'Yes, sir!' The optio turned.back to the prisoners and drew his sword, dating them to utter a sound. His posture was eloquent enough and the natives shrank back in sullen silence.
'What now, I wonder,' said lЈIacro.
'Why don't they attack us, sir?'
'No idea, Cato. No idea.'
As the light in the sky thifmed and the gloom of late afternoon thickened, the two forces stood in silent confrontation. Each waited for the other to surrender to the imperative need to do something to end the tension wearing away at their nerves. Macro, veteran though he was, found that he was rapping his fingers on the rim of his shield and was only made aware of it by the curious sidelong glance of his optio. He withdrew his hand, cracked his fingers loudly enough to make Cato wince, and rested his palm on the handle of his sword.
'Well, I've never seen the like before,' he began conversationally.
'The Durotriges must either have the best self control I've ever seen in a Celtic tribe or they're even more nervous of us than we are of them.'
'Which do you think it is, sir?'
'I don't think I'd bet much on them being scared.'
As he spoke, the enemy line parted to let a handful of men through. With a thrill of terror Cato saw that their leader wore an antlered headpiece and that he and his mounted followers were swathed in the same black robes they had worn before the ramparts of the Second Legion when their leader had beheaded the navy prefect, Maxentius.
With a slow, deliberate and menacing gait, the Druids walked their horses up towards the cohort and gently reined in, just out of javelin range. For a moment the only movement came from their horses gently pawing the ground. Then their leader raised a hand.
'Romans! I would speak with your leader!' The accent was marked, betraying the Druid's Gallic origins. His deep voice echoed flatly off the snow-covered slopes of the vale.
'Send him forward!'
Macro and Cato turned to look at Hortensius. His lips curled with contempt for an instant, before realisation ofth cohort's peril restored his self-control. The nearest men saw him swallow, stiffen his spine and then step out from the cohort's ranks and stride confidently towards the Druids. As he watched, Cato felt a cold tingle of dread at the back of his neck. Surely Hortensius would not be so foolish as to ris ending up like Maxentius? Cato leaned forward, biting on his lip.
'Easy, lad,' Macro said in a low growl. 'Hortensius knows what he's about. So don't let your feelings show – you'll make the womenfolk nervous.' He tipped his head towards. the nearest men of the Sixth Century and those within earshot grinned. Cato blushed, and stood still, forcing all expression from his face ashe watched Hortensius approach the Druids., The senior centurion stopped a short distance from the horsemen and stood with h! feet planted apart, his hand on the pommel of his sword..The two sides conversed, but the words were too faint to make out. The exchange was brief.
The horsemen remained where they were while Hortensius moved back several paces, before slowly turning and making his way to the safety of the cohort. Once inside the wall of shields, he called for his officers. Macro and Cato trotted over to join the others, all of-them burning to know what had passed between Hortensius and the dark Druids.
'They say they'll let us march on unhindered,' Hortensius paused, and gave his officers a wry smile, 'provided we set our prisoners free.'
'Bollocks.' Macro spat on the ground. 'They must think we were born yesterday.'
'My sentiments exactly. I told 'em I might release their mates only when we were behind the walls of the Second Legion's camp. They weren't impressed with that, and suggested a compromise. That we free the prisoners once we're in sight of the camp.'
The officers considered the offer, each weighing up the likelihood of the cohort being able to reach the camp, unencumbered by prisoners, before the Britons reneged on the deal and tried to cut them to pieces.
'There'll be plenty of chances to take more prisoners later in the campaign,' one of the centurions suggested, and then stopped speaking as Hortensius laughed and shook his head.
'That bastard Diomedes has stitched us up nicely!'
'Sir?'
'They don't want that sorry lot over there!' Hortensius jabbed his thumb towards the Britons squatting on the ground. 'They're talking about the Druids we took back at the settlement. The ones that little shit Diomedes killed.'
Chapter Fifteen
'Back to your units.' Hortensius gave the order quietly. 'Tell them to prepare to advance. As soon as I give the signal.'
The officers trotted over to their centuries. Cato glanced over at the Druids waiting for Hortensius's response to their offer. They'd get their answer §oon enough, he reflected, and found himself desperately hoping the cohort would manage to kill them before they could wheel their mounts and escape.
The men of the Sixth Century had forgotten their exhaustion and listened intently as Macro and his optio passed down the line, quietly readying the men for the order to advance. Even in the dying light Cato could see the determined glint in the eyes of the legionaries as they checked their helmet ties and made sure of their grip on their shields and javelins. This would be a straight fight, unlike the mad rush of the trap they had sprung in the ruined settlement.
Neither side would have the advantage of surprise. Nor would tactical skill play a paR. Only training, equipment and. raw courage would determine the outcome. The Fourth Cohort would cut its way through the Britons, or be cut to pieces in the attempt.
The Sixth Century formed the left-hand side of the front face of the box formation. To its right was the First Cohort, and three other cohorts formed the sides and rear of the box.
The last cohort acted as reserve, with half its strength guarding the prisoners. Macro and Cato moved to the centre of the front rank of their century and waited for Hortensius to give the order. On the track ahead of them the Druids were now aware that something was amiss. They craned their necks to peer over the wall of shields for any sign of their comrades. The leader kicked his heels and urged his mount closer to the legionaries. He raised one hand to cup his mouth.
'Romans! Give us your response! Now, or die!'
'Fourth Cohort!' Hortensius roared. 'Advance!'
The cohort stepped forward, booted feet crunching over the frozen snow as they closed on the silent mass of the Durotriges waiting for them. As the wall of shields moved forward, the Druids wheeled their mounts and galloped back to the safety of their followers. Behind the metal trim of his shield, Cato's eyes scanned the dark figures barring the cohort's route, and then looked-longingly beyond them to where the track led towards the safety of the Second Legion's camp. His right hand tightened its grip round the handle of his sword and the blade rose to the horizontal poise.
As the distance closed between the two sides, the Druids barked out orders to the Durotrigan warriors. With a crack of reins and cries of instruction and encouragement to their horses, the charioteers on the flanks began to move further out, ready to charge down on any gaps that opened.in the Roman formation. Axles squeaked and the heavy wheels rumbled as the chariots moved off under the anxious gaze of the legionaries. Cato tried to reassure himself that they had little to fear from these outdated weapons. As long as the Roman lines held firm, the chariots could be regarded as little more than an unpleasant distraction.
As long as the formation held firm.
'Hold the line steady!' Macro shouted, as some of the more nervous men in the century began to outpace their comrades. Chastened, the men adjusted their stride and lines evened out to present an uribroken wall of shields to the enemy. The Durotriges were' no more than a hundred paces away now and Cato could pick out the individual features of the men he would kill or be killed by in the next few moments. Most of the enemy's heavy infantry wore chain mail over their brightly coloured tunics and leggings. Shaggy beards and pigtails hung down beneath polished helmets and each man carried a war spear or long sword. Although they had been organised into a discreet unit, it
was clear from the unevenness of their line of shields that they had been poorly trained in formation drill.
Cato was aware of a strange.whirring sound rising above the crunch of snow and chink of equipment, and glanced to the light infantry on eaoh side of the enemy centre.
'Slingers!' someone shouted out from the Roman ranks.
Centurion Hortensius reacted at once. 'First two ranks!
Shields high and low!'
Cato adjusted his grip and crouched slightly so that the bottom rim of his shield protected his shins. The legionary immediately behind raised his shield above Cato. The action was repeated all along the first two ranks so that the front of the Roman formation was sheltered from the coming volley.
A moment later and the whirring abruptly rose in pitch and was accompanied by a whipping sound. A deafening rattle filled the air as the deadly volley of shot struck the Roman shields: Cato flinched as a corner of his shield was hit by a lead shot. But the Roman line did not falter and remorselessly advanced as the slingshot continued to crash off the shields with a sound like a thousand hammer blows. Yet several cries told of shots that had found their targets. Those men who fell out of line were quickly replaced by the legionaries in the next rank and their writhing forms left to be scooped up by a handful of men acting as casualty bearers and dumped in one of the cohort's wagons, rumbling along inside the square.
Thirty yards out from the heaving mass of the enemy line, Hortensius ordered the cohort to halt.
'Front ranks! Ready javelins!' Those who still had a javelin to throw after the fight in the settlement swept their right arms back, planting their feet apart in readiness for the next order. 'Javelins, release!'
In the dying light it appeared as if a fine black veil rose up from the Roman ranks and arced down onto the milling mass of the Durotriges. A shattering clatter and crash was quickly followed by screams as the heavy iron heads of the Roman javelins punched through shields, armour and flesh.
'Draw swords!' bellowed Hortensius above the din. A metallic rasp sounded from all sides of the box formation as the legionaries drew their short stabbing swords and presented the tip to the enemy. Almost at once the harsh blare of war horns sounded from behind the Durotriges and with a great roar of battle rage they swept forward.
'Charge!' Hortensius cried out, and with shields held firmly to the front and swords held level at the waist, the Roman front lines threw themselves at the enemy. Cato's heart pounded against his ribs and time appeared to slow enough for him to imagine being killed or terribly wounded by one of the men whose savage faces were mere feet away.
An icy sensation flowed throigh his guts before he filled his lungs and gave vent to a wild cry of his own, determined to destroy everything in his pate The two lines hurtled against each other with a rolling clatter of spear, sword and shield that sounded like a huge wave crashing on a stony shore. Cato felt his shield jar as it thumped into flesh. A man gasped as the air was driven out of his lungs and then again in agony as the legionary next to Cato drove his sword into-the, Briton's armpit. The man dropped and Cato kicked him to one side as he in turn thrust towards the unprotected chest of a Briton wielding his axe above Macro's skull. The Briton saw the blow coming and threw himself back from the point of Cato's sword so that it merely tore open his.shoulder instead of dealing a mortal blow. He did not cry out as blood poured down his chest.
Nor did he cry out when MaCro rammed his sword in so ferociously that it went straight through and burst bloodily from the small of the man's back. A startled expression flashed onto his ruined face, then he fell amongst the other dead and injured littering the churned-up snow, now stained with blood.
'Press forwards, lads!' Cato shouted. 'Keep it close, and stick it to 'em!'
Beside him Macro smiled approvingly. The optio was finally acting like a soldier in battle. No longer coy about shouting out encouragement to men far older and more experienced than him, and cool-headed enough to know how the cohort must fight in order to survive.
The heavily armed Britons hurled themselves on the Roman shield wall with a fanatical savagery that horrified Cato. On either side of the box formation, the more lightly armed natives closedin on the flanks, screaming their battle cries and urged on by the Druids. The priests of the Dark Moon stood a little behind the fighting line, pouring curses on the invaders and calling upon the tribesmen to sweep this small knot of Romans from the British soil they defiled with their eagle standards. But religious fervour and blind courage provided no protection for their unarmoured breasts.
They fell in large numbers before the lethal thrusts of swords designed to make short work of such foolish heroics.
At length the British heavy infantry became aware of the grievous losses that were piling up at the front of the armoured square, and still the Roman line remained unbroken and unwavering. The Durotriges began to shrink back from the terrible blades that stabbed out at them from between shields that all but hid their enemy from view.
'We've got 'em!' Macro bellowed. 'Forward! Keep forcing them back!'
The Durotriges, brave as they were, had never before encountered such a ruthless and efficient foe. It was like fighting a great iron machine, designed and built for war alone. It rolled forward without pity, impressing upon all who stood in its path that there could be only one outcome for those who dared to defy it.
A cry of anguish and fear grew in the throats of the Durotriges and flowed through their milling ranks as they realised the Romans were prevailing. Men were no longer willing to throw themselves uselessly at this moving square of impenetrable shields that was cleaving its way through ranks of swords and spears. As.the Durotriges at the front recoiled, the men in the rear bgan to step back, at first just to keep their balance, and thn their feet picked up speed, as if of their own will – carrying them away from the enemy.
More men followed and scores, then hundreds of Britons peeled away from the dense Paass of their comrades and fled down the track.
'Don't fucking stop!' Hoftensius roared from the front rank of the First Century. 'Keep advancing. If we stop we're dead! Forward!'
A less experienced army would have drawn up right there, flushed with excitement at having bested their enemy, trembling with the thrill of having survived and awed by the carnage they had wrought. BUt the men of the legions continued their advance behind a solid shield wall, swords poised and ready to strike. Most had grown into manhood under the iron will of a military discipline that had stripped away the soft malleable material of humanity and fashioned them into deadly fighters, wholly subordinate to the will and word of command. After only the briefest pause to dress their lines, the men of the Fourth Cohort steadily advanced down the track leading through the vale.
The sun had settled beyond the horizon and the snow took on a bluish tinge as dusk closed in. On either side, the slopes were loosely covered by the broken ranks of the Durotriges, watching in silence as the square trudged past.
Here and there their leaders, and the Druids, were busy reforming their men by force of will and cruelly wielded blows from the flat of their blades. War horns brayed out their rallying cries and the warriors gradually began to recover their wits.
'No slacking!' Macro ordered. 'Keep up the pace!'
The first enemy units to re-form began to march after the cohort. The square formation was designed for protection, not speed, and the lightly armed units easily outpaced the Romans. As night fell, the men of the Fourth Cohort were uncomfortably aware of the dark mass of men flowing past them along the slopes in a bid to head off the legionaries once again. And this time, Cato reflected, the Durotriges would have prepared a more effective line of attack.
Night marches are difficult in the best of circumstances.
The ground is largely invisible and lays plenty of traps for the unwary foot: a concealed rabbit hole or entrance to a sett can easily twist an ankle or break a bone. The unevenness of the ground quickly threatens to break up a formation and its officers have to mo
ve up and down the ranks tirelessly to ensure that a steady pace is maintained and that no gaps appear in the unit. Beyond these immediate difficulties lies the larger problem of route finding. With no sun to guide the men and, in overcast conditions, no stars, there is little more than faith to act upon in setting the line of march. For the men of the Fourth Cohort the problems of night marching were particularly acute. Snow had buried the track they had marched south on some days earlier and Hortensius could only follow the course of the vale, warily assessing each dip and rise in case the cohort was blundering off course. On either side, the sounds of the thaseen Britons wore down the exhausted nerves of the men as they dragged their feet forwards.
Cato was more tired than he had ever been in his life.
Every sinew in his body cried,out for rest. His eyelids were almost too heavy to keep oPen and the cold was no longer the numbing distraction it had been earlier in the day. Now it fuelled the desire to slip into a deep, warm sleep.
Insiduously, his mind entertained the idea and slowly drained the resolve that strove against the demand of every aching muscle for rest. He withdrew his attention from the world around him, away from watehin.g the ranks of legionaries and the danger of the enemy lurking invisibly beyond. The monotonous pace of the advance aided the process and at length he succumbed to the desire to shut his eyes, just for a moment, just to take away the a,ful stinging sensation for a moment. He blinked them open to make sure of his bearings, and then they closed again, almost of their own will. Slowly his chin dipped towards his chest…
'On your fucking feet!'
Cato's eyes snapped open, his body filled with the chilling tremor that comes with being forcibly wrenched from sleep.
Someone held his arm in a tight, painful grip.
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