The Eagles Prey c-5

by Simon Scarrow

  'Easy now!' Macro called out. 'They'll reach the stakes any moment…'

  Nearly eighty paces away the Britons charged forward, cheered on by the deep-throated roar of their comrades lining the river bank behind them. Suddenly, several of the men at the front of the charge jerked to a stop and doubled up. The men behind them surged on regardless and those that managed to avoid their stricken companions were impaled on the next set of obstacles. More men thrust on from behind until the charge broke down in a heaving tangle of bodies. Those at the front cried out in agony and fear, while those behind shouted in frustration and anger, not aware of the reason for the abrupt halt to their charge. All the time more men were pressing forward into the ford and crushing those at the front.

  'A fine tangle!' Macro cried out gleefully. 'Couldn't be better.'

  Either side of him the legionaries shouted out crude taunts and whoops of joy at the confusion opposite the island. For a moment the neat orderliness of the Roman line was disrupted, but Macro decided to let it go this time. Let his men have their moment of triumph – they would need every boost to morale they could get for the next enemy assault.

  At length the enemy war horns cut across the confusion in the ford and sounded three flat notes. Slowly the Britons began to retreat, swelling up along the bank each side of the track. Those caught towards the front of the charge struggled to disentangle themselves, and limped back. A score of warriors were left behind: pinned on to the stakes, or crushed by the weight of men behind them. A few had stumbled, and had drowned under the crush of bodies above them. Almost all those left behind were dead, and the few wounded struggled feebly in the current that carried a thin red stain downriver.

  'Round one to us!' Macro shouted to his men, and they gave him a gleeful cheer in return. While the cheering died away Macro glanced over his shoulder and compressed his lips into a thin line when he saw there was still no sign of the cohort. If the runner Macro had sent did not find them in time to reinforce the Third Century then very soon Macro would have to choose between making a run for it or fighting it out to the last man. If he chose the latter then his sacrifice would buy only a little time for the Roman army pursuing Caratacus. Macro did not fool himself that his defence of the island would last long enough for General Plautius to close in for the kill. But if he ordered his men to fall back and make for safety he would be accused of letting the enemy escape the trap. That kind of dereliction of duty could lead to only one punishment. Either way he was a dead man.

  He shrugged and made a small, bitter smile. It was so typical of the army way of life. How often had he been forced into a dilemma where every choice it afforded was equally unpleasant? If there was one thing Macro hoped for in the afterlife, it was that he would never again have such choices forced on him.

  On the far side of the river the enemy was on the move again and Macro instantly dismissed all thought of the future.

  'Form up!' he ordered.

  A small party of enemy warriors approached the ford. This time there was no wild cheering and no mad charge towards the Romans on the island. Instead the Britons advanced cautiously, weapons sheathed, and crouching low they groped their way forward. It was what Macro had expected, and he was content to let them waste time clearing away the obstacles his men had placed across the ford. Besides, he had another trick to play.

  'Make ready slingshot!'

  Macro had posted those men who had been issued with slings from the fort on the flanks of his century, and small piles of rounded pebbles plucked from the riverbed lay close to hand. The legionaries laid down their shields and javelins, moved back to give themselves room, and prepared the leather pouches at the end of the long thongs. Pebbles were fitted and the air was filled with whirring as the legionaries swung the slings round above their heads, waiting for Macro's order.

  'Loose slingshot!'

  There was a chorus of whipping sounds and tiny dark pellets zipped across the ford towards the enemy warriors. Some cracked against the surface of shields, or splashed harmlessly into the water, but several struck home and cracked skulls or shattered other bones.

  'Well done!' Macro called out. 'Loose at will!'

  Soon the whirring sounds of slings being worked up to speed and the faint zipping of shots flying through the air was constant. But though the enemy warriors were whittled down, the onslaught served only to slow the speed at which the obstacles were being discovered and wrenched up from the riverbed. Every man who was struck by slingshot was quickly replaced from the host that lined the river bank. As the mass of Britons sat on the north bank, silent in the glare of the late afternoon sun, all the time more men, cavalry and chariots arrived and swelled their numbers, waiting for the river crossing to be cleared.

  Macro watched the progress of the men in the ford, and when they came within javelin range he considered the impact that a volley of the deadly iron-tipped shafts might have. But they were too dispersed for him to be sure of maximising the effect and he decided to save the javelins for the attack that would follow the Britons' clearing of the riverbed. Besides, as the range decreased so the effectiveness of the slingshot became more pronounced and the rate at which men were being struck down by the Romans delighted Macro. So far, he estimated, his century must have inflicted well over a hundred casualties, with poor Lentulus being the only Roman killed.

  Despite their losses the Britons pressed forward, methodically finding and removing every one of the stakes. It was taking them far less time to clear the obstacles away than Macro's men had spent planting them. A little more than quarter of an hour after they had begun the task, the enemy had almost reached the tangle of cut and sharpened wood that formed the barricade along the bank of the island. A few of the Romans leaned forward and thrust the points of their javelins towards the warriors.

  'Get back in line!' Macro bawled at them. 'You don't do a thing until I tell you to!'

  Their dangerous work done, the Britons in the river slowly backed away, keeping low behind their shields as the slingshot continued to splash into the water all around them. Behind them the native chieftains were already marshalling their men for the assault. Macro noted that the initial wave was made up of well-equipped men: nearly all had helmets and chain-mail vests. Caratacus must be in a hurry to get his forces across the river if he was prepared to throw his finest warriors in first. Beyond the three hundred or so men pressed close together at the edge of the river was a dense mass of slingers and bowmen. The latter were of little concern to Macro; their short bows might be an irritant to skirmishers, but they would never penetrate a legionary shield. The slingers, though, could inflict terrible punishment.

  'This is going to be rough, lads! Keep your shields up until I give the order. We'll use the rear rank javelins only; we'll need to use the rest as spears The javelins will have to go in quick, so I'll only give the order to loose. Throw it in and get down again until that lot reach the barricade.' He looked round at his men. 'Understand?'

  The nearest men nodded, and a few men mumbled their acknowledgement.

  'Bullshit! I can't hear you! Do you bastards understand me?'

  'Yes, sir!' every man in his century roared back.

  Macro smiled. 'Good! Once they get close enough to go hand to hand, I want you to give them a fucking good kicking. They'll not forget the Third Century in a hurry!'

  'Here they come!' someone shouted out, and all eyes turned towards the far bank. The native warriors lurched forward, down the track and then splashed into the river. As they came on the Britons screamed out their battle cries, accompanying their challenges with a deafening clatter of weapons being struck against the metal rims of their shields. There were no horns to urge them on – they were making enough noise to drown out any encouragement from their own side. They were close enough for the Romans to make out the cold determined expressions on the faces beneath the helmets. These were not the usual run of wild woad-stained barbarians with lime-washed hair; they knew their business and would be formidabl
e opponents.

  Macro glanced beyond the front rank of the enemy surging through the water and saw the slingers begin to whirl their thongs over their heads.

  'Get down!'

  The Romans dropped behind their shields as the air was filled with the zipping sound of slingshot hurtling towards them. The volley was well aimed and only a handful of shots cracked through the branches overhead. The rest struck the Roman shields in a rattling cacophony of thuds. The bombardment continued remorselessly and Macro had to take the risk of being struck each time he glimpsed round his shield to check the progress of Caratacus' assault wave. The enemy waded steadily across the ford, no longer slowed down by the underwater obstacles. This was no wild charge, and the warriors advanced with deadly intent, not needing the cheap morale boost of a frenzied Celtic rush towards the thin Roman line.

  The slingshot barrage abruptly slackened and then stopped and Macro peered cautiously over the rim of his shield. The enemy was no more than twenty paces away, thigh-deep in foaming spray, and the slingers no longer dared to loose their missiles at the Romans for fear of striking their own men.

  'Hit 'em back!' Macro called out. 'Javelins! Slingers, loose!'

  There was no parade-ground finesse in the way the legionaries rose up with a shout ripping from each man's throat as those in the rear rank swung their javelin arms back, took a line on the enemy massed before them, and hurled their weapons. On the flanks the Roman slingers let loose a fusillade of shot against the exposed sides of the enemy column, and a few of the warriors fell, sprawling and splashing into the river. The rest recovered quickly from the javelin volley and picked their way through their dead and injured comrades, then closed on the barricade. Macro had hoped that they would rush the last distance in the usual reckless manner but these men were superbly self-controlled, and as some raised their shields towards the waiting Romans their comrades hacked at the tangle of branches and wrenched pieces free.

  'Get stuck in!' Macro shouted, grabbing a javelin from the nearest legionary. He flicked it round into an overhand grip and pushed his shield forward, crushing up against the barricade until he was within reach of the enemy. An arm stretched out between the shields and grasped a length of branch. Macro thrust the point of the javelin into the flesh just below the elbow and heard a voice cry out in pain. As he ripped the iron head back there was a sharp clang and heavy impact on his shield boss. He glanced round and saw that a number of the enemy warriors were armed with long, heavy spears and were trying to keep the Romans pinned back, away from the barricade.

  'Watch the spears!' Macro yelled.

  He searched for a new target and saw eyes glaring at him over the rim of a kite shield. Macro feinted and as the shield shot up he switched the aim and thrust at the man's thigh. At the limit of his reach, the iron tip ripped through the warrior's woven trousers and only grazed the flesh beneath. The centurion grunted in frustration and then carefully stepped back from the barricade, nodding to a legionary in the rear rank to take his place.

  Macro looked around at his century. The men were holding their own. The slingers, distanced from the fight along the barricade, had been targeted by the enemy and an unequal exchange was being fought out between the slingers of both sides. The Romans crouched low as they worked their slings up to speed and then rose quickly to release the shot before ducking down again. Their foes enjoyed no such shelter, and Macro noted, with satisfaction, that a number of almost submerged bodies were slowly spiralling downstream from the bloodstained ford. But enough of that, he decided. The slingers' attention was needed elsewhere. He bellowed his next order above the clash and thud of weapons and cries of men.

  'Slingers! Target the infantry! The infantry!'

  The men on the wings looked towards him, understanding. One fool quickly rose up to have a last shot at the enemy slingers and was instantly struck in the face. His head snapped back and blood sprayed into the air, splattering his comrades on either side. The man collapsed in an inert bundle on the ground. Macro ground his teeth in anger. He had few enough men already, without anyone throwing his life away in such a careless fashion. A soldier's first duty was to his comrades, and he served them best by staying alive and fighting at their side. Such reckless acts of courage or battle rage were criminally selfish, in his view, and he cursed the man. But he was not the first to die. Already there were three other Roman dead: one sprawled on the ground inside the barricade, the others hanging over the tangle of branches, blood pouring from their wounds on to the muddy river bank below.

  'Look at that!' a legionary called out nearby, and Macro followed the direction of the man's gaze across the ford. As the slingshot from the Roman flanks lashed into the sides of the enemy column an older warrior was bellowing out orders. The men around him steadily closed up and offered their shields up in an unbroken line to either side and overhead. Macro was astonished by the manoeuvre, which the enemy had clearly adapted from the example of the legions. Now the shot was rattling harmlessly off the shields, protecting the men within.

  'Bugger me,' Macro said softly. 'The Britons can be taught.'

  A cry of alarm instantly drew his attention back to the struggle along the barricade. At the centre of the line the enemy had succeeded in taking hold of one of the rough-hewn stakes that Macro's men had driven in to hold it all together. Several hands grasped the stake, working it furiously to pull it free, and even as Macro glanced in their direction, the stake lurched a small way towards the enemy, dragging a section of the barricade with it.

  'Shit!' Macro hissed, thrusting his way through his men towards the threatened area. 'Stop them! Get those bastards now!'

  The legionaries turned their attention on the men grasping the stake, desperately thrusting at their exposed arms. The warriors charged with defending these men were equally determined and shoved forward into the barricade, stabbing the broad iron spearheads at the defenders. The intensity of the struggle was such that both sides fought in teeth-gritting silence, straining with the effort to push the enemy back. Suddenly there came the sharp cracking of wood and with a lurch the stake came free, sending half a dozen of the warriors flying back into the ford. Around them the Britons roared with triumph and pressed forward into the gap.

  'Hold them back!' Macro cried out, hurriedly throwing his javelin into the enemy ranks. 'Hold them back!'

  He snatched his sword from its scabbard, crouched low and threw his weight behind his shield as he rushed forward to meet the enemy, the nearest legionaries piling in on either side, and behind him. The two sides crunched together, shield to shield, close enough to hear the panted breath of the enemy and the sound of straining in their throats. Crushed inside the curve of his shield Macro worked his sword arm free and stabbed it at any expanse of barbarian cloth, or flesh that came within range. The spears and long swords of the Britons were now useless in the kind of fight the shorter blades of the legions had been expressly designed for. In the press of bodies more and more of the enemy were cut down. Unable to pull back through their ranks, or even collapse, they suffered on their feet or simply bled to death, heads lolling beside the desperate expressions of their still-living comrades.

  The Romans had the advantage of height on the river bank, and more solid footing, and managed to hold off the greater weight of enemy numbers. Macro had no idea how long the contest lasted. His mind was simply fixed on defying his enemy, to hold his ground. All around were the grunts and cries of men, the splashing of the red-hued river and the glitter and glare of the harsh sunlight reflecting off raised sword blades and polished helmets, now spattered with gore and mud.

  He never heard the harsh bray of the enemy war horns. He became aware only that the Britons were pulling back when the pressure against his shield abruptly eased and he had space to work his sword forward again.

  'They're going!' someone shouted with disbelief. A ragged chorus of elated cheers from the Romans echoed across the ford as the Britons withdrew. Macro kept silent, quickly taking the chance to gl
ance around and appraise the situation. One of his men brushed past him, dropping down into the current and taking a pace towards the retreating enemy.

  'YOU!' Macro bellowed, and the man glanced back, afraid. 'You are on a fucking charge, my son. Get back up here!'

  The legionary backstepped and climbed up the bank to his furious centurion.

  'What the hell are you thinking? Going to take on the whole of bloody Caratacus' army on your own, were you?'

  'Sorry, sir. I-'

  'You're sorry, all right! As sorry an excuse for a bloody legionary as I've ever met. Do that again and I'll ram this sword right up your arse. Understand me, boy?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Get back in line.'

  The man backed away, merging into the ranks as his comrades mocked him with shakes of the head and muttered tutting noises.

  Macro ignored them as he stared across the ford to see what the enemy would try next. Most likely they would simply regroup and attempt to force the gap in the barricade in a more ordered fashion. A movement at his feet drew Macro's eyes and he saw an enemy warrior trying to rise up from the river bank. All along the edge of the ford the enemy dead and injured were piled on the churned-up shore and in the pebbled shallows. With hardly a thought Macro leaned down to the man and thrust the point of his sword into the warrior's neck. With a gasp the Briton slumped back down amongst the bodies of his comrades, blood pumping from the wound. His eyes fixed on Macro, wild and desperate. Then they glazed over and he was dead. Macro shook his head and looked up. One down, another twenty-nine thousand to go.

  On the far side of the ford the chieftain in charge of the diminished assault group was re-forming his men into a crude testudo, a bristling hedge of spears to the front. As soon as he was satisfied with the formation he shouted an order and the warriors splashed back into the ford.

  'I thought we'd taught the bastards a lesson,' muttered a soldier close to Macro.