As the track began to bend round the foot of the cliff, Cato slowed his horse to a trot and then stopped. The sound of the horn was clearer now, and he could hear men shouting. He glanced at the cliff and saw that it was less than fifty feet in height at this point. Some rocks had fallen by the side of the road and it should be possible to climb to the top.
‘Take my horse,’ Cato ordered as he slipped from the saddle and began to scramble over the rocks and up the cliff.
The decurion watched his superior in alarm. ‘Where are you going, sir?’
‘To spy out the lie of the land.’ Cato paused and looked down over his shoulder. ‘Just make sure you stay there.’
He did not wait for a reply but continued up, carefully testing his grip on the handholds and the weight on his boots as he made his way towards the top. It was a short climb but he was breathing heavily as he hauled himself over the crumbling edge and slithered far enough away from it to be sure it would not give way beneath him. Then, rising cautiously to his feet, he looked in the direction of the horn as it sounded again. On the far side of the cliff the track continued straight down the valley, towards a small hillock on top of which sat a Roman outpost. Around it, in a loose circle, were a hundred or so figures armed with shields and spears. A handful wore helmets but the rest were bareheaded with long dark hair tied back. As Cato watched, some more emerged from the trees a short distance away, carrying a stout length of timber. They made directly for the fort and their intention was perfectly clear. Cato made sure that there were no more of the enemy visible before he climbed back down to Trebellius and took his reins and swung himself back into the saddle.
‘The enemy are attacking the outpost. There’s no time to lose if we’re to save them!’
Cato turned back towards Macro and beckoned his friend forward. A moment later the men of the squadron had reached the cliff and stood waiting for orders. Freed of the burden of their saddlebags and feed nets the horses were lively and snorted excitedly as their hoofs scraped the ground. Decimus, on his mule, came up last, armed with a buckler and his old army sword hanging from its strap across his shoulder.
‘The enemy are trying to take the outpost up ahead,’ Cato explained, his mind racing ahead to form his plan. ‘Their attention is fixed on our auxiliary comrades so they won’t see us coming until it is too late. They’ll be caught between the garrison and ourselves. When we get round the cliff I want you to form line and follow the pace that I set. We must hit them at the same time so the charge carries as much weight as possible. Anyone tries to overtake me and they’ll be in deep shit. Specifically, latrine duty for a month.’
Some of the men laughed at his feeble joke, the rest, even Trebellius, smiled and Cato knew that they would not let him down. ‘When I give the order to charge home, hit them as hard as you can. Break ’em up and ride ’em down. Show no mercy until it’s clear the fight’s been knocked out of the enemy.’ He glanced over the faces before him to make sure that they understood. The eagerness in their expressions told him all he needed to know. Cato turned his mount round and reached for the handle of his short sword. He intended to draw a longer cavalry blade from stores when he reached Bruccium.
‘Ready weapons!’
Macro, Decimus, Trebellius and Cato drew their swords while the men hefted their spears. Slipping their shield straps from their shoulders they grasped the reins loosely in their left hands as the shields protected that side of their bodies. There would be little chance to use the reins in the fight ahead; the men made sure that they were seated securely between their saddle horns and prepared to control their mounts with their thighs and heels.
Cato lowered the tip of his blade. ‘At the trot! Forwards!’
The column lurched forward with jingling bits, snorts from the horses and curt words of command from their riders. Macro spurred his horse on, until he was at the side of his friend. ‘Here we go again.’
Cato kept his eyes on the track ahead. As they rounded the base of the cliff and the ground opened out he saw the enemy a few hundred paces away, surging towards the ditch surrounding the fort. Some hurled spears, others rocks, while the auxiliaries answered back with light javelins and slingshot. Already several of the enemy were down. But the party with the battering ram had reached the gate and a crash sounded as their weapon struck home against the timbers of the outpost.
‘Form line!’ Cato called out and the men behind him adjusted their pace so they caught up and moved out to the flanks until they were all in line, scarcely two hundred paces from the nearest of the native warriors. But already they had been seen. Faces turned towards them, and the triumphant shouts and taunts of a moment earlier turned to cries of alarm. The men with the battering ram stopped attacking the gate and lowered the ram and backed away from the fort uncertainly.
The moment of surprise was over. The leader of the enemy war band shouted orders to his men and they turned towards the oncoming Romans and began to form a line. Cato saw that the opportunity to crush the enemy in the first charge was slipping from his grasp. If they could form up in close ranks and present their spears then there was every chance that they would stand firm against the horsemen. Yet it was vital that Cato and his men charged at the same time to ensure the maximum impact. In less than two heartbeats he weighed up the options in his mind, calculating the remaining distance, the time needed to strike, and the likelihood of his men being dispersed as their mounts galloped at different speeds. Snatching a deep breath, Cato stabbed his short sword towards the tribesmen and bellowed the order, ‘Charge! Charge!’
His cry was taken up by Macro, who gritted his teeth and drew his lips back in a feral grin as he waved his sword above his head and grasped his reins in his left hand. Trebellius and his squadron shouted their war cry and raised their spear arms ready to strike down at the enemy. Decimus brought up the rear, legs dangling almost to the ground as he urged his braying mule on, slapping its flank with the flat of his sword. Cato heard the roar of wind in his ears and the icy sting of the drizzle against his face and his heart pounded wildly as he clenched his thighs against the flanks of his horse and leaned forward slightly. The acrid tang of the animal’s pelt filled his nostrils and stinking spittle spattered his cheek. Ahead he saw some of the tribesmen stand their ground, bracing their feet as they crouched and lowered the points of their spears and swords towards the charging horsemen. Others had clustered together in small groups and a handful were running for the cover of the treeline as their leader hurled angry insults after them before turning to face the Romans with an enraged expression contorting his features. The man with the carnyx horn was blowing for all he was worth to lend courage to his comrades, and the stout hearts amongst them answered with a loud cheer of defiance.
A swift glance to either side revealed that the extended formation of horsemen had become ragged and Cato snatched a quick breath and cried out, ‘Hold the line!’
Only those nearest to him heeded, or heard, the order and tried to adjust their pace. But before Cato could do anything more about it they were upon the enemy. There was a blur of faces, etched with rage and fear, some with woad patterns painted on their skin, then a thud from Cato’s left as the first of the horses burst into a loose group of tribesmen, smashing into a shield. The horse let out a shrill whinny and its rider stabbed his spear down, piercing the neck of the man knocked down by his mount. Cato glimpsed the other tribesmen closing round the horse, thrusting with their swords and spears, then his attention snapped to the line of men directly ahead of him, and beyond them their leader, shouting encouragement to his warriors. These men seemed more disciplined than their companions, and were better armed with bronze-trimmed shields; some even wore helmets and armour, looted from the bodies of Romans.
One of Trebellius’s men charged directly at their spears, but his horse shied away from the points, swerving aside, and the rider struggled to retain his seat. Cato just had time to pull on his reins and steer to the right side and avoid a collision. More
of the Romans charged home, stabbing at the enemy while wheeling their horses from side to side to avoid becoming an easy target in turn. Macro’s voice carried above the thud and clatter of weapons.
‘Cut ’em down, lads! Kill ’em!’
Cato clamped his jaw shut and bared his teeth as he picked the man at the end of the line, a tall, sinewy warrior, with a stubbly fringe of dark hair above his snarling face. He carried a heavy spear in both hands and saw Cato at the same moment, swinging the point of his weapon round and bunching his shoulders as he braced himself. Cato kicked his heels in and his horse lurched forward, the sudden movement throwing the enemy off guard so that he instinctively took a step backwards as Cato swung his short sword down in a savage arc. He could not hope to reach the man and tried instead to strike at the shaft of his spear. The tribesman jerked his spear back and it caught just the end of Cato’s sword with a sharp, harmless rap. At once both men made to recover and strike first. Cato was quicker, as he urged his mount on and hacked again. This time the edge cut through the knuckle and two fingers of the warrior’s leading hand. He let out a howl of rage as blood sprayed from the stumps. He swept Cato’s sword to the side and stepped inside the reach of the Roman as he thrust the point of his spear home.
Despite its battle training, the horse made to rear and the blow missed Cato’s side and tore into the animal’s flank instead. The front hoofs lashed out in pain and one struck the warrior, spinning him aside and throwing him on to his back. The spear was lodged between the horse’s ribs and the animal reared again, tossing its head wildly. Cato felt a stab of terror as he struggled to control his mount, pulling hard on the reins as he shouted, ‘Easy there!’
In its agony the horse ignored his desperate command and staggered on, blundering into the enemy line, before stumbling over the uneven ground and falling heavily to the right, driving the point further into its vitals before the shaft snapped with a loud report. Cato released his grip on the reins and tried to throw himself from the horse. He felt himself part company with the leather of the saddle, the ground rushed up towards him and he crashed on to the grass. The impact drove the breath from his lungs, he saw a flash of the grey sky and then his face was embedded in grass and mud. He just managed to raise his head enough to see the face of the man he had wounded no more than a foot away, contorted with pain and spitting a curse at his attacker. Then Cato felt a tremendous blow on his back that drove him deep into the ground. He fought for breath, the great weight of the horse writhing on top of him for an instant as the animal let out a long terrified whinny, hoofs lashing the air.
Cato knew the damage a wounded horse could do with its hoofs and hugged the ground, feeling the painful pressure on his right leg as the dying horse pinned him down. Then he realised that he no longer had his sword in his hand. Quickly raising his head, Cato saw the handle in the grass in front of his face, and beyond that the intent glare in the eyes of the warrior, who had also been trapped by the mortally wounded horse. The other man reacted first, snatching at the weapon with his injured hand. Cato thrust his left hand out, fingers clawing to get a firm grasp round the man’s wrist before he could use the sword. Both were pinioned by the horse as they struggled desperately for control of the weapon. Twisting round, Cato managed to get his other hand into action and grabbed at the bloody stumps of the warrior’s fingers and squeezed tightly. A scream of agony split the air and a moment later his remaining fingers loosened their grip and Cato tore the handle from his enemy and grasped it in his right hand. He stabbed at the man’s chest and the warrior tried to fend the blow aside with his bare hands, incurring further wounds. Drawing the blade back, Cato braced himself on the ground and then rammed it home with all his strength, feeling the point drive into the man’s chest. He tugged the blade free and thrust again. There was an explosive grunt from his enemy, who slumped back, feebly mouthing words as he stared up into the sky, the fingers of his good hand pressed over wounds that pulsed blood between his fingers.
Cato slumped down on to his elbow, breathing heavily, keeping the crimson-stained sword pointing towards the other man. It was clear that he no longer presented a threat. Cato tried to look round to see how the fight was going but the length of the grass and the trembling body of the horse obscured his view. The ring of blades, the crack of weapons on shields, and the softer thud on flesh and bone, punctuated by cries of agony, anger and triumph, sounded on all sides. There was a sharp pain in Cato’s right leg. He looked down and saw that it was pinned under the heavy leather mass of the saddle. He tried to pull it free but the pain instantly became unbearable and he eased back on to his elbow with a bitter curse of frustration. The warrior’s head rolled to the side and he grinned at Cato’s discomfort, until a gush of blood spilled from his lips and he spluttered and coughed, spraying flecks of blood across the side of Cato’s face. He struggled pitifully as the blood filled his lungs, drowning him.
‘Fuck,’ Cato muttered fiercely to himself. ‘I am not going to die here.’
He tried to free himself again, bracing his left boot against the horse’s rump as he strained his muscles to try and free his trapped leg. But it was hopeless, the weight of the dying animal bore down on the saddle and made the task impossible. At length Cato slumped back on to his elbows. ‘Shit. . shit. . shit. .’
There was nothing he could do, and he held his sword ready and waited for someone to come for him, friend or foe.
Macro slashed his blade down, grimacing as the edge bit deeply into his opponent’s skull with a sound like the cracking of a large egg. The tribesman’s body convulsed and his sword dropped from his nerveless fingers. A moment later the man collapsed beside his weapon, eyelids fluttering wildly as blood and brains spattered out of his shattered head. Straightening up in his saddle, Macro swept his gaze over the men fighting around him. None of the enemy was near enough to present a direct threat and Macro hurriedly assessed the situation.
The enemy’s formation had broken and now a series of duels were being fought out across the ground in front of the fort. There were plenty of bodies lying on the ground, and Macro could see that perhaps a third of Trebellius’s men were down. The rest were outnumbered and now that the initial impact of the charge had passed, the tribesmen were beginning to have the upper hand, as they heavily outnumbered the Romans. Even as Macro watched, several of the warriors, led by their chief, had surrounded the standard-bearer of the squadron. He held the staff close to his body while cutting at any native that came within reach of the long blade of his spatha. But there were too many of the enemy and one, more daring than his comrades, leaped forward and snatched the reins from the hand of the standard-bearer and savagely wrenched the horse’s head round to unbalance its rider. The chief stepped in and thrust his sword into the Roman’s side, while another man ripped the shaft of the standard away and held it aloft with a cry of glee. Macro could see the mortified expression on the face of the standard-bearer as he used what strength he had left to steer his horse round with his knees and slash his sword across the back of the warrior who had seized the squadron’s insignia. The standard dropped to the ground as the native collapsed and then his comrades fell on the Roman, hauling him from his saddle before they butchered him on the ground.
Macro saw that Trebellius and four of his men were closer to the fallen standard and he cupped his left hand to his mouth.
‘Decurion! Save the standard!’
Trebellius looked round and saw Macro, who stabbed his finger in the direction of the natives who had finished off the standard-bearer and were already making off with their trophy. Their success had encouraged their comrades and Macro saw that the fight was in the balance. He turned towards the fort.
‘Come on, you bastards! Help us!’
The commander of the garrison had already correctly read the situation and even as Macro’s words died on his lips, the gates opened and the auxiliaries quick-marched in tight formation towards the skirmish. Macro felt a surge of relief as he raised his sword a
gain and looked round for a fresh opponent. Then it struck him: there was no sign of Cato. He felt an icy stab of anxiety at the base of his spine as he scanned the scene.
‘Cato! Sir! Where are you?’
Then he saw the flutter of red in the grass fifty paces away, the thin horsehair crest of the prefect’s helmet, and Macro pulled harshly on his reins to turn his horse towards his friend. Close by lay the bulk of a horse and Macro realised at once that Cato must be trapped underneath. A short distance away one of the natives had just finished off a legionary with his spear and pulled the bloodied tip free. He looked round and the same red crest now caught his attention. With a look of cruel intent he turned and paced towards Cato.
‘No, you bloody don’t!’ Macro growled as he spurred his horse forward.
Cato sensed the man’s approach before he saw him and turned to see the tall figure striding through the wild tussocks of grass towards him. He wore a thick brown cloak over a black tunic and strapped leggings. The ends of a silver torc gleamed at his throat and his hair, drenched by the drizzle, hung lankly across his shoulders. All this Cato saw in an instant, then he strained to free his leg again, groaning with the effort. The horse had bled out and lay still, a dead weight pressing down on the saddle and the leg caught beneath. He turned on his side and propped himself as best he could on his left elbow as he raised his sword and aimed the point at the oncoming warrior.
The man saw that he had an easy kill and grinned cruelly as he raised his spear and made to strike at the helpless Roman officer. Cato clenched his teeth and glared back, determined not to show any fear at his imminent death. There was only fleeting regret that it had to be this way, slaughtered like a tethered goat, so ignominious, so shameful. He hoped that when his death was reported to Julia back in Rome, the details would not be revealed and that she would grieve for him as the hero he wanted to be. Not like this.
The Blood Crows c-12 Page 13
