Cato saw it all in the time it took to draw a few breaths before he called to the other men to break off and rejoin him. One by one they obeyed. He observed that two other men had been lost, and another was leaning forward in his saddle, sword hand clasped over a wound in his side, though he still had the strength to hold his reins and steer his mount towards Cato. As the last of them abandoned his pursuit of those who had fled back down the road, Cato sheathed his blade and pointed to the crest of the hill.
‘Follow me!’
He spurred his mount into a canter and the others followed. He kept the pace up until they reached the crest and saw the wagons, a quarter of a mile away at the bottom of the gentle reverse slope of the hill. Two miles further on lay the outpost, blissfully unaware of the savage skirmish that had taken place. Massimilianus was riding alongside the wagons, urging the muleteers to push their tiring beasts into one last effort to reach the safety of the stockade that ran around the outpost. If the enemy recovered swiftly and came on apace, Cato realised, there was still a danger that they might overtake the wagons.
He raised his arm and halted the surviving men of the rearguard. ‘Turn and form a line across the road!’
The men walked their beasts into position astride the rutted track, facing down the hill towards the enemy. Cato saw that their leader had already rallied over twenty of his men, and more were making their way over the broken ground to join their comrades. The bodies of the dead and injured marked the place where Cato and his men had charged home. As soon as most of them had formed up around him, the leader pointed towards the crest and waved them forward. Cato noticed that some hesitated to approach the small line of horsemen. Clearly they were still unnerved, and that could be turned to the mounted party’s advantage.
Drawing his sword again, he called out, ‘At the walk, advance!’
The line of horsemen rippled forward, moving down the slope towards the brigands. The sight caused many of the war band to draw up warily, and the cohesion of the group began to fall apart at the prospect of another mounted charge. Cato, however, had no intention of ordering another attack. This time the enemy were ready for them and had sufficient numbers to be sure to overwhelm them. He slowed the pace of his horse as he calmly issued another order.
‘Dress the line! On me.’
His men obediently adjusted their pace and the horsemen steadily approached the enemy in good formation. Cato saw more of the brigands draw up, and their leader paused to shout and punch his spear in the air as he tried to instil some courage into them.
‘At the trot!’ Cato called out, and tapped his heels in to urge his horse forward. The other men followed suit, rising and falling in their saddles, their accoutrements jingling. They were now within two hundred paces of the war band, and the sight of the mounted auxiliaries increasing their speed did the trick. The first of the brigands backed off and turned to retreat down the slope, breaking into a run after just a few strides. Those with greater courage stood by their leader, closing ranks, with the spearmen amongst them presenting their points to the oncoming cavalry.
When they were a hundred paces from the enemy, Cato threw his arm up. ‘Halt!’
The riders reined in, and for a moment the two sides confronted each other in silence before the brigand leader shouted an order. Several of his men lowered their weapons, and Cato saw them uncoiling something from around their waists before they reached into their sidebags and stepped out in front of their comrades. He grasped the danger at once and sheathed his sword. Drawing a quick breath, he snapped an order to his men. ‘Retreat! Back to the crest of the hill! Go!’
The riders drew sharply on their reins, turned their mounts and spurred them into a gallop as the first slingshot zipped through the air close by. One hit the ground a short distance in front of Cato and bounced up to strike his mount on the flank. The horse let out a sharp whinny and lurched to the side, and Cato had to clamp his thighs tightly and snatch at the saddle horn to stop himself from being thrown.
At the sight of the retreating horsemen, a ragged chorus of jeers sounded from the war band.
‘Easy . . . easy there.’ Cato spoke soothingly as he steered the horse uphill and urged it into a canter. He saw that one of his men had been hit; the shot had smashed his knee, and blood streamed down his calf and over his boot as he used his other leg to guide his horse round to follow the others. Another slingshot crashed into the back of his helmet and snapped his head forward. His shield, reins and sword slipped from his grasp, and Cato could see that he was in danger of falling from his saddle. Redirecting his own mount, he made for the man and took up the loose reins, leading the horse up the slope as swiftly as he could while keeping the man in his saddle.
More slingshots whizzed past. Instinctively, Cato hunched his shoulders forward to try to make himself a more difficult target. He rode on, expecting the dreadful impact of a shot to strike him at any moment. But the distance between himself and the slingers quickly opened up, and soon he was out of range and the enemy gave up. He eased the pace of his mount and turned to see the auxiliary’s head lolling from side to side.
When he reached the other men waiting on the crest of the hill, he held out the reins to the nearest rider. ‘Take this horse. We’ll look at his wounds once we’ve put some distance between us and the enemy.’
The other man eased his mount alongside his stricken comrade and slung his shield across his shoulder before he took the reins.
Cato saw that the wagons were already on the first leg of the zigzag route leading up to the outpost. They should be safe enough now, he calculated. There was no need for any further charges to delay the enemy.
‘Sir, he’s dead.’
He looked round to see the rider nodding at the man in the saddle beside him. He leaned over to raise the man’s head and saw the glazed, unblinking eyes and the blood oozing from his nostrils and ears. There was no sign of movement, or breath, and Cato sighed bitterly. ‘We can’t afford to lose the horse. You take charge of it.’
‘What about Amelius, sir?’
‘Amelius?’ Cato realised that he had never learned the name of the dead man. There was no time to feel bad about that now, and no time to spare to strap his body to the horse. ‘Leave his body here.’
‘Sir?’ The auxiliary looked surprised. ‘Leave him for the enemy? He don’t deserve that. We need to give him proper funeral rites, sir.’
Cato grasped the dead man’s harness and wrenched him from his saddle, letting the body fall to the ground. ‘Take the horse and make for the wagons.’
The auxiliary’s eyes blazed with anger and he made to swing his leg over the saddle horns to dismount.
‘Stay in your saddle!’ Cato snarled at him. ‘And get out of here! Or I swear by all the gods I’ll have you flogged.’
They stared at each other for a beat before the man spat to the side in disgust and did as he was ordered.
‘All of you, get forward to the wagons!’ Cato called out.
The riders peeled away from the crest and trotted down the road. Cato waited, looking back to see the enemy leader running up the slope, followed by the rest of his men, including those who had lost their nerve only moments before. As the horsemen disappeared from view, the brigands let out a triumphant cry.
‘Enjoy this small victory,’ Cato muttered with a sneer of contempt before his gaze fixed on the body sprawled in the dry grass. ‘You will be avenged, brother. I swear it.’
He wheeled his horse around and galloped down the road to catch up with the rest of his men.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As the last of the wagons rumbled into the stockade, the optio in charge of the militia detachment manning the outpost gave the order to close the gates. The rough-hewn timbers were heaved into place and secured with the locking bar, and Cato felt his heart lift with relief. He exchanged a salute with the optio, Micus, before examining the layout of the modest fortification.
A wooden tower stood in the middle, some thi
rty feet high, with a platform ten feet square on top. The sides of the platform were protected by hoardings, as was the ladder that scaled one corner of the structure. A length of rope ran beneath a sturdy post and through an iron ring before trailing to the ground, where a stock of wood and green foliage for the signal fire was ready for use. Two timber structures with shingle roofs served as accommodation and storage for the small garrison. A rectangular stockade, twelve feet high, ran around the enclosed space. Earth-covered rocks formed a crude sentry walk on the inside, while a ditch surrounded the exterior, save for the narrow causeway in front of the gates. The horses, mules and carts filled most of the interior, and one glance at the garrison’s water butt was enough for Cato to realise there would not be enough for the thirsty men and the exhausted beasts as well as Micus and his section of militia troops. In every other respect, however, Plancinus and his party had done a competent job of siting and constructing the outpost.
His brief inspection was interrupted by the distant jeers of the brigands, who had pursued them to the outpost, but not quickly enough to overtake and destroy the small supply convoy. Followed by Micus and Massimilianus, he crossed to the rampart to the right of the gate and climbed onto the walkway, looking out over the open ground that fell away in front of the gates. For a distance of fifty paces the vegetation had been cut away, and all that remained protruding from the soil were the stumps of the trees felled to provide timber for the construction of the outpost. Further out, stunted shrubs and trees grew as far down the slope as the treeline of the great forest that covered the landscape beyond. The enemy stood beyond javelin range in a loose arc, brandishing their weapons and shaking their fists as they hurled insults at those in the outpost.
‘I count fifty or so of them, sir,’ Micus observed. ‘Not enough to take this place.’
‘Not yet,’ Cato responded. ‘But I dare say they’ll have sent for reinforcements. We’ll soon know if they can gather enough men to try an assault. Meanwhile we’ve got more pressing needs.’ He pointed to the water butt. ‘Is that all the water you have?’
‘No, sir. There’s two more in the store hut there.’
‘Still not enough for our needs. Where’s the nearest water supply?’
‘There’s a spring at the bottom of the slope behind the outpost, sir.’
‘How far?’
The optio made a brief calculation. ‘A quarter of a mile, maybe more.’
‘If we move quickly, we could send men down there to fill some waterskins before any reinforcements pitch up,’ Massimilianus suggested.
Cato considered the idea and shook his head. ‘By the time they return, the enemy might have surrounded the outpost. It’s too much of a risk. We’ll have to make do with the water that’s already here. In the meantime, we need to alert Plancinus and the fort. Micus, get the smoke signal going. There’s a few hours to go before nightfall, plenty of time for it to be seen.’
The optio called orders to two of the militiamen to load fuel and leaves into the wicker basket at the bottom of the hoist. By the time Micus had climbed the ladder to the lookout platform, the first batch of combustibles had been swung in and added to the supply already in place. Another of his men was gently feeding kindling onto the glowing embers in the iron basket in the middle of the platform. As the small flames eagerly consumed the bundles of dry grass and twigs, he began to add split logs until the flames were licking up above the sides of the basket. Small, freshly cut leafed branches were heaped onto the flames, and soon smoke billowed up from the tower and extended into a curling column reaching into the sky.
‘There we go, sir,’ Massimilianus smiled. ‘As clear a signal as could be.’
Cato nodded, then turned his attention to the enemy below the outpost. They were gathered around their leader, who was gesturing animatedly as he issued his orders. Once he had finished, he turned to the outpost while groups of his followers spread out and began to surround it, as Cato had anticipated. As he watched, there was a shout from the tower and he looked up to see Micus pointing west towards the road cutting through the forest.
‘More of the enemy sighted!’
Cato and Massimilianus stared in the direction indicated but could see only the trees.
‘Damn it,’ Cato growled, scrambling down the rampart and hurrying across to the ladder. He climbed as quickly as he could. By the time he reached the platform, his heart was beating wildly and he had to pause a moment to catch his breath before he made his way around the flames in the signal pyre to join Micus.
‘Where are they?’
‘There, sir. See that outcrop of rocks on the hill? Two miles off, I’d say.’
Cato shaded his eyes and squinted. For a moment he saw nothing, and then a tiny movement drew his attention to a line of dots moving towards the road.
‘By the gods, your eyesight is little short of miraculous, Optio.’
Micus beamed with pride.
‘How many of them can you make out?’ asked Cato.
Micus stared silently into the distance for a moment before he responded. ‘Another hundred, perhaps a hundred and fifty of them, sir.’
Cato sucked in a breath through his teeth. That was bad news. The odds had shifted to six to one in the enemy’s favour. The reinforcements would reach the outpost before nightfall, long before its defenders could expect any help to arrive.
‘There’s more of ’em, sir.’ Micus pointed to the crags on a ridge to the south, where Cato could easily make out the distant figures of more men against the backdrop of the clear sky. At least another fifty of them were picking their way to the end of the crags and descending a precarious-looking path to the blanket of trees below.
‘Looks like they’ve decided to make an example of the outpost and us along with it,’ Cato mused. He looked down into the packed space within the rampart. The auxiliaries had tethered their horses to a rail beside the store hut. Those who had already removed their saddles were manhandling the wagons close to the rampart in order to make more room. The mule drivers had unharnessed their teams and tied the mules’ halters to a rope that had been set up opposite the wagons. They had taken some feed from one of the carts and were distributing it to their animals. Massimilianus was ordering some of the auxiliaries to do the same for the horses, as well as using buckets to draw water from the butt to fill a small trough by the horse line. The mounts pressed round and drank greedily until the trough was nearly empty and the centurion had to order more water to be fetched.
‘Massimilianus!’ Cato called down to him. ‘That’s enough water for the horses. Have your men move the trough over to the mules. They can have what’s left in the butt. No more than that for now. We’ll need the rest.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato stepped back from the wooden hoarding and rubbed the small of his back, stiff from the day’s riding. As he gazed to the western horizon of hills and forest, his eyes picked out what he was looking for. A thin, dark smear against the sky many miles off in the direction of Augustis.
‘Sir!’ Micus pointed.
‘I see it already. The fort’s seen our signal. We can expect help from them in a day’s time. Plancinus and his men may be closer if they’re still working on the next outpost to the north. We should see their signal any moment . . .’
The sun sank slowly to the west and had begun to slip below the horizon before the response came from Plancinus. A column of smoke was spotted several miles to the north, from the crest of another ridge. Cato was concerned by the delay in the response. The signal from the outpost should have been easily visible from Plancinus’s position. It was possible that poor watch-keeping was responsible, or another equally unacceptable reason. Or, Cato grimaced, there was a more sinister possibility. It would be best to keep such thoughts to himself. It was likely that the men in their outpost would soon be fighting off an attack from the brigands. It was important to keep their spirits up. Drawing a deep breath, he called out so that every man within the rampart would hear him.
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‘Plancinus has responded to the signal, lads! More help is on the way! It’s up to us to keep those bastards outside the stockade until then. If they’re foolish enough to try and attack the outpost, we’ll show them what happens to anyone who dares to take on the Sixth Gallic Cohort!’
A handful of weary cheers sounded in response, and Cato turned to address Micus. ‘I’m taking command of the outpost until it is relieved.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Was there a hint of relief in the optio’s voice? Cato wondered. If so, perhaps it had been wrong to give him an independent command. Experience had taught him that some men might be fine officers in a subordinate role, but they lacked the confidence and competence to act independently, even in a capacity as limited as commanding this outpost.
He quickly took stock of the situation. He had Massimilianus and nineteen of his men, trained soldiers and well armed. In addition, there was Optio Micus, who seemed dependable. Then there were the eight militiamen assigned to garrison the outpost. Cato regarded them with misgivings. They were typical of their kind: poorly paid men tasked with guarding town gates and collecting the tolls, as well as adding to the lustre of dignitaries at public events. Although they were equipped with weapons and armour, they maintained them poorly and undertook minimal military training. The closest they were likely to come to fighting in a battle was sorting out rowdy drunks or dealing out heavy-handed treatment to some mob that might form to protest about rising grain prices. In most cases, they were little more than armed civilians. No doubt they bitterly resented being ordered to serve under Cato, and now they were facing a dangerous enemy for the first time. They would be fearful, he reflected. As would the five mule drivers who had been contracted to carry the supplies from Augustis. They had been paid handsomely and told they would be protected by the army. That promise must seem empty to them now. Besides their whips, they carried only daggers; better weapons needed to be found for them to help with the defence of the outpost. Like the militia, they were not trained as soldiers, but if it came to fighting for their lives, it was possible they might make a useful contribution.
The Emperor's Exile (Eagles of the Empire 19) Page 26