Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  As soon as they spied their leader they hurried to their horses, took the reins and waited for their orders. Quertus swung himself up into the saddle and called out as loudly as he dared, ‘Mount up!’

  Cato and Macro took their horses from one of the handlers and mounted. They eased their horses into position amongst the standard-bearer and the horn-blowers. Quertus sat tall in his saddle, a short distance apart surveying the hundred and twenty men of his main force. When the last of them had steadied themselves in their saddles and the only sounds were the champing of the horses and the scrape of their hoofs on the ground, Quertus nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘Prepare to move out!’

  He turned his horse towards the narrow trail leading out of the clearing and clicked his tongue. His horse trotted forward and Cato, Macro and the others followed on. Behind them the squadrons followed in column, until the air was filled with the clatter and clop of hoofs and the chinkle of the iron bits and curbs. A hundred paces through the trees the trail emerged on to the ancient track that led into the valley and Quertus turned the column down the gentle slope. For a short distance the trees obscured the landscape ahead and then, suddenly, they were riding in the open with grazing land on either side, where a handful of hardy cattle turned and bolted at their sudden appearance.

  A mile in the distance, Cato could see the hillock upon which the chief’s hut dominated the vale. Ahead, the track passed close by one of the clusters of smaller huts that made up the tribal settlement. Beyond, the track led past some pens and the leather covers of grain pits before dropping down to a fast-flowing stream. On the other side of a ford the track led up the slope of the hillock.

  Quertus raised his sword arm and called out, ‘At the canter!’

  He urged his horse on and the animal kicked down and reared slightly before lurching forward at a faster pace. The men behind him followed suit and the air around Cato filled with the muffled thunder of hundreds of hoofs. A face appeared at the entrance of a hut closest to the track and a man leaned out, his eyes wide with alarm. He shouted a warning and ducked back out of sight. An instant later the column pounded by the hut and Cato saw a woman emerge from another hut further off, an infant clutched to her chest. She glanced at the standard and turned and ran, away from the settlement towards the treeline. More figures appeared and fled, in all directions. One of the horsemen veered off and instantly drew the attention of an officer who bellowed at him to rejoin the column.

  The ford appeared ahead and then Cato was plunging through the water, exploding in a chaos of silver spray as the horses churned through the current. Quertus slowed the pace on the far bank and thrust his arm to the side. ‘Form line!’

  The colour party, with Cato and Macro, formed the centre of the line and the squadrons alternated to the right and left.

  ‘Up there!’ Macro thrust out his arm and pointed up the slope. ‘They’ve seen us.’

  Several men had piled out of the huts and were gesticulating down the slope, calling their comrades to arms.

  In a matter of moments the line was formed. As the last of the men on the flank edged their mounts into place, there was a sharp blare from a horn, and an instant later the sound was taken up by another horn further off.

  ‘That’s stirred them up,’ Quertus growled. ‘No time to waste. We strike now.’ He drew his sword and thrust it into the air. ‘Blood Crows! At the command! Charge!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Quertus swept his sword down and spurred his horse forward with an inchoate roar. His men took up the cry, as did Macro, while Cato clamped his jaw shut and breathed deeply and quickly through flaring nostrils as he urged his horse on, drawing his sword and using the flat of the blade to slap the animal’s rump. The line of horsemen rapidly gathered speed as they surged away from the bank of the stream, over the rich calf-deep grass that was bejewelled with dewdrops and speckled with bright yellow flowers. The sun was rising above the hills behind the horsemen and the first rays flooded the valley, burnishing it with pale gold light.

  As the horses built up their speed to a full gallop, Cato felt the wind roaring in his ears and his body swayed and jolted at the impact of the horse galloping beneath him. He tightened his grip on the reins, clamped his thighs against the flanks of his mount and leaned forward, keeping his sword hand low and out to the side where it could not accidentally wound him, or Macro to his right. On either side the Thracians kept their spears vertical for the same reason and Cato saw that they were holding to their discipline; not a man had lost his head and lowered his point yet. The din of Macro’s excited shouts filled his ears. The faster horses began to pull ahead and Quertus bellowed above the din for his men to hold the line.

  A hundred and fifty paces ahead, the Silurian warriors were hurrying towards the chief’s hut to form a defensive perimeter. They snatched up the first pieces of armour and weapons that came to hand. Most had shields, large, flat and round, with elegantly painted faces depicting wild animals. In their other hands they gripped an assortment of spears, swords and axes. As the gentle slope began to flatten out, Cato saw the chief emerge from his hut, a tall, broad figure, the top of his head bald, with the red hair of the fringe tied back in two plaits. His men had bought him enough time to pull on a chain-mail vest and he clutched a long-handled battleaxe in his right hand as he shouted orders to them.

  As the Blood Crows swept on to the crest of the hillock, the outer huts forced them to flow round and crowd together, causing the riders to curse and the horses to whinny as they pressed up against each other. There were still men emerging from the huts and as Cato approached an entrance, the leather curtain swept back and a Silurian stood behind his raised shield and thrust a hunting spear out at the passing riders. The point tore into the flank of the standard-bearer’s horse, just ahead of Cato. A shrill neigh split the air as the animal jerked to the side, snatching the spear from the warrior’s grasp. The butt caught against the side of the hut and snapped with a sharp report and the splintered end spun towards Cato’s face. He ducked his head just in time and felt the impact as the wood glanced off the crown of his helmet. Then he looked up and twisted in his saddle to thrust his sword towards the man. The spatha he had drawn from the fort’s stores had a longer reach than the gladius he was used to, and the warrior leaped back as the sword struck the wooden door frame. Cato snatched it back and then the hut was behind him.

  To his right he saw Macro strike down a short Silurian wearing a brown tunic. The man half turned just in time to see Macro’s blade slash through the air and into the side of his head, cutting flesh and shattering the jawbone. The warrior collapsed and was lost from view beneath the horses. There was a brief cry of pain, before it died, with him, crushed into the ground.

  ‘Kill them all!’ Quertus screamed, a manic expression etched into his features. His men echoed his cry as they cut down the handful of men who had responded too late to the alarm to join their comrades in front of the chief’s hut. A second man emerged from the largest hut, tall and powerfully built. He was protected by armour and a helmet, beneath which his blond hair flowed over his shoulders. He carried a spear and a shield and thrust himself between two men to take his place in the battle line. There was something about his face that struck Cato. Something familiar. But there was no time to give the thought more than an instant.

  The Blood Crows surged forward, thundering across the open space, kicking over the remains of the fires and sending swirls of ash and bright cinders into the air. Some of the Thracians surged in between Macro and Cato, forcing them apart, and Cato found himself twenty feet to the left of his friend and the rest of the command party, just as the first of the horsemen lowered the points of their spears and charged headlong into the line of Silurian warriors. There was a rippling clatter and thud as weapons clashed and struck shields. Battle cries died on men’s lips as they locked in combat, furiously wielding their weapons as they hacked and thrust at each other. There was an opening between two horsemen ahead
of Cato and he pulled on his reins to direct his mount into the gap, sword held up, ready to strike.

  An enemy warrior sprang in front of him, baring his teeth through the thick dark hair of his beard. He raised his shield and stabbed a spear at the neck of Cato’s horse. The beast reared away, front legs lashing out as Cato threw his weight forward and clutched the reins tightly to avoid toppling back out of his saddle. A hoof connected with the point of the warrior’s spear, knocking it downwards, and the warrior retreated a few paces from the danger of the hoofs. Then the horse dropped forward and Cato struggled back into an erect position, just in time to parry another thrust from the Silurian. His long blade clanged and he twisted his arm to deflect the spear point, then spurred his horse forward, into the enemy warrior, thudding into his shield and knocking him back. Cato gave him no time to regain his balance and swung his sword down, reaching as far forward as he could. The edge hissed through the air and struck the man on the woad-patterned skin of his shoulder. The blade bit through his flesh and struck the man’s collarbone, which snapped beneath the savage force of the blow. He uttered an agonised cry and staggered back, his shield slipping from his fingers. Yet he still had the wit to wield his spear, even through the red veil of his pain, and thrust the point up at Cato.

  Cato pulled savagely on his reins and Hannibal turned sharply to the right, and the point of the spear clattered off the shield. Cato twisted in the saddle and swung his sword again, unable to get much power into the blow. But it was enough to make the Silurian stumble back, blood streaming down his chest from the wound in his shoulder. He dropped his spear and clamped his hand over the torn flesh and turned to stagger away from the fight. Cato let him go, and seeing that there was no immediate threat, he looked round. The auxiliaries had driven into the loose ranks of the enemy and several small pockets of fighters were battling it out in front of the large hut. Macro was at the side of Quertus as both men charged into a loose pocket of Silurians and lay about them, scattering the enemy and cutting down another handful of warriors to add to those already lying on the ground, dead or wounded.

  The chief, his tall companion and several of his men had formed a tight circle to hold off the Thracians. As Cato watched, one of the Blood Crows edged his horse in and thrust his spear. The tip clattered against a shield, and as he drew the weapon back, the tall man with the blond hair ran forward and piked the rider in his side. The impact was powerful enough to knock him out of the saddle and he fell to the ground on the other side of the horse. At once a burly Silurian armed with an axe leaped forward and swung his weapon down with both hands. The head of the axe smashed into the auxiliary’s back, driving him into the soil. Another blow to the back of his head split the iron helmet and shattered the man’s skull.

  Then Cato saw the cohort’s standard-bearer, off to one side, trapped against the hut by a group of Silurians who used their swords to frighten the horse as they closed in for the kill. The shame of letting the standard fall into enemy hands was ingrained into every soldier of the Roman army and Cato automatically turned his horse towards the hut and spurred it forwards. He brushed past some horsemen who had been hanging back a short distance from the fighting. Cato brandished his bloodied sword and shouted an order.

  ‘Follow me!’

  He did not wait to see if he had been obeyed as he concentrated his attention on the confrontation between the Silurians and the standard-bearer. Already one of them had injured the horse and blood flowed down its coat and spattered on to the ground. A second man feinted towards the rider, forcing him to turn and confront the danger. At once another darted forward on the other side and quickly stabbed him in the calf before leaping back. The standard-bearer cried out in pain and his lips parted in a grimace as he shifted from side to side, desperate to keep all of his opponents in view.

  The sound of Cato’s approach caused the nearest of the warriors to glance round and then turn to face the new threat, feet braced as he covered his body with his shield and raised his sword, aiming the point at the Roman bearing down on him. Beyond him, Cato saw the standard-bearer look up into his eyes. There was a strange expression in the man’s face, cold and calculating. Then he released his grip on the shaft of the standard and the image of the black crow on the red cloth fluttered as it fell to the ground.

  ‘What . . .’

  Cato looked on in horror as the standard-bearer grasped the reins and urged his horse away from the side of the hut. One of the enemy fell upon the standard with a shout of triumph. He cast his shield aside and snatched up the standard before he saw Cato’s horse racing towards him. With a quick cry and gesture to his companions he ran off with the standard.

  Leaning forward in his saddle, Cato held his sword out to the side as he charged the nearest of the Silurians. He slashed his sword through the air, but his enemy nimbly stepped aside then forward to make his own attack, a powerfully directed thrust at Cato’s waist. The nervous movement of his horse spoiled the attempt and the point glanced off the side of Cato’s breastplate. Cato made another cut, battering the Silurian’s shield and driving him off. Both men paused for an instant, sizing the other up, and then the Silurian’s companion rushed forward to join the fight. Beyond, the third man made good his escape, clutching his trophy, and disappeared round the back of the hut. Cato heard the sound of hoofs behind him, the men he had ordered to follow him, and pressed his attack on the Silurian who had turned to face him. Steering his mount forward he slashed at the shield again and again, thudding blows cutting splinters out of the painted wooden surface, driving the man back, away from his companion.

  ‘Deal with them!’ Cato shouted, as he spurred his horse on, making for the back of the hut. Only recovering the standard mattered at the moment. As his horse lurched into a gallop he heard the clatter of weapons behind him as the Thracians dealt with the two men. Cato’s mount thundered round the curve of the hut and then he saw the Silurian, holding the standard in front of him like a cross-staff as he ran down the slope away from the fight. Fifty paces on was a large wicker enclosure containing twenty or thirty horses, some of which were already saddled. A young Silurian groom had emerged through the gate to stare anxiously up the slope towards the sound of fighting. At once he ducked back inside and re-emerged a moment later with a pitchfork. He lowered the points towards Cato. The man with the standard rushed on, glancing back at his pursuer, his expression shot through with alarm as he saw the Roman close behind him.

  Cato gripped his legs to the flanks of his mount and readied his sword as he closed on his prey. The blade rose, paused, as Cato judged the timing of his blow, and then slashed down. At the last instant the Silurian threw himself to one side and rolled over in the grass, still holding tightly to the Blood Crows’ standard.

  ‘Shit . . .’ Cato hissed, reining and turning his horse towards the warrior, who regained his feet and sprinted on towards the enclosure, screaming orders to the young man at the gate. Cato urged his mount into a steady canter, converging with the warrior, but it was too late to pick him off before he reached the gate and there he turned. His chest heaved from his exertions as he thrust the point of the standard towards Cato. The chase was over and Cato stopped his horse a short distance from the two men. He could see that the young man with the pitchfork was afraid. His eyes were wide and the points of his makeshift weapon were trembling. Cato edged his horse closer and pointed his sword at the youth and flicked the blade to the side.

  ‘Go! Get out of here!’

  Even though the words were not in his tongue, the meaning was clear enough and the Silurian began to shuffle to the side until a sharp word of command from his comrade stopped him. Cato heard the sound of hoofs behind him and glanced back up the slope to see the two Thracians riding down towards him. The sight lifted his spirits. There was no way the standard would be lost now. Then they slewed to a halt a hundred feet away.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Cato called out to them. ‘On me! Now!’

  They did not react, and
their mounts stood in the long grass, tails swishing, as the two men watched silently.

  Cato felt rage burn in his veins. So much for the vaunted reputation of the Blood Crows, he thought bitterly. He was about to shout at them again when the Silurian with the standard let out a roar and charged towards him. There was little time to react and Cato turned to present his shield, his sword held overhead. The warrior’s eyes were wide and his lips were bared as he braced his shoulders and threw all his weight behind the thrust. The point struck the shield low, splintering the wood. The tip punched through the laminated strips and burst out the other side and struck the horse just in front of Cato’s knee. The horse lurched to one side as Cato swung his sword at the warrior’s head. The Silurian ducked, and wrenching the standard free he backed off and readied himself, then shouted at his comrade. The young man hesitantly moved forward, edging round to flank Cato.

  ‘Fuck . . .’ he muttered, turning from side to side as he tried to keep both men in view. He risked a glance back up the slope to where the two Thracians still waited and a cold tremor rippled down his spine. This was not right. He turned his attention back to the enemy. The main threat came from the warrior. If Cato could put him down he was certain the youth would turn and run. On the other hand, the young man’s nervousness made him unpredictable. He could just as easily throw himself at Cato like a wild animal as flee from him. Instinctively Cato turned on him and leaned forward to strike at the pitchfork. The youth was not quick-witted enough to parry the blow and the blade snapped one of the prongs and knocked the tool down. At once Cato made a weak back-handed cut, the point of the sword ripping the man’s tunic and scoring a light flesh wound across his chest. He shrieked more in surprise than pain and staggered back in terror, releasing his grip on the pitchfork. Then he stumbled round and ran off, away from Cato and the enclosure, towards some huts a few hundred paces away.