Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  The dark slope seethed with shapes and the first of the enemy had already reached the edge of the ditch and were scrambling down towards the shadows that filled the bottom. At once there was the clatter of shards of broken pottery, which were commonly planted in the ditches of forts across the empire, along with other obstacles, to slow attackers down. Cries of pain told of those who had cut their feet or hands on sharp edges. Abruptly the slingshot ceased as the enemy feared hitting their comrades closing in on the defences.

  Macro stood up and cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed along the wall.

  ‘Prepare the faggots!’

  Several men heaved the bundles on to the rampart while others held torches to the braziers, and the moment they were alight their bearers hurried up to join their comrades.

  ‘Light ’em up!’ Macro ordered. ‘Then over the wall!’

  Despite the flammable combination of kindling and pitch, the drizzle made it difficult to set fire to some of them but a handful caught quickly, crackling furiously. The moment they were well ablaze two soldiers holding a long pitchfork between them pierced the bundles and swung them back, took up the strain and then on a grunted signal heaved them in an arc over the rampart. The flames roared ferociously as they plummeted down through the darkness, struck the ground in a fiery explosion of sparks and rolled on a short distance before coming to rest, casting a wavering red loom across the surrounding area. Some fell short and rolled back into the ditch amongst the attackers picking their way across to the scarp, causing some to cry out in panic as they thrust themselves out of the path of the blazing faggots. Some were not so lucky and were seared by the flames and howled in agony. By the glow of the faggots Cato could see small groups of men glistening in the drizzle as they struggled up the slope with crudely made assault ladders.

  He filled his lungs and shouted, ‘Loose javelins!’

  The legionaries and Thracians stood up against the palisade and readied their throwing arms. The range was short and the iron points of the weapons angled down towards the wave of native warriors surging up the slope towards the fort. There was no need to aim and each man hurled his weapon forward with an explosive grunt. The lethal shafts, momentarily picked out by the fires below, flew through the air and plunged down amid the heaving mass of the enemy. Cato saw a man struck as he stood on the edge of the ditch to the right of the gatehouse, pierced through the stomach by the iron shaft at the head of the weapon. He doubled up, dropping his axe, and fell back, hands clutching the shaft.

  More of the attackers went down. It was difficult to miss them as they clawed their way up towards the foot of the wall. Then the first of the ladder parties reached the ditch and carried their awkward burden down, across and up the other side. They planted the base on the sodden ground and swung the top of the ladder up against the palisade, close by the gatehouse. At once warriors swarmed up the rungs, urged on by a nobleman in a chain-mail vest, who was striking his sword and shield together in frenzied excitement. Cato turned to Macro and pointed down.

  ‘See him?’

  Macro nodded.

  ‘Take him!’ Cato ordered, trusting to his friend’s far better talent with the javelin. For himself, he had never quite got over the danger he posed to his own side after once nearly impaling Macro with a javelin during his first combat on the Rhine frontier.

  Macro snatched up one of the weapons stacked to the rear of the tower and stepped up to the parapet. He aimed with his left arm as he drew his right back, bicep powerfully bunched in readiness. Macro’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and then he hurled his throwing arm forward with an animal grunt of effort. The javelin flew down in a flat trajectory, and passed harmlessly by the native leader who had just taken a step to one side to shout encouragement to his warriors, wholly oblivious to the weapon that slashed through the space where he had been standing an instant before.

  ‘Bastard!’ Macro yelled in frustration. ‘Wait. I’ll have you . . .’

  He turned away to fetch another weapon but Cato caught his arm. ‘Too late for that. Look!’

  The first of the enemy warriors had reached the top of the ladder and was battling with a pair of legionaries blocking his way. The native carried a long-handled axe in his right hand which he swung wildly as he edged himself up another step. The heavy blade of the axe battered the shield of one of the defenders, splintering the surface and driving the man back. His comrade instinctively retreated a step at the sight of the fierce weapon slicing through the chilly air. At once the warrior threw a leg over the palisade and nimbly dropped on to the walkway. He slashed right and left with his axe, the head crashing off the heavy shields of the legionaries, holding them off, while a second man clambered to the top of the ladder. Further along the wall more ladders were being raised and the defenders were fully committed as they struggled to thrust the ladders back, and if that failed, desperately striking at the heads and shoulders of the men scaling the ladders. Cato saw Quertus, fifty paces away, hacking the arm off an enemy trying to clamber over the palisade. The Thracian let out a triumphant roar as the warrior fell off the ladder, and then he turned to look for another opponent.

  Cato swallowed nervously and drew out his sword. ‘Macro, on me! We’re needed on the wall.’

  He climbed down the ladder into the gatehouse, dropping the last few feet, and rushed towards the doorway giving out on to the wall. No more than ten feet away the comrade of the axeman dropped down into a crouch and turned to face Cato as he burst out of the gatehouse, sword held out to the side, ready to strike. Light from a brazier directly below cast a vivid glow on the near side of the man’s face, revealing a wiry beard and wet locks of hair, beneath which his eyes blazed as he weighed up his Roman opponent. Then, with a snarl, he charged Cato, a long sword raised above his head, ready to slash down and cleave his opponent’s skull. Cato was raising his sword ready to parry the blow when Macro barged out of the gatehouse behind him and knocked him towards his opponent. Half stumbling, half falling, he instinctively knew that he must use his forward momentum if he was to survive the next instant. Already the warrior’s sword was sweeping round, glinting like molten bronze as it reflected the bright glow from the brazier.

  ‘Shit!’ Macro hissed as he leaped to the side.

  Cato threw his weight forward, tumbled under the warrior’s outstretched arm and crashed into the man’s chest. An acrid sweaty odour filled Cato’s nostrils. The impact drove the man back a step before his heel caught on the edge of a rough-hewn plank and he tripped and fell. Cato thrust out his leading foot and locked the knee to break his momentum and stumbled to a halt over his opponent. The Silurian was still holding his sword and he desperately swung it in an arc at Cato’s shin. It would have been a crippling blow had the tip not struck the inside of the parapet with a thud. Both men exchanged a brief look before the native tried to snatch his sword back. But it was too late for him. Cato leaned forward and punched his short sword into the man’s ribs, felt the impact ripple down his arm before a bone cracked and the blade sliced into his resisting flesh. Cato gave the sword a violent twist, just as he had been trained to do as a recruit. He placed his boot on his victim’s chest and wrenched his sword out of the wound with a wet sucking noise. The Silurian gasped and slumped back, mouth agape.

  Ahead of Cato was the ladder and the axeman a short distance further on. A hand appeared on top of the parapet and an instant later a head and shoulders and the tip of a sword. The man saw Cato at the same time and let out a cry of alarm. Cato grabbed the top of the ladder and tried to thrust it to the side, but the weight of the men on the rungs was too great. The Silurian, fearful of toppling, had clamped his sword hand to the ladder shaft to steady himself, but now saw that he was safe and grinned as he drew his sword back to thrust at Cato.

  There was a blur of motion at the periphery of Cato’s vision as Macro’s sword punched forward into the man’s face, shattering his cheekbone and knocking his head back. He cried out and snatched his hand away from the ladder
to clutch at the wound and lost his balance, falling from the ladder into the unlit shadows below the wall. His cry alerted the axeman who glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with rage as he saw the two Roman officers.

  ‘Take the ladder!’ Macro snarled. ‘He’s mine!’

  There was no time for Cato to respond as his friend thrust past him, lowering himself into a crouch as he sized up the tall, broad Silurian who was twirling his axe shaft as he turned, showing off his slick skills with the weapon.

  Cato hurriedly sheathed his sword and grasped the ladder shafts. Bracing his boots, he wrenched the rough pieces of timber to the side, and felt the ladder give under its reduced burden. Slowly, then more easily, it tilted and Cato released his grip. It toppled against the angle of the gatehouse, shaking two men loose before it fell into the ditch.

  Meanwhile Macro feinted at the axeman, testing his reactions. At once his opponent swirled his axe round and grasped the shaft in both hands to block the blow.

  ‘Fast reflexes,’ Macro complimented him in an undertone. Then he stepped forward to make a genuine attack, thrusting at the man’s guts. The Silurian knocked the blade aside with a sneer and then blocked the next thrust at his face and let his right hand slip smoothly down the axe shaft as he made a diagonal cut towards Macro’s shoulder. It was done so swiftly that Macro only just had time to leap to the side; the blade of the axe missed him by less than a finger’s breadth. He fell against the palisade, a short distance in front of Cato, knocking the breath from his lungs. The axeman stepped forward and thrust the butt of his weapon into Macro’s chest, striking one of the silver medallions on his harness and knocking him back a step. He made to punch the heavy shaft again but Cato leaped past his friend and thrust his sword into the warrior’s chest. It was a blow struck at full stretch and resulted in a shallow flesh wound, but it halted the axeman in his tracks and he hurriedly faced the new threat. Macro snatched a breath and took his place at Cato’s side.

  ‘This one’s beginning to annoy me.’

  Cato nodded, teeth gritted, his eyes fixed on the axeman. Then he lunged again, his height and reach superior to Macro’s, and he forced the axeman to give ground. Macro let out a roar and charged forward, and Cato followed suit. The sudden movement of the two officers caught the enemy warrior by surprise and he hesitated for less than a heartbeat, and that was the death of him. Macro struck first, stabbing into his right shoulder, jerking the man’s hand from his weapon so that the axe dropped to the walkway. Cato followed up with a thrust just below his throat, shattering the collarbone and driving six inches through his windpipe. The axeman staggered back defenceless and then jerked to a stop, head thrown back as the tip of a pilum burst through his side. Behind him a legionary wrenched the point free and kicked him down the turf slope of the rampart where he rolled to a stop, hands clamped to his throat as he spluttered and bled out.

  ‘Good work, soldier!’ Macro grinned. ‘Spitted him like a pig!’

  The man smiled at the praise and turned back to face the parapet, bloodied javelin tip raised, ready to strike at the next man rash enough to attempt to scale the wall. Cato sheathed his blade, heedless of the blood that still stained it, and looked along the wall. A handful of duels were being fought at the top of the ladders but no more of the enemy had gained the walkway behind the parapet. He nodded with satisfaction.

  ‘All well so far. Come on. Back to the tower.’

  They climbed to the top where they could gain a clear overview of the attack. The men to the left of the gate were also holding their own against the natives swarming in front of the fort, lit from behind by the faggots blazing on the ground. As he watched, Cato could see that the flames were starting to die down earlier than he had expected and he glanced up at the heavy loom of the night sky; the rain was falling harder, pinging off the curve of his helmet and providing a light background hiss to the sounds of battle. In the open ground behind the main gate the men of the reserve stood waiting with spears and shields grounded. In front of them Cato could easily pick out Severus, pacing up and down, tapping his sword against his greave. He could practically smell the man’s anxiety and despite himself Cato offered a brief prayer to the gods that the centurion would lead his men well if they were called upon to plug any gap in the line. Looking to his right, he saw Quertus shouting encouragement to his men. Every so often he would stand up, in full view of the enemy, and roar his defiance. Just the example the men needed at such a moment, Cato conceded with a touch of admiration.

  He turned to Macro. ‘This rain won’t serve us well.’

  ‘It’s as bad for the enemy as us. Worse. At least we have shelter.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘You’re missing the point. It’s starting to put the faggots out. If it carries on like this we won’t be able to light the signal beacon come the morning. Even if we could I’ll wager the clouds will swallow up any smoke we make.’

  Macro stared up at the sky, blinking away the raindrops. ‘Is there nothing in this bloody land that isn’t against us?’

  Before Cato could reply, his attention was caught by a movement on the slope in front of the gatehouse. As he strained his eyes he could just make out a large party of men stealing up the track out of the gloom. He leaned forward in an effort to see better.

  ‘Careful, sir!’ Macro warned. ‘You want to make an easy target for those bastard slingers?’

  As if to underline his words, Cato heard a faint whup as a shot passed close overhead. He started guiltily and eased himself back behind the protective hoarding and watched from there. As the men approached, there was something about the way they clustered together that sent a ripple of anxiety through Cato’s guts. Then he realised what it was.

  ‘They’ve got a ram . . . Macro! Look there!’ He pointed out the men climbing the track and making directly for the narrow causeway across the ditch.

  Macro squinted through the dull shimmer of the rain and frowned. ‘That’s all we need.’

  Cato turned to the other men on the tower. ‘Gather up the javelins and get over here, now!’

  The legionaries grabbed the bundles of javelins and formed up along the front of the tower.

  ‘There’s a party of men heading for the causeway,’ Cato explained, speaking loudly to be heard above the din of the fighting and the rain. ‘They’ve got a ram. Don’t let them reach the gate.’

  The legionaries grasped the danger at once. They hefted their javelins in an overhand grip and raised their shields to protect them from the slingers. Then taking aim on the approaching enemy they waited for Cato’s order, Macro taking his place amongst them. Cato watched the warriors closely and could now make out the long, thick length of timber they carried between them. More than likely it was the trunk of a pine tree felled from one of the forests that grew along the side of the valley. At least they would not have had the wherewithal to cap it with a heavy iron point, Cato reflected. But even though it was a blunt, roughly hewn weapon, it would still smash through the gate eventually. The head of the party was no more than thirty paces from the start of the causeway and Cato raised his arm.

  ‘Make ready!’

  The range was long, and in the rain it was likely that his men’s grip would not be as good as it was in dry weather. Cato let the enemy come on. He wanted the first volley to be as devastating as possible.

  There was a grunt as one of the legionaries swept his throwing arm forward and his javelin arced towards the enemy and fell several paces short.

  ‘Who the fuck was that?’ Macro raged, turning to stare along the parapet and glaring as his eyes located the culprit. ‘You’re on a charge. The moment this little fracas is over! Now pick up a fresh weapon and wait for the bloody order!’

  The legionary snatched up a replacement javelin and took aim.

  Cato saw that the enemy were escorted by men carrying large round shields. Beyond, he saw a smaller party of men led by a tall warrior who stopped well beyond javelin range to watch the progress of the men carrying
the ram. Cato nodded to himself; it must be Caratacus. His enemy’s intention was clear now. While the Romans were kept occupied along the wall the ram would batter the gate before the defenders realised Caratacus’s intentions. It was a good plan, Cato conceded, except the Romans were ready and waiting.

  The first men had reached the end of the causeway and Cato filled his lungs, swept his arm forward and roared, ‘Loose javelins!’

  There was a chorus of grunts as the legionaries hurled their weapons down from the tower, over the causeway to where the bunched ranks of the enemy formed an easy target. The iron-tipped javelins punched through flesh and bone with soft thuds and an instant later the cries and groans of the injured cut through darkness. The party stopped abruptly, the ram dropped to the ground and those with shields swung them up to cover themselves.

  ‘Again!’ Cato ordered his men. ‘Pour it on, lads!’

  The legionaries snatched up more weapons, took aim and hurled the javelins. More of the enemy went down, including those with shields – the wood and leather they were made of provided poor protection against the impact of the deadly iron points. Macro was shouting with glee as he threw one weapon after another and urged the legionaries on. Beyond the tangle of dead and wounded the survivors were breaking and running back down the track. Cato heard the enemy leader shouting angrily at them, and then breaking off to call out an order. A moment later more slingshot whirred out of the darkness, smashing into and splintering the hoardings, with a few shots cracking off the shields of the legionaries. One of the deflections caught Cato on his cheekguard with a loud ring. He felt the blow but luckily the small missile had lost most of its energy and did not injure him.