Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Take cover!’ he ordered as the sharp rattle of shot intensified, and another legionary was hit, the blow spinning him round. A further shot struck him in the face, pulverising his nose and eye socket in a spray of blood. He collapsed like a sack filled with stones and thudded on to the wooden boards, his shield clattering beside him. The other legionaries ducked down behind the parapet, their heavy rectangular shields adding further protection as the barrage of slingshot rattled against the tower. Cato took an anxious breath during a brief lull and glanced over the wall. The enemy had taken up the ram once more and were making their way across the causeway. A loud crack on the wood beside him sent splinters flying and he felt a hot stab in his cheek and ducked back down.

  ‘Shit . . .’ He reached a hand up and felt the blood pouring down his face, and then touched something hard protruding from his flesh. Gritting his teeth he pinched the end tightly and pulled it out and flung it away. The sharp, stinging pain intensified but Cato ignored it.

  Macro crouched down beside him, breathing hard. ‘The bastards have got us pinned down, sir.’

  A voice shouted in front of the gate and a moment later began a short rhythmic chant. At the third beat there was a crash of wood on wood and Cato and Macro felt the tower tremble beneath them. The timbers of the gate were sturdy, as were the fastenings, hinges and the locking bar, but Cato knew that there was a limit to the punishment they could take.

  ‘We have to hold them up as much as possible. I’ll stay here and have the men continue with the javelins.’

  ‘That’ll be hot work.’

  ‘Can’t help that. We have to whittle them down and try to save the gate. If the outer gate goes, there’s only the inner gate. If we lose that we’re as good as dead.’

  Macro nodded.

  ‘I want you to take command of the reserve. Form up behind the gatehouse and open the inner gate. If they break the other one down, then you go in hard. Drive them out and take their ram. They’ll produce another soon enough, but it’ll buy us some time. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then go.’

  As Macro clambered down the ladder, Cato turned to the men crouching behind the hoardings. He raised his voice so that he would be heard above the clash of weapons, the cries of men and the steady pounding of the enemy’s ram. ‘Lads, we have to keep up the pace with the javelins. Use ’em quickly and don’t fuck about or you’ll make yourself an easy target. Get to it.’ Cato knew the danger of exposing himself to slingshot, but equally he knew that he had to lead these men by example. He took a light javelin from the stack at the rear of the tower, deliberately making sure that he did not look at the two casualties that had been dragged to the rear. Then, bracing himself behind a hoarding, he readied the weapon, clamped his jaw tightly and sprang up, leaned forward and hurled the javelin down on the glistening backs of the men clasping the ram, their hair and clothes slick in the rain. He saw it strike a warrior between the shoulders before he dropped back down. A moment later two missiles struck the tower where he had been standing. He felt a rush of elation sweep through his body and he offered a triumphant thumbs-up to the men. ‘One more barbarian sent to his gods!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Macro hefted his shield as he emerged from the gatehouse, striding over to the half century formed up a short distance away. At his approach Centurion Severus stopped pacing and turned towards him expectantly.

  ‘Stand to!’ Macro ordered and the legionaries hurriedly raised their shields and presented their javelins in a neat action, just as if they were on the drill ground. He nodded with approval before turning to their commander. He noted the nervous expression on the other man’s face. Just then the ram crashed into the outer gate once again, causing Severus to flinch as his gaze shot towards the sound.

  ‘They’ll be through that soon,’ he said anxiously, ‘then the inner gate, and we won’t be able to stop them.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that!’ Macro said loudly enough for the other men to hear. ‘Because we’re the men who are going to give those barbarian cunts a good kicking. Now, you two.’ He indicated the legionaries at the left end of the small formation. ‘Get the inner gate open. Smartly does it.’

  Severus’s mouth gaped. ‘Open the gate? What the . . . ?’

  Macro made himself smile and continued evenly, ‘Come now, those bastards are ruining one of the gates. Damned if I’m going to let them put a scratch on the other.’

  Severus stared at Macro as if he were mad, but Macro gave him no chance to speak. He drew his sword and turned to the legionaries. ‘Lay down the javelins. This is a job for swords, lads.’

  They set their weapons down and stood ready, hands resting on the pommels of their short swords as they waited for his orders.

  ‘Form column of fours! Close up and shields to the front!’

  The rain had formed puddles on the ground and the men’s boots splashed through them as they took up their positions. The two legionaries sent to open the gate had lifted the locking beam out of its brackets and were hauling the heavy timbers inwards. The wooden peg hinges groaned as the gate opened to reveal the dark maw of the short passage leading to the outer gate. Their work done they joined their comrades and Macro took his place at the head of the tight formation, gesturing to Severus to join him.

  ‘Let’s give ’em the wedge. You and I are taking point.’ Macro grinned and muttered the centurion’s credo, ‘First into the fight, and last out!’

  Severus nodded and smiled weakly. ‘First in. Last out.’

  Macro’s expression hardened as he drew his sword and raised it into the damp air. ‘First Century, Fourth Cohort draw your swords! We fight for the glory of the Fourteenth Legion!’

  The legionaries thrust their blades up and let out a cheer. Up on the wall on either side, the men who were not engaged with the enemy glanced round at the noise and Macro’s heart was warmed as he saw the men from the Blood Crows join in, echoing the cry from one end of the wall to the other. He lowered his sword and pointed the tip towards the passage. There was a sharp crack from the darkness as the ram shattered one of the timbers of the outer gate.

  ‘At the slow step . . . advance!’

  The legionaries paced towards the opening, shields raised to the front, covering all but the eyes of the men. As they entered the passage, the ram struck home again, smashing through the ruined timber and dislodging another length. As the ram was drawn back, Macro could make out the dim shapes of men through the jagged gap. He could also see that the locking beam was still intact. He halted his men, two paces back from the gate, far enough inside the passage so that the enemy would not see them in the darkness.

  The ram struck again, accompanied by a raucous cheer from the Silurians as they sensed that it would break through in a matter of moments. Another length of timber gave way with a splintering crunch. The next blow struck the locking bar full on and it leaped in the iron brackets that held it against the inside of the gates. It fell back into place, only to creak and begin to split at the next blow. Two more strikes were enough to complete the job; the bar shattered and one side of the gate burst in, revealing the packed ranks of the enemy warriors waiting to charge into the fort. As Macro braced his boots and snatched a deep breath he saw two javelins plunge down. A warrior jerked upright with a howl of agony as he groped for the shaft that had pierced his back and plunged into his vital organs. Then he toppled off the causeway into the ditch.

  ‘For Rome!’ Macro bellowed, his cry instantly echoing back to him off the interior of the gatehouse passage. ‘Advance!’

  Ahead of them the men clustered about the ram looked up, straining their eyes into the darkness. They were clearly outlined against the red hue of the faggots still burning outside. Before they could react, Macro and his legionaries thrust their way out of the passage. Macro punched his shield into the nearest man, knocking him back into his comrades, and followed up with a savage thrust of his short sword into the Silurian’s chest. At his side, Sev
erus slashed at a shoulder and opened up a deep cut down the length of the arm, before he pushed his shield forward and stepped in behind it. The legionaries following the officers pressed forward on each side, stabbing at their enemies. The Silurians had not expected to be counter-attacked at the moment of their triumph and those holding the ram released their grip and let it drop on to the causeway as they backed away from the danger, leaving their armed comrades to take up the fight. Some reacted quickly, raising their round shields and charging the Romans emerging through the broken gate.

  This was the close-quarters fighting that the legions trained for and at which they excelled, and in the dense press of bodies covering the causeway the lethal points of their short swords flickered out from between their large curved shields, stabbing deeply into limbs and torsos before being ripped free, causing terrible, crippling injuries that bled freely. Macro grinned fiercely as he battered his way forward with his shield, thrusting his sword again and again. Sometimes his blows did not land. Sometimes they were parried aside, but most struck home and he felt the warm flow of blood trickle over the guard and on to his hand as he pressed on, leading his men step by step across the causeway. To his left he glimpsed the ditch, the slopes and bottom littered with the dead and dying of the enemy. More were crowded in the narrow strip of ground between the scarp and the wall, eager to climb ladders and hurl themselves at the defenders.

  ‘Down your javelins!’ he heard Cato shout from above. ‘Those are our men!’

  Macro had given no thought to the danger of being struck down by his comrades and mentally thanked his friend as he thrust his sword again, only for his opponent to desperately throw up his shield and deflect the blow. Suddenly there was a surge through the ranks of the Silurians and a large warrior, dressed in furs, thrust his way to the front, a huge war axe clasped in his powerful hands. His comrades glanced at him in awe and hurried out of reach as the axe swung round in a vicious arc over his head. With a savage roar the giant fixed his attention on the crested helmet of Severus, determined to slaughter the Roman officers and break the will of the men following them.

  Severus stood his ground, shield raised and sword held back ready to strike. He had no choice. The ranks of the men behind him made retreat impossible. The giant planted a foot forward and swung his axe in a wide arc at chest height. Macro heard the whipping hiss of the axe head as it cut through the air, then the shattering crash as it tore through the edge of Severus’s shield, shattering the bronze trim and the layers of wood and leather which exploded into fragments under the terrifying power of the blow. The ruined shield leaped from the centurion’s numbed fingers and tumbled over the side of the causeway into the ditch. The giant let out a triumphant cry and continued his swing with bunched muscles. The axe swept round again, this time at a slightly greater height. Severus half turned to throw his sword up and try to block the blow, his mouth opening as a last cry tore from his lips. ‘Noooo!’

  The axe head clanged as it knocked the sword from the centurion’s grip, sending the weapon cartwheeling through the air. An instant later the edge struck the centurion in the neck, cleaving through flesh and bone and sending the head, encased in its polished helmet, leaping from the officer’s shoulders.

  ‘Fuck me . . .’ Macro was momentarily astonished by the deed, then, with a cold stab of reason, he knew that he would be the man’s next victim.

  ‘Not me, friend!’ he growled as he turned towards the giant and powered forward, crouching to lower his centre of balance. Nothing could resist the impact of such a heavy axe, Macro knew. He had to get close to the giant, inside the range of his fearsome weapon. Already the Silurian warrior was turning towards him, wielding his axe and making ready to strike. Macro charged home, thrusting his shield up just before he crashed into the man. The trim at the top of the shield caught him under the chin, snapping his jaw shut and cutting off his bellowing war cry. At the same time Macro swung his sword arm out and stabbed in at an angle. It was not the most effective blow, lacking power, but it caught his man in the side, below the ribs; it penetrated the folds of his fur cloak and bit into his flesh before Macro fetched up hard against the inside of his shield, marvelling at the solidity of his opponent. He braced his boots and shoved as he snatched his sword out and stabbed again, and again, hearing the man’s grunt as the blows drove the breath from his lungs.

  Knowing that his axe would not serve him well in such a close struggle, the giant threw it down and grasped the sides of the shield and tried to rip it from Macro’s grasp.

  ‘No, you fucking don’t!’ Macro spat, tightening his grip on the handle. Above him he saw the furious face of the man looming over the top of the shield. Instinctively, Macro powered up from the balls of his feet and headbutted the giant with his helmet, the solid metal of the brim guard crushing the bridge of the man’s nose. He released his grip and staggered away, blood pouring down over his beard and more soaking the tears in the folds of his cloak, matting the fur. Gasping for breath, Macro drew up, realising that he had reached the far side of the causeway. Before him the last of the party charged with breaking down the gate had turned to flee, leaving a score of bodies scattered over the packed earth in front of the ruined gate, most skewered by javelins.

  ‘Macro!’

  He turned and looked up and saw Cato pointing down.

  ‘Macro, get the ram inside!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  He turned and ordered two of his sections to sheath their blades and take up the stumps of branches that the enemy had been using as handles. The remaining men formed a shield wall at the end of the causeway to cover their comrades. Not a moment too soon. As the enemy drew away from the Romans, a hail of shot flew out of the darkness and clattered off the surface of the shields. The men carrying the ram struggled back inside the gatehouse, grunting under the load, as Macro steadily called the step for the shield wall to fall back inside the fort.

  Above them Cato let out a sigh of relief. The capture of the ram would win them several hours at least. Although he had lost the outer gate, the inner gate still held and there would be time to seal up the passage with earth and rocks to render it impassible. Looking up at the sky, he detected the first hint of the coming dawn amid the rain and clouds, a thin skein of grey along the edge of the mountains to the east. Already he could pick out more detail in the fight on each side of the gatehouse, and the ground in front of it. There, he saw Caratacus again, fists clenched and resting on his hips as he glared up at the fort. Then the enemy commander turned to his followers and a moment later a war horn blared out, its deep notes carrying across the battlefield. One by one the men at the top of the ladders, struggling to gain a foothold on the wall, broke contact and eased themselves down rung by rung. Those below backed away cautiously, climbing down and then out of the ditch before hurrying back down the slope, some with sufficient presence of mind to carry their assault ladders away with them. For a moment Caratacus stood still, then it seemed to Cato that his enemy picked him out on top of the tower and he raised a finger and pointed directly at him, his threat clear enough. He would not give up. Not until the the fort of Bruccium, its garrison, and its commander were wiped out.

  Caratacus turned away and paced slowly down the slope, along with the rest of his army.

  Cato heard the ladder creak behind him as Macro climbed into the tower and came and stood at his side.

  ‘Round one to us,’ Cato said quietly.

  Macro nodded. ‘But we lost Severus, and a handful of others. Did you see?’

  ‘I saw.’ Cato’s gaze flicked briefly down at the causeway where the centurion’s headless corpse lay sprawled across the body of one of the Silurians killed by a javelin. Then he recalled his first duty in such a situation.

  ‘Give the order for the men to stand down. The Thracians can take the first turn on the wall. Have the wounded taken to the surgeon and rations issued to the rest. Oh, and let them know that I’m proud of them. We’ve made certain that the enemy will rememb
er the garrison of Bruccium for the right reasons now. They know we can put up a decent fight as well as burn and massacre.’

  Macro nodded, then paused before he turned to leave. ‘You sure you want to tell the lads that?’

  Cato stroked his chin. ‘Perhaps not the last bit. Just tell them I’m proud of them. Proud to be their commander. That should put some fire in their hearts . . . They’ll need it, when Caratacus comes for us again.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dawn broke over a very different scene to the previous morning. Nothing remained of the haystacks except blackened piles of smouldering ash. There were scorched patches on the slope in front of the fort where some of the faggots had burned out and bundles of charred kindling where the rain had extinguished others. Bodies lay scattered along the ditch and below the wall. The enemy had taken their worst losses before the main gate where bodies covered the ground and much of the causeway, amongst which the shafts of javelins poked up at all angles like a carelessly used pincushion. As soon as there was light enough to see that the enemy had retreated as far as the parade ground, some two hundred paces away, Cato sent out a patrol to retrieve the still serviceable javelins from amongst the corpses. At the approach of a group of slingers, the patrol hurried back through the ruined gate into the shelter of the fort, with salvaged javelins bundled up under their arms. Another section had brought in the bodies of two legionaries who had been killed in the attack on the ram, as well as the corpse of Severus. His head had not been found. One of the natives had probably taken it as a trophy before retreating down the slope, Cato decided as he stood in the tower and surveyed the scene.

  The enemy camp sprawled across the floor of the valley. They had not yet built themselves any shelters and slept in the open, around the fires they had struggled to light in the hours since the sun had risen. The rain had stopped but the ground and the branches of the trees were soaked and only those who had ventured far enough into the valley’s forests to penetrate the most sheltered parts had returned with readily combustible fuel. From the size of their camp, Cato roughly estimated their number at close to ten thousand, perhaps several hundred of whom were mounted, judging from the horses grazing along the floor of the valley.