the body in horror, then he looked up as Macro advanced on him, brandishing his sword.
‘You’ll have to do instead, my friend.’
‘Na!’ The man shook his head and backed off, then turned and ran with the standard towards the rear of the bastion. As the banner fluttered over the heads of the combatants, there were groans of despair from the natives and some turned away from the fight and followed the fleeing standard-bearer. Then Macro saw what the man was heading towards: a small gate on the palisade, opposite the main fort, clearly visible in the background as it was slightly more elevated than the bastion. Panic spread quickly and the Brigantians broke away, retreating a few steps before turning and running. The legionaries went after them, slowed by the weight of their equipment. But as the natives struggled to escape the bottleneck at the gate, the Romans caught up and laid into them. Pressed together, with no space to wield their weapons, the tribesmen were at the mercy of the legionaries. But there was no mercy. Only the urge to kill. And they went about it with violent abandon, thrusting again and again. Mortally wounded men slumped down, some prevented from reaching the ground by the crush around them.
Over the slaughter, Macro saw the standard pass through the gate and disappear from sight as the standard-bearer descended the steps on the far side of the earthwork. More men fought to get through, desperate to escape the crimson blades of the Romans pressing in around them. A small party of legionaries reached the palisade and began to work along it towards the gate and then closed off the only line of retreat for the Brigantians. They began to force the survivors back towards the centre of the bastion.
Macro saw that there was no escape for the fifty or so that remained, surrounded by low mounds of their fallen comrades. He suddenly felt an intolerable ache in his limbs and the full burden of his armour, as well as the stifling heat. He licked his dry lips and forced himself to stand erect as he shouted an order.
‘Enough! Stand back!’ His voice was hoarse. Too hoarse for his men to hear clearly. He quickly spat and coughed and called out again. ‘Pull back!’
It took a moment for the order to penetrate the minds of men caught up in the fiery madness of butchery, but one by one they withdrew from the knot of defenders that still lived until a small gap opened between the two sides. Macro stepped forward, sheathing his blade. He set his split shield down on the ground and pointed a finger at the nearest Brigantian’s weapon and then at the ground.
‘Drop it!’ he snarled to emphasise his demand.
The man nervously did as he was told and tossed his sword a short distance away, beyond the bodies. At once the rest followed suit. Macro glanced round and saw the century’s optio. ‘Get ’em over to the other side and sit them down. One section to guard them.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The optio bowed his head and turned to summon men to carry out the order.
Most of the interior of the bastion was devoid of any signs of the struggle. The fighting had been most fierce at the end that had been pulled down and scores of bodies lay on the ground. There were a few more scattered across the rest of the flattened ground, men who had tried to get away but had been hunted down and killed by the first legionaries of the Eighth Cohort to enter the breach. Macro was looking over the bodies when he caught sight of the shaven-headed warrior he had fought earlier. The man lay on his back, head propped up o
n the bloodied torso of another warrior. Macro squatted down at his side and took a fold of the mail, pursing his lips at the quality of the joints. No wonder it had kept his blade out. Macro removed the dead man’s belt, took hold of the sleeves and pulled the armour from his body. He bundled it up and deposited the mail vest with one of the men guarding the prisoners.
‘Here. Look after it. I’ll want it when this is over.’ He wagged a finger at the soldier. ‘You’d better make sure it’s still here. Understand?’
As the man saluted, Macro caught sight of Cato conferring with Centurion Lebauscus, who nodded and disappeared back down the collapsed bank of earth. Turning towards his friend, Cato came striding across.
‘I saw Belmatus back there. You got him then?’
‘I would have if some bugger hadn’t got in the way. Still, he’s dead.’
Cato looked at the heaps of bodies close to the rear gate and let out a low whistle. ‘Sweet Jupiter. What a bloodbath . . .’ He crossed to the palisade and looked down in time to see the last of those who had escaped running across the narrow strip of open ground and in through the gate of the main fort. A moment later the doors shut with a dull thud and then there was the scrape of the locking bar being eased back into its brackets.
‘Let’s hope they give a good account of what happened here. Enough to persuade Venutius and his friends that they don’t want to share the same fate.’
There were warriors above them on the fort’s gatehouse and along the palisade, and some were carrying bows. Cato turned and looked at the prisoners the optio and his men were herding away from the dead. ‘Better keep them on this side of the bastion. Might discourage their friends from trying any potshots.’
Macro nodded. ‘Good idea.’
Cato looked down the track that Horatius had chosen as his route for the first attack. The ram lay abandoned inside the final bend, surrounded by bodies of the men of the Seventh Cohort. Macro saw them and shook his head in dismay.
‘They didn’t even come close. What a waste.’
‘Indeed.’ Cato sighed. ‘And we’re only halfway there.’
He gestured towards the massive defensive earthworks and the gatehouse opposite them. ‘We have the bastion. Now comes the hard part.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
By the time the Seventh Cohort had dragged the dismantled light ballistas up into the bastion, Lebauscus’s men had begun constructing protective screens along the rear wall. The legionaries used the enemy’s shields and smaller timbers taken from the front of the fortification. Hurriedly lashed together, they provided cover from missiles directed from the main fort. Then the auxiliaries, armed with slings, moved into position along the length of the palisade facing the gate.
Cato’s strategy of using the prisoners to discourage Venutius from shooting across into the bastion had worked for a while, but as soon as the first screens were set up, the enemy reluctantly accepted the risk to their captured comrades and unleashed their arrows. After an initial flurry, which claimed more native lives than Roman, the Brigantians contented themselves with occasional harassing shots to conserve their ammunition.
‘Over here!’ Cato called across to Centurion Acer, and indicated the makeshift embrasures opposite the fort’s gatehouse. ‘Set ’em up along the palisade.’
The sweating legionaries carried their burdens over the bloodstained grass and set them down behind the cover of the wooden wall. As more men came up with the baskets of three-foot-long bolts and rounded stones, their comrades set to work reassembling the weapons. The largest component was the heavy wooden frame containing the thick cords of twisted sinew that gave the ballistas their extraordinary power. These were heaved up on to the sturdy wooden stands and secured with wooden pegs and wedges, hammered home with mallets. Finally the missile beds and the throwing arms were slotted home and the loading handles fitted to the torsion ratchets.
‘They’re ready now, sir,’ Centurion Acer reported to Cato as he conferred with Lebauscus, Macro and Vellocatus. The latter, his arm in a sling, had climbed up to the bastion along with the Eighth Cohort.
‘Shall I give the order to start shooting?’ Acer asked.
‘Not yet,’ Cato decided. ‘When we strike, I want to hit ’em with our full strength. If we can shake them badly from the off then the battle is more than half won. One thing I have learned from fighting these Britons is that if you go at them with speed and ferocity, they have a tendency to lose their nerve. Shock them, gentlemen. That’s the trick of it.’
‘Nice words,’ said Lebauscus. ‘But they don’t win battles, sir. That’s down to men and cold steel.’
Cato nodded. ‘And the mind that directs them, Centurion.’
He paused and quickly considered the men at his disposal and the ground before them. It was vital that the officers were clear about their roles in the coming action and the need to co-ordinate their efforts if the attack was to succeed with minimal casualties. They could ill afford to lose any more men. Cato had already considered the consequences if they failed. The column would be obliged to retreat across the frontier as quickly as possible. As soon as Venutius and Caratacus had gathered sufficient men they would pursue the Romans and harry them all the way. The depleted column would need every man to hold the enemy off. He put aside thoughts of retreat and focused on the immediate task.
‘Centurion Horatius was right on one count, the only way we’re going to get into the fort is by battering down the gate. His method, however, was too direct.’
‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Macro.
‘We still need that ram,’ Cato resumed. ‘The enemy will be determined to make us pay a high price to recover it. The ram is in full view of the earthworks either side of the gate and the party we send out to fetch it is going to be exposed to a barrage of arrows, spears, rocks and whatever else they have prepared for us. That said, they in turn are going to have to expose themselves when they target our men retrieving the ram. That’s where you come in, Acer. I want those ballistas worked hard. Keep the defenders’ heads down. You’ll command the auxiliary slingmen as well. When the command is given, hit the enemy as hard as you can. Anything to put them off their aim and give our lads the chance to fetch the ram without suffering too many losses.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Which brings us to the small job of retrieving the ram.’ Cato turned to Macro with a weary smile. ‘How many men are left in your First Century?’
Macro had accounted for his losses during the brief pause in action while the ballistas were set up. ‘Forty-eight still on their feet, sir. More than enough.’
‘Good. You’ll take them out of the breach and go round the front of the bastion. When you hear the signal, you make a dash for the ram, pick it up and carry it to the gate. Then smash the bastard in.’
Macro grinned. ‘With pleasure.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Lebauscus cut in. ‘But why send in Macro’s men? They’ve done their bit. Better to let my lads do it. They’re fresh and at full strength.’
Cato shook his head. ‘That’s why I’m saving them to deliver the main blow. The Eighth Cohort will be up here, ready to assault the fort through the bastion’s gate the moment the ram has done its work. Besides, you’re going to have a hard time talking Macro out of the job. Isn’t that right?’
Macro laughed and wagged a finger at the other centurion. ‘Try and stop me, my friend.’
Lebauscus smiled. ‘It’s your funeral, Macro. Just trying to help.’
‘You’ll have the chance to play your part after Macro has succeeded,’ said Cato. ‘When the gate is down, you’ll go in fast and hard. Kill any that resist, but spare any that abandon their weapons. You need to make that point clear to your men. I don’t want to kill any Brigantians we don’t have to. As far as we’re concerned, those who have sided with Venutius and Caratacus have been misled an
d made a mistake. So we let them live and be grateful for it.’
Lebauscus looked doubtful. ‘That’ll be hard on the men, sir. You know what they’re like when their blood’s up.’
‘I do. And that’s why you need to rein them in, Centurion. When this is over, the Brigantes are going to be our allies again. I’d rather we didn’t give them any more pain than we have to. We do not want to leave behind a legacy of bitterness or resentment. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir. But what about captives?’
‘There won’t be any. Anyone we capture will be handed over to Queen Cartimandua to decide their fate.’
‘No captives?’ Lebauscus could not hide his disappointment. ‘The men aren’t going to like that. I’ve already overheard some of them talking about their share of the loot.’
‘I don’t care what they do and don’t like,’ Cato replied tersely. ‘Those are my orders. There will be no captives taken to sell as slaves, and no looting. Any man caught looting or raping will be subjected to the harshest discipline. You will explain that to them as well, and you will be responsible for their actions, Centurion Lebauscus. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato looked round. ‘Is everyone clear about what they have to do?’
The others nodded and Lebauscus asked, ‘What about you, sir?’
‘I’ll be going in with your cohort. Me and Vellocatus.’
Lebauscus raised an eyebrow. ‘With respect, sir. Both of you are wounded. You’d be more of a hindrance than a help.’
‘I thank you for your concern,’ Cato replied acidly. ‘We’ll need Vellocatus to call on them to surrender. I’ll be there because I am in command.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
Cato paused but there were no further questions. ‘Very well, then. The signal for Macro to go for the ram and for Acer to start shooting will be one blast of the horn, repeated at intervals until we’re under way. Then two blasts for the main attack to begin, and Acer to cease shooting. To your units, gentlemen. Macro, get your men round the back of the bastion. Keep out of sight and be ready to act the moment you hear the signal.’
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