Roman 12 - The Blood Crows

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato led the men back out of slingshot range and then ordered them to form line to cover the rear of the rest of the column. By the time he could turn his attention to the fight across the main battle line, the enemy were already falling back. But they had exacted as heavy a price as they had paid and the line was no more than one deep across most of its length. The next attack would undoubtedly break it, Cato realised. He hurried across to Tribune Mancinus who was having a wound to his arm dressed by an orderly.

  ‘We can’t get through,’ Cato informed him.

  ‘I saw.’ Mancinus puffed his cheeks. ‘Can’t fight our way through to Bruccium. Can’t retreat to Gobannium. Not much of a choice left, sir.’

  ‘No.’ Cato pointed to a small knoll near the middle of the pass. ‘That’s the spot for us.’

  The tribune considered the position and shrugged. ‘As good as any place for a last stand.’

  ‘We’d better take up position before Caratacus comes for us again.’

  Mancinus nodded and waved the orderly away as soon as the dressing was tied off. The three wagons were driven up to the top of the knoll and the teams of beasts were led a short distance away before the drivers cut their throats. Cato ordered Stellanus to gather the Thracians, of whom twelve still lived, though they had saved three more of the mounts.

  ‘We’ll stay by the wagons and plug any gaps if the enemy cut through.’

  Stellanus cocked an eyebrow. ‘If?’

  Cato ignored the comment and watched the legionaries and auxiliaries begin to fall back around the hillock. The enemy knew that the end was near and began to edge forward as Caratacus beckoned to the men of his blocking force to join in the kill. The bloodied giant had recovered from the blow to his head and nimbly climbed over the barricades and threaded his way through the stakes to lead his party, somewhat larger in number than the surviving Romans, swinging his hammer as he came.

  The last of the men trudged into place on the knoll and turned to face the enemy. Many were already wounded and had bloodied rags hastily tied about their limbs. Shields had been battered and some shield trims had split under the impact of swords and axes. Stellanus held Hannibal for him and Cato climbed into the saddle. From his vantage point he looked round the small ring of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder in silence as they waited. The injured in the wagons could only look on helplessly. Some held swords or daggers, though Cato was not sure if they meant to fight until the last breath or end their lives rather than face the possibility of torment from the Silurians. The standard-bearers of the two cohorts stood on the drivers’ benches of one of the wagons where the units’ colours would fly above the heads of the men until the end.

  Mancinus made his way over to Cato and offered his hand. ‘It’s a shame that it has been such a short acquaintance, sir. A pity you didn’t remain in the fort.’

  Cato sighed and gestured towards the reinforcement contingent. ‘They were to join my command. I couldn’t stand by and let them be cut down.’

  Mancinus smiled. ‘You have a rather old-fashioned view of what the duty of a commander is.’

  ‘That may be, but rank comes with burdens as well as privileges.’ Cato cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Lads! It’s too bad we’re here, but there’s one duty left to us now. Take as many of the bastards down with us as we can. Every one who dies by our hand is one less for Rome to deal with. We will be avenged. You can be sure of that. That’s work for our comrades. Let’s do ’em proud! As for the enemy, let’s show them how Romans die!’ He drew his sword and thrust it above his head. ‘For Rome, and for the Emperor!’

  ‘For Rome!’ Mancinus repeated, in part, and the cry spread around the knoll as the men prepared to sell their lives dearly.

  Cato saw the enemy commander and his companions riding at the head of the oncoming ranks of the Silurians and he wondered if Caratacus might offer them a chance to surrender. If so, he knew he could not accept. After the cruel destruction that Quertus had visited on the kinfolk of the tribesmen, there would be no mercy shown to Roman prisoners, and they could only expect to live long enough to be given a pitiless and painful end. But Caratacus gave no sign that he intended to offer them terms. As he called out to his men, there was a distinct note of triumph in the words he spoke in his native tongue. The enemy warriors flowed round the knoll until they completely encircled it and only then began to close in. Their shouts were deafening and their faces etched with hate and triumph as they waved their fists and pumped their shields and weapons at the Romans. It was only at the last moment, when they were no more than a few paces away, that some instinct spread through the Silurian ranks and they charged home, slamming into the shields and desperately trying to work gaps between them to strike at the men behind.

  For a while the line held and the Romans fought with a desperate savagery that matched that of their opponents. Bodies fell in front of the shields and the Silurians had to clamber over their comrades to get at the legionaries and auxiliaries. But one by one the defenders of the knoll began to fall, and with each casualty the ring closed tighter about the wagons and the handful of horsemen beside them. Cato resolved to lead them in one final dash towards Caratacus, hoping by some miracle to get close enough to make an attempt on the life of the enemy commander. But Caratacus held back, with his men, watching the destruction of the last of the relief column.

  Cato snatched a brief moment to think about the manner of his death. It was true that it had been foolhardy to ride to the aid of the men around him, yet he could not have lived with himself if he had not. And there was the euphoria following his defeat of Quertus. It was not just the Thracian who had been defeated, but Cato’s fear of certain death. It had been liberating to trust his life to his courage and skill at arms. Perhaps it was that sense of triumph that had led him to this end. That, and the hope that his actions might help save these men. Now that they were doomed, he resolved that he would make his sacrifice of value to Macro at least. If they killed enough of the Silurians, that might undermine their will to continue attacking the fort. There was some comfort in the thought that his last service in life would be to help the truest friend he had ever known.

  A short distance away the giant who had battered the tortoise formation apart thrust his way forward to take a swing at a legionary. The soldier raised his shield to block the blow and it shattered under the impact and drove him down on to his knees. The Silurian kicked out and sent his opponent sprawling. One more blow caved in his chest and he fell motionless on the bloodstained grass.

  ‘Stellanus!’ Cato called out. ‘Take that one down.’

  The centurion nodded, lowered his spear and urged his mount forward. The Silurian looked up with a brutal snarl as he spied another victim and raised his hammer. It blurred through the air and struck the horse on the side of the head. At the same time Stellanus thrust his spear and the point pierced the giant’s thick neck and burst out above his shoulder blade. He let out a roar of pain and rage, cut off abruptly as blood filled his windpipe and mouth. The horse staggered to one side and fell, rolling over the centurion and into the backs of three more legionaries locked in combat. The animal’s legs kicked out, sweeping two more men down, and left an opening in the Roman line. At once the Silurians rushed forward, bursting in amongst the defenders of the knoll. The giant staggered over to the horse, still twitching, and bent down to grasp Stellanus by the neck. The centurion could only move one arm and he beat it against the giant’s jaw, but for all the effect it had he might have been patting a hound. A moment later, powerful hands gave his head a sharp twist, breaking his neck. Then, blood coursing from his mouth, the Silurian’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed over his victim.

  More tribesmen scrambled over the bodies and poured up the slope, spreading out as they threw themselves at the Romans. With the perimeter collapsing, the soldiers fought individually. Others went back to back or formed small clusters and hacked ferociously at the warriors swirling round them.

  ‘The standards!’ Mancinu
s cried out as he backed up towards the wagons. He turned and looked at Cato. ‘Save the standards!’

  Cato hesitated for an instant, torn between his duty to fight alongside his comrades and the shame that would befall them all if the standards were taken by the enemy. Then he turned to the standard-bearers on the wagon and sheathed his sword. ‘Give them to me!’

  The two men handed them over and Cato passed the auxiliary standard to one of the Thracians and kept hold of the legionary standard, ramming the base down into his spear holster. A small group of Silurian warriors broke away from the fight below and began to sprint up the slope towards the wagons.

  ‘Get out of here!’ Mancinus shouted to Cato and then ran to meet the enemy, knocking one man down with his shield and stabbing another in the stomach. He wrenched the blade free and struck again before he was borne back by three more men and thrown to the ground. He called out one last time. ‘Go!’

  Cato kicked in his heels. ‘Blood Crows! Follow me!’

  He charged down towards the melee, intending to cut his way free and make for the shelter of the trees now that the enemy blocking force had abandoned its position to join in with the destruction of the Roman column. The horsemen held together and those on the ground before them hurried out of their way and turned to slash and stab at them as they pounded by. The sounds of battle filled the air, while around them a raging sea of weapons flickered and blood spurted. A wild-eyed youth sprang at Cato, hands clawing for the shaft of the standard, and he lashed out with his boot, the nailed sole striking the tribesman in the face and sending him flying. They passed through what was left of the Roman line and plunged on through the ranks of the Silurians.

  Ahead, a shrewder warrior stepped to the side of the oncoming horses and thrust his hunting spear out. Cato swerved aside but the rider following him did not see the danger and the spear got caught between the horse’s legs and it pitched forward, hurling its rider from his saddle. He landed in a group of warriors, knocking them over, and then they fell on him like wild dogs. Another Thracian was struck by an axe that nearly severed him at the knee, but he let out a defiant roar and then clenched his jaw shut, pressed his thigh tightly against the saddle and rode on. The enemy were thinning out and Cato saw that they were almost free of the melee. Ahead there was open ground at the end of the line of obstacles where the pine trees met the rock-strewn side of the pass. His heels nudged Hannibal’s flanks and the horse turned in that direction. The Thracians raced after him, knocking aside the last of the enemy, and then they were on open ground, hoofs thudding on the peaty soil as they desperately made their bid to save the standards and salvage some honour from the massacre taking place behind them.

  They reached the end of the line of stakes and slowed down as they entered the trees. Cato reined in and looked back towards the knoll. The fight was almost over. Silurians were swarming over the wagons, hacking at the helpless injured who lay within. Only a few pockets of resistance still held out. Cato urged Hannibal in amongst the trees and out of sight before the enemy turned their attention towards the small party of horseman who had broken out. The thick pine branches overhead filtered the light into a dull green, pierced here and there by shafts of a golden hue. The sound of the fighting was muffled and birdsong chirruped above. The ground was covered with many years of fallen needles and twigs and the horses padded through the straight tree trunks, weaving their way into the forest. Cato knew that they had to regain the track as soon as possible and stay ahead of the enemy. If they remained in the trees, Caratacus would soon be able to throw a screen of his warriors round them and close in for the kill.

  ‘Sir.’ One of the men broke into his thoughts and Cato looked up.

  The Thracian gestured to the man who had been wounded in the knee. ‘We have to see to Eumenes. He can’t go far with his leg in that shape.’

  Cato saw that the injured trooper was in terrible agony, and his leg hung uselessly from the tissue that still held the shattered joint together. Blood dripped from his boot on to the forest floor. He shook his head. ‘We can’t stop. He’ll have to cope until we put some distance between us and the enemy.’

  ‘Sir, he can’t ride much further in his condition.’

  Cato knew that was true. Just as he knew that they would be taking a great risk if they halted to attend to the wounded man. It was too bad. They had to save the standards and reach Glevum. It was vital that Governor Ostorius was made aware of the location of Caratacus and his army as soon as possible. He hardened his heart as he replied to the trooper.

  ‘Bind it up and then catch up with us. He has to ride on. If he can’t then he must be left behind.’

  The Thracian saluted bitterly and turned to help his comrade. The order given, Cato flicked his reins and waved the other men on and headed in the direction of the road to Gobannium.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  By late afternoon the sky had cleared of clouds and the sun shone over the fort at Bruccium. Macro had given orders for the signal beacon to be kept burning and the grey plume of smoke rose high above the valley now that the breeze had dropped. In the hours that had passed since Cato had led the two squadrons out of the side gate Macro had remained in the tower above the main gate, the highest viewpoint in the fort. He had watched the riders climb up to the ledge and along the side of the mountain until they were out of sight. The last of the war bands had disappeared over the crest at the head of the pass and after that the rest of the enemy camp had settled down to continue their vigil. Scouts watched the fort from a safe distance while their comrades set about the daily business of foraging for food, firewood and timber for the construction of shelters. They were also busy constructing a number of screens to protect them from the defenders’ javelins when the order was given to attack the fort again.

  ‘It seems that these barbarian lads can be taught,’ Macro muttered wryly to himself. Then his expression resumed its stern fixedness as he turned his gaze back towards the pass. He was tormented by not knowing how his friend’s desperate act was playing out. The garrison badly needed the men of the reinforcement column, together with their escort. Bruccium could easily withstand any number of assaults by the enemy once the two cohorts were brought up to strength, together with whatever forces had been sent to ensure the reinforcements arrived safely. Looking round the line of the wall Macro was painfully aware of how thinly the remaining men were stretched. He had less than two hundred effectives. If Caratacus ordered an attack before Cato returned, there was a good chance that the Silurians would overrun the defenders. Straining his eyes towards the pass, he admitted to himself that it was possible that Cato might not return. It seemed like a long time since his friend had left the fort and Macro could not help fearing the worst.

  He clenched his fist and smacked it against his thigh in frustration. Anything could have happened. Caratacus might have been driven off. The reinforcement column might have been forced to retreat. The battle might still be raging in the confines of the pass. There was still no indication of which of those three possibilities was most likely. He leaned against the wooden rail and closed his aching eyes to rest them for a moment, aware that he felt light-headed due to the lack of sleep over recent days. His limbs felt stiff and heavy and for the first time he began to wonder how many more years of soldiering he had in him. Macro had known many veterans who had served far longer than the twenty-five years they had signed on for. Longer than was good for them, frankly. But the army was inclined to overlook the handicap of their advanced years due to the invaluable experience they had accrued while serving in the legions.

  As for himself, Macro, like many old sweats, had dreamed of retiring to a small Etruscan farm, with a handful of slaves to work it for him, and spending the evenings in a local tavern reliving experiences with other veterans. Now that prospect was growing ever more imminent, he realised that he regarded the idea with disdain . . . quiet despair even. Soldiering was all he knew. All he cared about. All he really loved. What was life without
the routine, camaraderie and excitement that encased him like a second skin?

  His mind wandered for a moment, losing itself in the warm fug of pleasing memories, and then he was jolted into wakefulness by a sharp pressure on his chin and he stirred quickly, eyes blinking open. His head had drooped so that the flesh under his chin had caught on a splinter on the rail. He bolted upright, horrified at the idea that he had allowed himself to fall asleep, even for a moment. The penalty for doing so while on sentry duty could be death. That he was not on duty was no excuse, Macro chided himself bitterly. It was unforgivable and he glanced round the tower to see if either of the two men keeping watch had noticed. Fortunately their attention was on the enemy camp and he allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. Nothing he could do would affect the outcome of the action in the pass. It would be better to allow himself a rest and get something to eat while the situation was calm around the fort. He would surely need his strength later in the day.

  Casually stretching his shoulders, Macro crossed to the ladder. ‘I’ll be at headquarters. If there’s any sign of the prefect, or our column, or anything else, send for me at once.’