Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  His lips drew back to reveal his clenched teeth as he charged straight at Cato, sword arm outstretched and the point flying towards the prefect’s throat. Cato fell back. His heel struck the timbers of the gate and pain flared up his calf. There was no retreat, no chance of dodging to the side. He knew he could do nothing now but stand his ground. He raised the spatha, as if to try and parry the blade cutting through the air towards him with the full weight of the Thracian behind it. Cato swallowed hard, and felt the muscles of his throat tighten in fear, and then dived for the ground directly at the feet of his opponent. The sword flashed overhead and splintered the gate as the blow struck. A heavy boot kicked Cato in the side of his head, jarring his neck. Then he hit the ground and rolled on to his shoulder and the handle of the spatha lurched in his grip as the point bit deeply into Quertus’s flesh. Cato held the weapon tightly as the sword was wrenched down in his hand, forcing his wrist to twist the blade. Boots scuffed the ground and there was a deep groan from the Thracian and then stillness.

  Cato’s head was ringing, yet he was aware that the shouting had stopped. He was dazed by the blow to his skull and it was a moment before he saw Quertus’s features no more than a pace away. His eyes were wild and staring and his jaw sagged, gasping for breath. Then nausea filled Cato’s guts as his head spun, forcing him to clench his eyes shut briefly.

  ‘He’s done for,’ a voice muttered thickly, and Cato tried to nod, thinking to accept his fate. He felt hands reach under his arms and draw him up, away from the ground. His head began to clear and the nausea passed so he risked opening his eyes. A familiar face was anxiously looking at him.

  ‘Cato . . . sir?’

  He blinked and forced himself to reply, slowly and clearly. ‘Macro. You all right?’

  ‘Am I all right?’ Macro let out a deep laugh and tapped the side of his head. ‘Ain’t been a weapon yet made that’ll get through this skull!’

  Cato nodded. ‘I dare say. What . . . Quertus?’

  ‘Like I said. Done for.’ Macro nodded towards the ground and Cato looked down and saw the Thracian lying on his side, the cavalry sword buried almost to the hilt in his groin and angled up into his vital organs. He rocked from side to side as a pool of blood expanded beneath him, a low keening note in his voice as he gasped for breath.

  Cato’s mind quickly cleared. ‘Good.’

  He looked up at the faces of the men surrounding the rear gatehouse of the fort. Some of the Thracians seemed stunned. Others were clearly angry, their expressions darkening as the legionaries began to cheer Cato’s name.

  ‘Better get that leg seen to, sir,’ Macro was saying. He took off his neckcloth and bent down and carefully dressed the wound.

  Cato struggled to keep his mind focused. He had done it. He had bested the Thracian. In front of the whole garrison. He had taken a terrible risk, gambled his life, in order to put an end to the struggle for supremacy over the garrison and now he stared at the auxiliaries with cold authority. A figure stepped forward and Cato’s eyes flickered towards the man and he recognised Centurion Stellanus.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Stellanus gestured towards the dying man. ‘My sword, sir. I’ll take it back now.’

  ‘Your sword?’ Cato arched an eyebrow. ‘Yes . . . Yes, of course.’

  Stellanus nodded and approached. He hesitated as he stood over Quertus, and then rolled the Thracian on to his back and reached down to grasp the sword handle. Bracing a boot on the man’s groin, Stellanus worked his sword free. A rush of dark, almost black, blood gushed out after the blade came free with a sucking sound. Quertus’s body tensed and he let out a last, rasping gasp, and sagged slowly as the light went out of his eyes and he died. Stellanus wiped the blood from the blade and sheathed his weapon before he stood stiffly in front of Cato.

  ‘At your command, sir.’

  Cato nodded, then spoke softly. ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why did you throw me your sword?’

  Stellanus frowned. ‘He called you a cowardly Roman, sir. It ain’t true. It ain’t true of any Roman officer. In any case, you had the right to die with a sword in your hand.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  Stellanus stared back in silence for a moment before he responded flatly, ‘I’d have done the same for him, sir.’

  ‘Him?’ Macro intervened scornfully. ‘That bastard?’

  Stellanus nodded. ‘Whatever you may think of him, he had a warrior’s heart, and deserved a warrior’s death.’

  He was interrupted by the sound of the horn at the front gate. The alarm was being raised. Every man turned towards the sound, a series of strident notes carrying across the fort. It was Cato who recovered first. ‘To your positions! Every man on the wall!’

  Macro jerked his thumb towards the group who had supported Quertus. ‘What about them? Bloody deserters.’

  Cato glanced at the men. ‘We’ll deal with that later. For now I need every single man. Send ’em back to their units.’

  ‘Even Decimus?’

  Cato turned and stared at his servant. The man was trembling under the withering gaze of the two officers. Cato felt a stab of pity for a man, any man, who was in the thrall of fear to such an extent. Pity, and a degree of empathy. But it was the greater fear of being found out that caused Cato to force himself to carry out the deeds that Macro ascribed to courage. So it was with a mixture of pity and guilt that Cato shook his head. ‘Send him back to my quarters.’

  When he reached the tower above the main gate Cato could see the full length of the valley as the rising sun burnished the rim of the hills to the east. The sky was clearing and the coming day promised to be dry and warm with only the mildest of breezes. Perfect conditions to light the signal fire. The smoke would be clearly seen for ten or twenty miles. Down below, the enemy camp was bristling with activity as men hurriedly formed into war bands and the thickly coated ponies favoured by the mountain tribes were saddled and mounted. Already, the first bands were moving towards the head of the valley in the direction of Gobannium. A small force advanced towards the fort and halted at the foot of the slope. Its purpose was clear enough to Cato: to contain the garrison while the main body dealt with whatever had roused them. It could only be the presence of Roman soldiers nearby. For an instant Cato felt his heart soar at the prospect, and then his fierce joy turned to an icy dread as he realised what that must mean. There might still be time to avert the disaster.

  Cato whirled round and rushed across the tower and leaned over the rail into the fort. He thrust his arm towards the optio in charge of the signal beacon, a large iron basket filled with kindling dipped in pitch. To one side lay the dried leaves that would make plenty of smoke when the flames had taken hold. ‘Light the signal fire! At once!’

  Turning his attention back towards the head of the valley while the optio carried out his orders, Cato cursed whatever gods had seen fit to sweep back the cloud and rain from the sky only on the very morning that the column of reinforcements marching from Glevum were nearing the fort, too close for the signal beacon to warn them off in time. The enemy’s intention was clear. Caratacus was preparing to ambush the Roman column. The reinforcements would be surrounded by the native warriors and cut to pieces. The Romans were blissfully ignorant of the danger. As far as they were aware, the enemy commander and his host were far to the north, their attention fixed on the ponderous advance of Governor Ostorius and his army. They would discover the truth soon enough, Cato mused bitterly.

  There was only the slimmest of chances to save the column, Cato knew, but he was not going to simply stand by and watch his comrades massacred.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘Why not let me go?’ Macro asked bluntly. ‘You’ve been wounded, sir. And the men need you here in the fort.’

  Cato shook his head as he finished strapping his greaves on. He straightened up and smiled at his friend. ‘I was appointed Prefect of the Second Thracian Cohort as well as
commander of the garrison. I think it’s time I exercised my rank now that Quertus is out of the way.’

  They stood beside the side gate opening on to the slope nearest the track that led to the head of the valley. Two squadrons of the cavalry cohort were hurriedly mounting up in the open space between the wall and the barracks and stables of the fort. Sixty riders were all that could be spared for the task that Cato had in mind. Any more would leave Macro with too few men to defend Bruccium. Cato could see the thick column of smoke billowing into the air from the signal fire. It rose steadily enough for a short distance but a light breeze had come with the dawn and the smoke soon dispersed into distant wisps of grey. If the men in the reinforcement column were alert, there was a chance they might see the signal and have the sense to turn back while they still had a remote chance of escape.

  Macro looked round at the Thracians and clicked his tongue. ‘What do you think you can achieve with sixty men?’ He looked anxiously at his friend. ‘It’s nothing short of suicide.’

  ‘I hope it’s something short of that,’ Cato replied with a thin smile. ‘We are better mounted than the enemy, and we have the element of surprise. They won’t be expecting us to ride out to support the reinforcement column.’

  ‘Really? I wonder why?’ Macro responded drily.

  Cato’s smile vanished and he lowered his voice so that only Macro would hear him. ‘Would you have me stand by while our comrades are massacred? I have to try and help them cut a way out of the trap. You’d do the same if you were in my position, and you know it.’

  Macro could not deny the truth of that but he persisted with his argument. ‘Where’s the logic of it, Cato? You charge out there and try to rescue our lads and it’s fifty to one against that you come through it. You’ll just be throwing away your life, and the lives of the Thracian lads. The reinforcement column hasn’t got a chance.’

  ‘Not so. You’re prepared to offer odds of fifty to one.’

  ‘Only a fool would place a stake on that.’

  Cato held out his hand. ‘Then call me a fool. I’ll put ten sestertii on it.’

  Macro grasped his hand and tried to sound light-hearted. ‘Done! Easiest ten sestertii I ever made . . .’

  There was a brief, awkward silence as they clasped hands and silently said their farewells. Then Cato withdrew his hand and looked over Macro’s shoulder. ‘The men are ready. We have to get going. Make sure that you have one of your centuries ready to hold the gate open for us if – when – we return with the reinforcements.’

  ‘They’ll be ready. I’ll lead ’em myself.’

  ‘Good. Then I’ll look forward to seeing you shortly.’ Cato tested the fit of his helmet, took a calming breath and walked stiffly over to his horse which was being held for him by one of the Thracians. He took the reins and patted Hannibal gently on his broad cheek and muttered up towards his dagger-like ears, ‘Behave for me today, and when I give the word, run like the wind.’

  The horse snorted and jerked its head fractionally and Cato smiled quickly before he took the reins and vaulted into the saddle, trying not to wince at the sharp pain his leg rewarded him with. Taking a firm grasp of the reins, he took the large oval shield that the handler offered up to him and slipped the strap over his shoulder. Despite the custom for senior officers to carry a sword, Cato had chosen to be armed with a long, heavy spear like the rest of his men and he shifted his grip on the weapon to find its balance point. He settled the butt into the small leather holster hanging from the saddle and wheeled Hannibal round to face his men. The squadrons were formed up two deep behind their officers, Centurion Stellanus and a Thracian, Decurion Kastos, stern-faced as they regarded their prefect, waiting for the traditional short speech of encouragement before they were led into battle.

  Short it would be, Cato thought; there was little time to spare. He would have preferred to dispense with formalities altogether and simply give the order to quit the fort, but he knew that the men would need to be addressed following on so closely from the death of Quertus.

  ‘Blood Crows!’ he began. ‘Our comrades are in the gravest of danger. Caratacus means to cut them down and take their heads as trophies to offer to his Druid allies. That is no fit fate for any soldier. The enemy means to humiliate them, before our eyes, and therefore humiliate us for being powerless to intervene. But we shall not be humbled, and nor shall our comrades. That is all that matters to us this day. Our task is simple. We shall ride to their rescue and clear a path through the enemy so that our comrades can gain the fort . . . What has gone before cannot be changed. We have in our grasp the chance to win undying glory for the Blood Crows. Those who live to remember this day will never forget the honour they have shared with their brothers, nor the honour in which they will be held by the rest of the army.’ He paused, vaguely frustrated by his failure to deliver the kind of stirring speech he had read of in the history books of his youth. But there was no time for that kind of carefully rehearsed rhetoric. He grasped his spear and raised it aloft.

  ‘For the glory of Rome! For the honour of the Blood Crows!’

  Centurion Stellanus took his cue and thrust his spear overhead. ‘For the honour of the Blood Crows!’

  The rest of the men took up the cheer and their horses stamped and scraped their hoofs eagerly, caught up in the excitement of their riders. Cato turned to Macro and nodded.

  ‘Open the gates!’ Macro bellowed and the two legionaries waiting beside the locking bar instantly heaved it out of the sturdy iron brackets and set it down to one side before drawing the gates apart.

  Cato steered his mount round and urged Hannibal towards the arch under the gatehouse with the cry, ‘Advance!’

  Stellanus gave the order to his men and they followed their prefect, walking their horses forward two abreast. As Cato passed Macro, they exchanged a brief bow of heads. The other squadron followed, passing through the gate, across the bridge over the narrow ditch and on to the track that led diagonally down the slope at the side of the fort. Cato knew that they would not be seen until they rounded the corner of the small hill upon which the fort stood and was content to let the column walk that far before increasing the pace. He felt his heartbeat quicken and had to force himself not to look back towards the gatehouse and the safety of the fort. In the distance, a mile away, he could see the rear of the enemy force heading to intercept the reinforcement column. As he rode at a steady pace, determined to give the impression of being calm and in control, Cato’s mind was filled with anxiety over the danger that lay before him.

  With luck, the officer leading the column would have a few men screening the main body and the moment they became aware of the enemy, the reinforcements would close up and trust to their heavy shields and iron discipline to carve their way through to the fort. On the other hand, Cato reflected, the officer might well be one of the freshly minted tribunes who had reached the frontier with his confidence in Roman supremacy and contempt for the barbarian undented. The kind of man who blundered forward until tripped up by experience. Some struggled back on to their feet, others paid the price of their arrogance in full.

  The rough track leading down across the slope began to level out and now Cato could see the edge of the parade ground and the enemy camp beyond. They would be spotted at any moment, if they had not already been. He tapped his heels to get his horse’s attention. ‘On, Hannibal. On!’

  The beast stirred and increased his pace to a gentle trot. Behind, Stellanus and then Kastos repeated the order and a faint rumble took the place of the gentle clop and scrape of walking horses. Cato had scrutinised the ground in the valley before leaving the fort and had chosen to head for a bare ledge overlooking the head of the pass. The ground up to it offered little cover and seemed open enough to be usable by cavalry. He gently pulled on the reins to steer Hannibal in its direction and then looked towards the enemy. The horsemen had been seen by those still in the camp who were gesticulating and pointing at the two squadrons setting out from the fort. A momen
t later the first of the horns sounded the alarm to alert their comrades further up the valley. It took only a moment for the rearmost of the war bands, just over half a mile ahead, to stop and turn about. For a moment they hesitated and then Cato watched them fan out into a line facing his men. Most of the enemy carried shields and spears, but some carried more basic weapons and had no armour.

  Cato led the Thracians towards the enemy line at a steady trot. More had stopped to turn and look back, uncertain how to react to the unexpected response from the garrison at Bruccium. Cato felt a moment’s satisfaction at the sight. Any seeds of confusion that he could sow would serve to hinder the enemy’s attack on the reinforcement column. Caratacus’s warriors would arrive piecemeal and there would be a chance for the reinforcements to deploy for battle rather than be caught strung out along the line of march. With luck, they might already have seen the smoke from the signal fire and paid heed to the warning.

  Three more of the war bands had turned back to confront the Thracians and were hurrying across the open ground to take up position on the flanks of the line. The sight did not unsettle Cato as he had no intention of engaging with them. It would be suicide for such a small force of cavalry, well mounted and armed as they were, to charge headlong into an overwhelming mass of infantry. That was not Cato’s plan. The real danger was presented by the enemy horsemen. They heavily outnumbered the two squadrons and, more worryingly, would be able to outpace them. If they managed to attack and pin down the Thracians long enough for the infantry to intervene then it would all be over very swiftly and the destruction of the two squadrons would simply be the first Roman casualties of the day.

  The enemy line was no more than a quarter of a mile distant and Cato quickly estimated their number at five hundred. He lifted his spear and pointed to the right of the line, towards the ledge on the side of the mountain overlooking the pass. ‘Wheel right!’