Brothers in Blood

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘At the trot!’

  The troopers dug their heels in and several of the horses whinnied, ears twitching, before they moved off. As the Blood Crows adjusted their pace to maintain an even line, Cato gauged that they had fifty paces to go before reaching the edge of the plateau. An effective cavalry charge was all about good timing, he knew. They must hold the line and then surge forward while there was still time to build up speed to a full charge and deliver as shattering an impact as possible on the enemy. Whatever the ideal might be, Cato’s situation was complicated by the wet ground and the final approach down the slope. Some of the horses were bound to slip or fall, but that was a price that had to be paid.

  ‘At the canter!’

  Cato tapped his heels in and increased the pressure of his knees against the sides of his horse, leaning forward to tighten the grip of the tall saddle horns about his hips. The air filled with the slap and splash of hoofs on the sodden earth and drips flicked from the beast’s mane into his face as Cato and his small force rapidly closed on the edge of the plateau and the ground began to dip. The sounds of battle were suddenly closer, sharper, and the ears of his horse twitched nervously. Cato did not want to give his men any chance to hesitate as they came in view of the battle and snatched a breath to give one last order.

  ‘Blood Crows! Charge!’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The men let out a cheer and spurred their mounts on, surging over the trampled grass, up to the crest, from where the bloody struggle below was revealed in all its detail. In an instant, Cato took in the broad sweep of the spectacle. The enemy was holding their ground for full three-quarters of their defences, but the critical section of the battlefield was directly ahead and to the right where Macro’s force was fighting for survival while the flank of the Fourteenth Legion was only just starting to feed into the battle. The hillside between Cato’s men and their comrades was thick with enemy warriors charging down on the legionaries, yelling their war cries.

  Cato’s vision narrowed to the way directly ahead of him. The time to command was over. He was a fighting man now, just like the rest of the Blood Crows, who became no more than fleeting shapes on either side. Cato raised his cavalry sword up and out, ready to strike, and slashed down at the first warrior he came down upon, laying open his shoulder and back. Then the man was gone and the horse knocked another to the ground and there was a dull crack as a bone gave way beneath the hoofs pounding over the body. The horse shied at a third man who turned and roared at the mounted figure looming over him and Cato snatched at the reins to keep the beast from swerving too far and unseating him.

  Cato’s shield smashed into the warrior. Half turning in his saddle, Cato swung his sword across in an arc and the edge of the blade split his opponent’s skull down to the jaw. The warrior’s back arched as his arms snapped out and the movement threatened to wrench the sword from Cato’s grasp. He held on and pulled with all his strength. He felt the blade give, and pulled again and it came free, causing him to lurch in his saddle. His horse had stopped, and Cato looked round.

  The Blood Crows had broken the men who had been bearing down on Macro’s cohort and the slope around Cato was a heaving mass of native warriors and horsemen. The enemy’s cries of triumph had turned to panic and scores were fleeing towards the left of the line while their leaders tried to stop them and thrust them back towards the bloody melee on the flank. There were Druids there as well, Cato saw. Robed figures with wild hair, screaming curses at the Romans and those amongst their people who refused to turn and fight.

  A movement to his side caught Cato’s attention and he turned his head to see two men armed with spears rushing towards him. He pulled the reins and turned his horse towards them, digging his heels into the animal’s flanks. The men were forced to either side and a spear thrust towards the right of Cato’s chest. He cut down savagely with his sword and there was a ringing clash as the edge struck the iron spearhead and knocked it aside. The wet ground meant that it was hard for the man to change direction and his shoulder slammed into Cato’s leg. The warrior looked up with a snarl, his eyes gleaming through the dark hair plastering his scalp. Cato instinctively smashed the pommel of his sword on the top of the man’s skull and he fell away.

  His shield hand suddenly jerked and the reins snapped tightly, causing the horse to turn. The second man staggered back, one hand still trying to rip the Roman’s shield aside to open a gap through which his spear could strike. Cato pulled his shield back, throwing his weight to the other side and the spear point glanced off the flat surface and tore a shallow gash in the horse’s side. The beast leaped beneath Cato and he clamped his legs to its sides as it kicked out, a hoof catching the warrior and knocking him on to his back.

  It took a moment to regain control and Cato saw that Macro had re-formed his men into a line, two deep, extending from the barricade a short distance up the slope. The first men from the other cohorts were taking position to his left. All the time, more men were passing through the gap in the barricade as Crispus and his legionaries worked to widen the breach. The battle was beginning to turn in their favour, Cato realised. But he and his men had to keep the enemy distracted for as long as possible. The Blood Crows were scattered amongst the horde of warriors, fighting on in little knots, or singly, and Cato could see he had already lost a quarter of his men. He must hold them together if they were to stand any chance of survival. The standard-bearer was a short distance away, together with four other men clustered around him as they struggled to prevent the enemy from capturing the standard. Cato spurred his horse over to them, keeping his shield close and his sword out, ready to strike or parry. One of the riders saw him approach and moved aside to let him pass. Cato reined in by the standard-bearer, sheathed his sword and cupped his hand to his mouth to call out over the battlefield, ‘Blood Crows! Blood Crows on me! On me!’

  Then Cato turned to the men about him. ‘Keep close, lads. We’ll make for the Fourth Cohort.’

  One by one, his men worked themselves over to the standard and joined the growing party of riders as they cut a path through the native warriors towards the steadily strenghtening line of legionaries forming up the slope. Cato noticed that the enemy’s spirit was wavering. Fewer men were willing to attack the small party of mounted Romans. Others were drifting away from the fight, seeking safety in the direction of the centre of their line. Only a handful grasped the importance of the desperate fight on the flank, Caratacus amongst them. He raged through their ranks, shouting and thrusting men towards the enemy, struggling to drive them forwards through the rain and the glistening mud.

  By the time the last survivors of the two squadrons had rejoined the standard, they had forced their way through to the waiting legionaries, presenting their shields in an unbroken line.

  ‘Make a gap!’ Cato ordered as he urged his horse forward. ‘Open ranks!’

  The men directly ahead of him shuffled aside and Cato led the riders through and a short distance beyond before the shields closed behind him. Macro hurried to his side and looked up with a relieved expression.

  ‘Fine work, sir! Bloody marvellous. You arrived just in time. Else Caratacus and his bastards would have been all over us and we’d have lost the breach.’

  Cato grinned back, struggling to control the tremor in his limbs. He looked up and saw that at least two hundred men had already formed on the flank of Macro’s cohort and more were taking position all the time. Ahead of them a gap had opened between the two sides and no amount of shouting and cajoling by their leaders could persuade the native warriors to return to the furious struggle that had erupted on their flank. The churned mud between the two sides was littered with bodies, splintered shields, abandoned weapons and puddles of bloodstained rainwater.

  The tops of Roman standards appeared behind the breach and a moment later Legate Quintatus led his officers and the colour party through the gap and up to Cato.

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nbsp; ‘I heard what had happened at this end. Excellent work, Prefect!’ He grinned. ‘How the hell did you get up here? You’re supposed to be guarding the camp.’

  ‘We were the last reserve available to the general, sir. Once your attack stalled,’ Cato explained briefly, not wanting to reveal that he had acted on his own initiative. There would be time for repercussions later, and Cato had little doubt that there would be. Whatever he may have achieved, he had also abandoned his post in the middle of a battle. He had left the army’s camp defenceless.

  ‘Desperate measures, eh?’ Quintatus said. ‘Still, no time to waste. We must press our advantage.’

  The legate turned to the nearest of his junior tribunes. ‘I want the flank cohorts up here on the double. Send word to Tribune Otho to reinforce us. The rest are to hold their position and cross the barricade when practicable. Go!’

  The young officer saluted and turned to race back towards the breach.

  ‘Prefect Cato, take your cavalry up to the crest. You’ll cover our flank. You’ve had your fun, now leave the rest to the legions.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted but the legate had already moved on, striding up the slope to take his place behind the centre of the line. Macro watched him briefly and shook his head.

  ‘Fun, he says. I wonder what it’s like when things get serious.’

  Cato shrugged wearily. ‘Perhaps one day we’ll really find out. Meanwhile, well done, Macro.’

  They exchanged a smile and then Cato gathered the remains of his cohort and led them back up the slope, behind the legionaries, to take their place on the crest. Miro, and a handful of the men he had rallied from his own squadron, joined them. The plateau had turned into a mass of fugitives. Fear and panic was spreading through Caratacus’s army and hundreds of his men had joined the flight of the wounded, women and children streaming towards the far side of the hill as they sought to escape the legions. Cato regarded them with pity. All they would find was the screen of auxiliary troops sent to cut off their retreat. Even if the gathering storm provided some of them with cover to get away, most would be taken prisoner and condemned to slavery as spoils of war.

  As soon as the first two cohorts had passed through the breach and formed up, the legate gave the order to advance and the legionaries tramped forward as their optios called the time. The large rectangular shields, spattered with mud, faced the enemy, while the points of short swords glimmered in the gaps between shields. Behind, the men peered over their shield trims, only exposing a fraction of their faces as they paced across the slope towards their foes. Cato and his men covered the open flank as the formation moved along the line of the barricade.

  Only a handful of battle-crazed warriors dared to stand their ground, wielding their swords, spears and axes more with rage than skill, before they were cut down and trampled into the mud as the legionaries passed over them. Caratacus remained out in front of his men, imploring them to stand, before he too had to move to avoid death or capture. With a last look of anguish, he turned his horse and trotted through his men towards the centre of the line.

  The dark rain clouds had grown thicker, blotting out the sky, and a shadowy gloom closed over the mountainous landscape as the rain fell even harder and the wind strengthened with moaning gusts that swept over the hill, chilling Cato to the bone. His fear for the fate of the army had left him. Caratacus had gambled on fighting a setpiece battle and lost. Ahead, Cato could see the enemy melting away and then there was a sudden surge in the distance and the glimmer of helmets revealed that the Romans had forced their way through, or round, the enemy’s other flank and now they were caught, as if in an iron vice.

  From his vantage point on the crest, Cato could see the centre of what remained of the enemy line. A body of armoured men with helmets and patterned cloaks still stood in formation a short distance back from the barricade. Above them flew the standard of Caratacus, rippling furiously in the wind. There were perhaps three hundred warriors in his bodyguard. Not nearly enough to retrieve the situation, Cato calculated. Sure enough, the formation did not move to engage the Romans, but instead began to climb the slope towards the camp, fending off those tribesmen hindering their progress. In the middle rode Caratacus and a small party of horseman, one of whom carried the standard, holding it steadily and keeping it aloft.

  As they saw their commander falling back, the last of the men still holding their position along the barricade turned away and joined the rout. Soon nothing stood between the two Roman forces advancing towards each other and Quintatus ordered his men to make for the enemy general’s bodyguard, moving in for the kill that would finally place the seal on the conquest of the new province.

  Then, as the bodyguards reached the crest, Cato saw three riders leave the formation and gallop towards the tents in the centre of the camp. The standard still flew above the men who had halted and turned to face the Romans closing on them from either side. But the ruse was clear to Cato at once. The three horsemen must be Caratacus and his closest lieutenants, determined to escape the defeat and keep their struggle alive. Once again he faced a dilemma. If he pursued them he would be overriding his orders and leaving Quintatus’s flank uncovered. Once again he knew what he must do.

  ‘Blood Crows! Follow me!’

  He spurred his horse forward towards the heart of the enemy camp. His men followed at once, spilling out on either side as they raced after their prefect. Cato saw that Caratacus and his companions had made good use of their head start and would reach the tents first. That could not be helped, but there was a chance that whatever they sought there would delay them long enough for Cato and his men to catch up. Around them the plateau was filled with drenched figures running for their lives. At the sound of the approach of the horsemen under the dreaded banner of the Blood Crows they turned aside and fled from the path of the riders. Some, too badly injured, or too tired, to move aside were run down and trampled into the sodden earth.

  Ahead, Cato could just make out through the pouring rain that the three riders had reached the tents. One slipped from his saddle and entered a tent, no more than two hundred paces away. Cato leaned forward in his saddle and slapped the flat of his blade against the flank of his mount, determined to wring the last measure of effort out of the blown horse. Saliva from its muzzle flicked back into his face as it pounded towards the tents. Then he saw the man emerge again, leading a small party of women and children. The other riders leaned down to help them up.

  ‘Miro!’ Cato called out. ‘Go left. Cut them off!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ came the instant reply and several of the riders sheared off to prevent Caratacus escaping. Cato charged on towards the tents. The riders looked up anxiously as the Roman horsemen reined in and surrounded them, swords out, ready to rush their enemy the moment their prefect gave the word.

  Cato’s chest heaved as he struggled for breath. Before him, not twenty feet away, he recognised Caratacus. At his side, clutching his arm, was a sturdy woman with dark hair. In her other hand she clutched the hand of a boy, no more than ten, Cato guessed. Behind her stood two teenage girls, with terrified expressions on their faces as they gazed at the Roman cavalrymen surrounding them. Caratacus snatched out his sword as he stepped forward to protect them. The other men dropped from their saddles, weapons in hand, to stand by their leader. From their features it was clear that they were related. Brothers, thought Cato, as he walked his horse forward and pointed his sword.

  ‘Lay your arms down and surrender, Caratacus!’

  ‘Fuck you, Roman!’ one of his brothers snarled in Latin. ‘Come and get them!’

  Cato stared back in silence before he lowered his blade and spoke again. ‘You cannot escape. You either surrender or die.’

  ‘We can still fight, Roman!’ Caratacus lifted his chin defiantly. ‘You will not kill us before we have taken several of your men with us into the afterlife.’

 
; ‘And what of them?’ Cato pointed to the women and the boy.

  Caratacus raised his spare hand and pulled a dagger from his belt and passed it to the woman with a brief exchange of words before he faced Cato again. ‘I have told my wife to kill my children and then herself once I have fallen. Your men shall not rape my daughters. You will not raise my son as your slave!’

  Cato quickly sheathed his sword and held out his hand. ‘I swear, by all the gods that I worship, that your family will not be harmed. Nor will you, if you surrender.’

  ‘And who are you to guarantee this?’

  ‘I am your captor. Prefect Cato, commander of the Second Thracian Cavalry.’

  ‘Prefect Cato?’ Caratacus frowned. ‘I know you . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir. We have met before. I am a man of my word and you are my prisoner. I swear no harm will come to you before you are handed into the custody of the imperial palace. On my honour.’

  Caratacus stared at him in an agony of indecision and Cato slipped his shield strap over a saddle horn and eased himself to the ground. He walked forward slowly and stopped a sword’s length from the enemy commander. He spoke gently.

  ‘Sir, there has been enough bloodshed today. Your army is defeated. Your war against Rome is over. All that remains is for you to choose life for you and your family, or death.’

  Caratacus half lowered his sword and glanced over his shoulder at his wife and children, then he turned back to Cato and closed his eyes as he gave an order to his brothers. They stared at him with bitter reproach, but held on to their swords, until Caratacus straightened up again, and repeated his order firmly, eyes open and fixed on Cato. He threw his sword at the prefect’s feet. His brothers hesitated a moment longer before they followed suit and then one slumped on to the ground and hugged his knees while the other folded his muscular arms and regarded Cato defiantly. Caratacus turned away and folded his arms about his wife and lowered his head on to her shoulder.