Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Well, that’s the only direction open to us now.’ Cato winced as an arrow glanced off his shield and deflected into the air over his helmet. ‘I’ll use my men to clear a path. Have the infantry close up and we’ll get moving. Empty three of the wagons for the wounded. The rest will have to be abandoned. The prospect of easy spoils will slow some of the enemy down.’

  Mancinus nodded, and turned to shout orders to one of the sections waiting in his small reserve. The men laid down their shields and began to unload the last three wagons, dumping the spare kit and rations on the ground which was slick with churned mud from the heavy wheels, hoofs and boots of the column. The injured men were hauled up and roughly deposited on the bed of the first wagon. Cato knew that the wagon would soon be filled by more of the wounded, and the same would be true of the other vehicles.

  While the legionaries prepared the wagons, Cato ordered Stellanus to form the Thracians across the track towards the rear of the perimeter.

  The optio in charge of the reserve approached and saluted. ‘Sir, what about the draught animals? Do we take ’em with us or kill ’em?’

  Cato glanced at the mules and oxen harnessed to the wagons that were being left behind. There was no sense in letting the enemy make use of them. It was standard practice to destroy them rather than let them be captured. Yet they might serve a useful purpose. He refined his plan a moment and then addressed the optio.

  ‘Have them taken out of harness and placed in front of the Thracians. You have feed nets?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then fix one to the harness of each animal.’

  ‘Sir?’ The optio looked surprised and then nodded obediently. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘See to it. Quick as you can.’

  The optio hurried off to carry out his orders and Cato paused to take stock of the battle. He had lost a third of his men. No more than forty Thracians remained. The reinforcement column was faring better, thanks to the shield wall they were able to present to the enemy. They would take far fewer losses than the lightly armed Silurians, but that would not last. The price of heavy armour was the exhaustion that it inflicted on the soldiers. That was why the legionaries fought in relays in great set-piece battles. There would be no respite for them on the road back to Gobannium, Cato realised. A few hours from now, they would be worn out and become easy pickings for their nimble enemy.

  As he waited for his orders to be carried out, Cato mentally retraced the route out of the valley. The track led through the pass and descended into another valley beyond. There the pass narrowed and was lined with a thick forest of pine trees. If they could reach that then a rearguard might hold the enemy off long enough for the rest of the column to get away. Or at least gain enough of a lead to reach Gobannium.

  Over the heads of the men fighting he could see Caratacus and his escort, urging their warriors on. For a brief instant Cato sensed that the enemy commander was looking straight at him, still as resolutely determined to obliterate every last man of the garrison of Bruccium and every other Roman who stood in his path. Then Caratacus spurred his horse and moved to another section of his army and dismounted to wade into the fight.

  Tribune Mancinus approached and stood at his side to watch the progress of the uneven struggle raging about them.

  ‘What do you want the draught animals for?’ Mancinus asked.

  ‘If you’ve read your Livy, then you should be able to guess.’

  ‘Livy?’ Mancinus shrugged. ‘Not on my syllabus, I regret to say, sir.’

  ‘Too bad. He has his uses.’ Cato saw that the animals and the Thracians were in position and the last of the three wagons had been turned about and was ready to move off. ‘We’re ready, Tribune. When I give the word the animals will cause something of a diversion. My cavalry will follow them up and try to open the way for the column. Get your men moving at once. Keep ’em closed up and their shields presented to the enemy. If you can save the wounded, do so. But if they fall out of line and can’t be rescued, leave them. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear, but hard to stomach, sir.’

  ‘That’s too bad. We can’t afford to slow the column down for anything. Not if there’s going to be any chance of saving some of the men at least.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s be about our business.’ Cato clicked his tongue and steered Hannibal past the abandoned wagons to the front of the tightly packed ranks of the Thracians. He saw the optio overseeing the tying of the last feed bags to the nervous mules and oxen herded together behind the line of auxiliaries holding the rear of the perimeter.

  ‘Optio, you have your tinderbox with you?’

  The man patted the leather pouch hanging from a strap across his shoulder. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then get a flame going at once. Soon as you have, get your men to light some twists of straw and set the feed bags alight.’

  The optio raised his eyebrows in surprise but nodded obediently and got to work. Cato made his way towards the centurion in command of the rearguard.

  ‘What’s your unit, Centurion?’

  The officer, tough-looking and swarthy, saluted. ‘Fourth Hispanic Cohort, sir.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Centurion Fernandus, sir.’

  ‘When I give the word, I want your men to draw aside to let the animals pass. They’ll need to move quickly if they want to avoid being trampled.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  All was set and Cato returned to his position at the head of the Thracians. In front of him the optio had lit a small fire, fed with handfuls of dry feed. As soon as the flames had taken he waved his men forward and they lit their tightly twisted lengths of straw and hurried to their places behind the animals, where they waited for the order. Cato settled himself in his saddle and took hold of his spear.

  ‘Light them up!’

  At his command the legionaries thrust their makeshift torches into the feed nets and at once the dry, combustible material was set alight. Thin trails of smoke curled into the air and the flames spread rapidly. The heat and the glare alarmed the animals and they began to jostle against each other. Cato held off a moment longer, to ensure that they were agitated enough to rush forward when the opening was made for them. One of the oxen let out a loud bellow of fear and pain and stamped a foreleg.

  ‘Now, Fernandus!’

  The auxiliary centurion snatched a breath and yelled, ‘Fourth Hispanic! Open ranks!’

  The fighting line parted as the men in the centre section fell back and drew aside. They moved quickly enough to surprise the enemy who stood facing the gap, weapons raised and eyes staring. The ox bellowed again and the flames from the feed bag began to scorch its hide. With a snort it charged for the gap, trying to escape the burning hay on its rump. The other animals began to rush forward to get away from the same torment, straight at the closely packed ranks of the Silurians. There was no chance to get out of the path of the stampeding animals and the men were borne back by the impetus of the terrified brutes. With a scream the first of them fell under the hoofs and then more were trampled as the draught animals surged out of the Roman formation. Nothing could stand in the path of the panicked mules and oxen. Their bellows and braying filled the air as the flames, fanned by their frantic efforts to flee, flared behind them, adding to their terror.

  Cato waited until the last of the animals had stampeded away and then advanced his spear. ‘Blood Crows! Stick it to ’em!’

  Not the formal command, he knew, but one that would be unmistakable, and his men spurred their mounts and charged out of the square, through the gap. Cato and the squadron of the late Kastos charged to the left, Stellanus and the others to the right, bursting through the scattered and terrified Silures, thrusting their spears again and again, cutting down the routing enemy. As the last of the cavalry cleared the column, Tribune Mancinus gave the command to advance and the men behind the wall of shields steadily began to move back along the track leading over the pass towards Gobanni
um. The Silurians kept pace, wildly hacking at the shields and risking an occasional lunge at an exposed leg or gap that opened between the shields. For their part the Romans stabbed their swords at the enemy. There were still some who retained their javelins and used their greater reach to good effect, skewering any tribesmen who ventured too close to the line of shields. The men of the column left a trail of bodies, dead and dying, in their wake, mostly tribesmen but some Romans among them, who were butchered as they fell behind.

  The animals had scattered, running blindly on in a futile effort to get away from the flames that scorched their backs, and it was then left to Cato and the Thracians to keep the line of march open. They charged to and fro across the track, breaking up any groups of enemy warriors attempting to make a stand in front of the box formation crawling through the pass. As Cato had hoped, the enemy fell on the abandoned wagons and ransacked them looking for valuables, armour and weapons. It was not until Caratacus rode down on his followers and drove them forwards again that the battle was renewed in earnest.

  They had covered nearly a mile with little loss when they approached the slight rise before the valley narrowed. Cato was rallying his men for another rush at the enemy when Centurion Stellanus, who had ridden a short distance further ahead, suddenly reined in and stood staring down the far slope. He turned and beckoned frantically to Cato.

  ‘Sir! Over here!’

  The enemy war bands had drawn back and were watching the Thracians warily, so in the brief lull before they came on again Cato spurred his horse ahead to join Stellanus. As he drew up beside the centurion the reason for the latter’s consternation was immediately apparent. The track was blocked by a hastily thrown up breastwork of rocks and felled trees. A line of roughly sharpened stakes angled out of the ground in front of the barricade and the trees on either side, which spread across the narrow width of the valley, right up to the crags. Behind the defences stood the enemy, weapons held ready, hurling challenges. As Cato and then a handful of Thracians joined the centurion, their jeering increased until it echoed mockingly off the mountains on either side.

  For a moment, Cato was confused. He had not seen any war bands hurrying past to get ahead of the column. Then it hit him. These were the men who had been following Mancinus. Far from disappearing, they had dogged his footsteps just long enough to ensure that he walked into the trap, and then set about putting in place the last element of their commander’s plan. Cato could not help but admire the shrewd intelligence of the Catuvellaunian king. Once again he had outwitted his Roman opponents.

  The moment passed and Cato’s admiration turned to cold dread. There was only the most slender chance of survival now. They must break through, or they would most certainly die where they stood.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ‘You must hold this ground until the job is done,’ Cato explained to Mancinus. ‘A third of the men are already down. I’ll need a century of the Gaulish auxiliaries to cut through the barricade. That leaves you short-handed. Stellanus will do what he can to cover the flanks but it’ll be down to the rest of the escort and the garrison replacements to hold the enemy back.’

  The tribune nodded and adjusted his grip on the handle of his shield. ‘We’ll do our duty, sir.’

  Back in the direction of Bruccium, the Silurians were massing across the width of the valley, building themselves up for another rush at the shields of the Romans with a rising chorus of battle cries.

  Cato smiled at the tribune. ‘In this instance duty is not enough. I need you and the men to be bloody heroes.’

  Mancinus smiled back. ‘Those who are about to die . . .’

  Cato shook his head. ‘That’s not quite what I had in mind. I’ll see you and your men on the far side of the barricade once we’re through.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Good luck.’

  Cato nodded and strode off to join the auxiliaries of the First Century of Fernandus’s cohort. They had formed up in a blunt column, eight abreast and ten deep, in close order. Cato had left his spear and Hannibal in the hands of one of the walking wounded and drew his sword as he took his place in the front rank of the century. The commander of the cohort looked at him uncertainly.

  ‘Sir, I should be leading this attack. These are my men.’

  ‘And it is my order they are carrying out. I will not ask them to risk a danger I wouldn’t face myself.’

  Fernandus shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Get back to the rest of your cohort. Something tells me the enemy won’t wait much longer before they come on again.’

  The centurion bowed his head and turned to trot back towards his men, lined up to the right of the legionaries who were holding the centre, while the replacements intended for the fort held the left. Beyond that there were barely ten men in each of the remaining Thracian squadrons at the end of each line. They would hold Caratacus and his horde back for the first charge, but after that it was in the lap of the gods. Cato cleared his mind and shifted his shield round in front of his left shoulder and drew his sword level.

  ‘Advance, at my pace!’ he ordered. The auxiliaries tensed around and behind him, faces set in determined expressions. They knew as well as he that their survival and that of their comrades depended on them breaking through the barricade and then holding the breach open long enough for the rest of the column to retreat along the track between the pine trees.

  ‘One! Two!’ Cato intoned repeatedly, and the tight formation tramped forward towards the line of stakes less than a hundred paces ahead. Beyond, the enemy warriors lining the makeshift defences brandished their weapons and dared their enemy to come on and do battle. Behind him Cato could hear the blast of war horns and a great roar as the rest of the Silurians rushed towards the thin Roman line covering the retreat.

  Step by step the auxiliaries made their way along the track towards the enemy and then Cato saw a man clamber atop the barricade and whirl a leather thong above his head.

  ‘Shields up! Form tortoise!’

  The inner ranks of the formation lifted their shields, rank by rank, from the front, and behind the shields the century became a crowded world of gloom, panted breath, the smell of sweat and muttered prayers to the gods. The muffled sounds from beyond were suddenly drowned out by the loud rattle of slingshot striking home, battering the leather surface of the shields. Cato lowered his head so that he was just able to see over the rim of his shield and raised his voice as he continued to intone the pace. ‘One! Two!’

  There was a cry of pain as one of the auxiliaries was struck on the shin, the shot smashing the bone. He fell out of formation and covered his body with his shield as another man took his place. The bombardment intensified as they reached the line of stakes and Cato called the formation to a halt. He ordered two men to work the first of the stakes free. Another auxiliary was struck as a stone glanced off a shield and hit him in the face, breaking his cheek and blinding him in one eye. He let out a brief groan but kept his place.

  ‘Good lad,’ Cato called across to him.

  The first stake came out and then another. And all the time slingshot, accompanied by rocks, smashed against the shields. Then there was a shout and the blare of a horn and Cato risked a look over his shield and saw enemy warriors clambering over the barricade and rushing forward to engage the auxiliaries.

  ‘Here they come! Brace yourselves!’

  A moment later Cato felt his shield crash against him. He staggered back a pace before thrusting savagely forward and restoring the line at the front of the formation. More blows landed and hands tried to rip away the shield as the tribesmen attempted to get at their enemy. But the auxiliaries held their ground and punched their swords out, stabbing at the warriors surrounding them. The two men working the stakes continued their task, grunting as they wrenched them from the ground.

  Suddenly there was a deafening crack and splinters shot through the confines behind the shields and a broad shaft of light pierced the gloom. Cato glanced round and saw that a h
uge Silurian warrior, stripped to a loincloth, his powerful body covered with swirling tattoos, was swinging a heavy war hammer back for another blow. His first had shattered the shield and caved in the chest of the man holding it. He now lay on the ground blinking as blood gurgled and sprayed from his lips. The hammer whirled round in a vicious arc and struck again, sending another man flying into his comrades.

  ‘Shit!’ Cato muttered as two warriors forced themselves into the gap. One carried a hunting spear and thrust it into the stomach of an auxiliary. The second tribesman darted in, clutching a small axe which he swung into the forearm of another of the auxiliaries. The formation was breaking up as the other men instinctively backed away.

  ‘Hold your positions!’ Cato bellowed. Then fingers closed round the edge of his shield and tried to wrench it from him. Cato hacked at the knuckles with his sword and was rewarded with a sharp cry of agony as two digits went flying and the warrior snatched his ruined hand back. Cato saw the giant with the war hammer smash another man down using an overhead blow that crushed the auxiliary’s helmet and the skull beneath it. Blood exploded from the face and ears of his victim. More of the enemy had thrust their way into the formation. Cato could see at once that it would not hold and it would be suicide to continue with his original plan.

  With a bitter stab of frustration he sucked in a deep breath. ‘Fall back! Fall back!’

  He kept his shield up as he cautiously retreated step by step. The other men closed ranks and fell into step as Cato called out the timing. The enemy stayed with them, the giant leading the attack, his weapon whirling and crushing one auxiliary after another. Cato knew that he had to be dealt with before he broke the spirit of the surviving men of the century. He halted the formation, then waited for the hammer to rise up again, ready for another overhead blow. Cato launched himself forward, slamming his shield up and into the giant’s face. His nose broke with a soft crack and Cato swung his sword in a short arc round the edge of the shield and stabbed him in the armpit. There was not enough power in the blow to break through the man’s ribs and the blade carved a shallow tear across his tattoed flesh. Cato did not wait to finish the job but fell back and continued to order the retreat of the century. He saw blood streaming down the giant’s face as the man staggered back, dazed. His comrades let out a groan of anxiety at the sight and fell back from the shields of the auxiliaries, long enough for a gap to open up between the two sides. There were far more Silurians lying on the ground than Romans and the sight of the wall of shields, and the lethal points of the swords pricking out between them, was enough to deter the enemy from renewing their attack. They contented themselves with jeering at the retreating Romans before one of their chiefs had the wit to bellow at his men to replant the stakes that had been torn up.