The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato pulled savagely on his reins and Hannibal turned sharply to the right, and the point of the spear clattered off the shield. Cato twisted in the saddle and swung his sword again, unable to get much power into the blow. But it was enough to make the Silurian stumble back, blood streaming down his chest from the wound in his shoulder. He dropped his spear and clamped his hand over the torn flesh and turned to stagger away from the fight. Cato let him go, and seeing that there was no immediate threat, he looked round. The auxiliaries had driven into the loose ranks of the enemy and several small pockets of fighters were battling it out in front of the large hut. Macro was at the side of Quertus as both men charged into a loose pocket of Silurians and lay about them, scattering the enemy and cutting down another handful of warriors to add to those already lying on the ground, dead or wounded.

  The chief, his tall companion and several of his men had formed a tight circle to hold off the Thracians. As Cato watched, one of the Blood Crows edged his horse in and thrust his spear. The tip clattered against a shield, and as he drew the weapon back, the tall man with the blond hair ran forward and piked the rider in his side. The impact was powerful enough to knock him out of the saddle and he fell to the ground on the other side of the horse. At once a burly Silurian armed with an axe leaped forward and swung his weapon down with both hands. The head of the axe smashed into the auxiliary’s back, driving him into the soil. Another blow to the back of his head split the iron helmet and shattered the man’s skull.

  Then Cato saw the cohort’s standard-bearer, off to one side, trapped against the hut by a group of Silurians who used their swords to frighten the horse as they closed in for the kill. The shame of letting the standard fall into enemy hands was ingrained into every soldier of the Roman army and Cato automatically turned his horse towards the hut and spurred it forwards. He brushed past some horsemen who had been hanging back a short distance from the fighting. Cato brandished his bloodied sword and shouted an order.

  ‘Follow me!’

  He did not wait to see if he had been obeyed as he concentrated his attention on the confrontation between the Silurians and the standard-bearer. Already one of them had injured the horse and blood flowed down its coat and spattered on to the ground. A second man feinted towards the rider, forcing him to turn and confront the danger. At once another darted forward on the other side and quickly stabbed him in the calf before leaping back. The standard-bearer cried out in pain and his lips parted in a grimace as he shifted from side to side, desperate to keep all of his opponents in view.

  The sound of Cato’s approach caused the nearest of the warriors to glance round and then turn to face the new threat, feet braced as he covered his body with his shield and raised his sword, aiming the point at the Roman bearing down on him. Beyond him, Cato saw the standard-bearer look up into his eyes. There was a strange expression in the man’s face, cold and calculating. Then he released his grip on the shaft of the standard and the image of the black crow on the red cloth fluttered as it fell to the ground.

  ‘What. .’

  Cato looked on in horror as the standard-bearer grasped the reins and urged his horse away from the side of the hut. One of the enemy fell upon the standard with a shout of triumph. He cast his shield aside and snatched up the standard before he saw Cato’s horse racing towards him. With a quick cry and gesture to his companions he ran off with the standard.

  Leaning forward in his saddle, Cato held his sword out to the side as he charged the nearest of the Silurians. He slashed his sword through the air, but his enemy nimbly stepped aside then forward to make his own attack, a powerfully directed thrust at Cato’s waist. The nervous movement of his horse spoiled the attempt and the point glanced off the side of Cato’s breastplate. Cato made another cut, battering the Silurian’s shield and driving him off. Both men paused for an instant, sizing the other up, and then the Silurian’s companion rushed forward to join the fight. Beyond, the third man made good his escape, clutching his trophy, and disappeared round the back of the hut. Cato heard the sound of hoofs behind him, the men he had ordered to follow him, and pressed his attack on the Silurian who had turned to face him. Steering his mount forward he slashed at the shield again and again, thudding blows cutting splinters out of the painted wooden surface, driving the man back, away from his companion.

  ‘Deal with them!’ Cato shouted, as he spurred his horse on, making for the back of the hut. Only recovering the standard mattered at the moment. As his horse lurched into a gallop he heard the clatter of weapons behind him as the Thracians dealt with the two men. Cato’s mount thundered round the curve of the hut and then he saw the Silurian, holding the standard in front of him like a cross-staff as he ran down the slope away from the fight. Fifty paces on was a large wicker enclosure containing twenty or thirty horses, some of which were already saddled. A young Silurian groom had emerged through the gate to stare anxiously up the slope towards the sound of fighting. At once he ducked back inside and re-emerged a moment later with a pitchfork. He lowered the points towards Cato. The man with the standard rushed on, glancing back at his pursuer, his expression shot through with alarm as he saw the Roman close behind him.

  Cato gripped his legs to the flanks of his mount and readied his sword as he closed on his prey. The blade rose, paused, as Cato judged the timing of his blow, and then slashed down. At the last instant the Silurian threw himself to one side and rolled over in the grass, still holding tightly to the Blood Crows’ standard.

  ‘Shit. .’ Cato hissed, reining and turning his horse towards the warrior, who regained his feet and sprinted on towards the enclosure, screaming orders to the young man at the gate. Cato urged his mount into a steady canter, converging with the warrior, but it was too late to pick him off before he reached the gate and there he turned. His chest heaved from his exertions as he thrust the point of the standard towards Cato. The chase was over and Cato stopped his horse a short distance from the two men. He could see that the young man with the pitchfork was afraid. His eyes were wide and the points of his makeshift weapon were trembling. Cato edged his horse closer and pointed his sword at the youth and flicked the blade to the side.

  ‘Go! Get out of here!’

  Even though the words were not in his tongue, the meaning was clear enough and the Silurian began to shuffle to the side until a sharp word of command from his comrade stopped him. Cato heard the sound of hoofs behind him and glanced back up the slope to see the two Thracians riding down towards him. The sight lifted his spirits. There was no way the standard would be lost now. Then they slewed to a halt a hundred feet away.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Cato called out to them. ‘On me! Now!’

  They did not react, and their mounts stood in the long grass, tails swishing, as the two men watched silently.

  Cato felt rage burn in his veins. So much for the vaunted reputation of the Blood Crows, he thought bitterly. He was about to shout at them again when the Silurian with the standard let out a roar and charged towards him. There was little time to react and Cato turned to present his shield, his sword held overhead. The warrior’s eyes were wide and his lips were bared as he braced his shoulders and threw all his weight behind the thrust. The point struck the shield low, splintering the wood. The tip punched through the laminated strips and burst out the other side and struck the horse just in front of Cato’s knee. The horse lurched to one side as Cato swung his sword at the warrior’s head. The Silurian ducked, and wrenching the standard free he backed off and readied himself, then shouted at his comrade. The young man hesitantly moved forward, edging round to flank Cato.

  ‘Fuck. .’ he muttered, turning from side to side as he tried to keep both men in view. He risked a glance back up the slope to where the two Thracians still waited and a cold tremor rippled down his spine. This was not right. He turned his attention back to the enemy. The main threat came from the warrior. If Cato could put him down he was certain the youth would turn and run. On the other hand, the young man’
s nervousness made him unpredictable. He could just as easily throw himself at Cato like a wild animal as flee from him. Instinctively Cato turned on him and leaned forward to strike at the pitchfork. The youth was not quick-witted enough to parry the blow and the blade snapped one of the prongs and knocked the tool down. At once Cato made a weak back-handed cut, the point of the sword ripping the man’s tunic and scoring a light flesh wound across his chest. He shrieked more in surprise than pain and staggered back in terror, releasing his grip on the pitchfork. Then he stumbled round and ran off, away from Cato and the enclosure, towards some huts a few hundred paces away.

  The other Silurian hurled a contemptuous insult after him and then surged forward again, stabbing out with the Blood Crows’ standard. This time he aimed higher up and Cato lifted his shield to block the blow. At the last instant his opponent twisted the point aside so that the iron cross piece at the top of the standard swept past the edge of the shield. Then, with a powerful flick of the wrist, he hooked the crosspiece behind the shield and pulled with all his strength. The shield lurched in Cato’s grip and the trim at the top caught him a jarring blow under the chin. He tasted blood in his mouth and then the shield was wrenched again, and he let go. The standard and shield flew back towards the warrior who lost his footing and tumbled on to the grass. Before he could recover, Cato leaned down from his saddle and thrust his sword into the Silurian’s throat and pinned him to the ground, twisting the blade, before he wrenched it free. Blood pumped from the wound and the Silurian clamped his hands over his throat as he spat blood, gurgled, and struggled for breath. Certain that the man was finished, Cato eased himself down from the saddle to recover the Blood Crow standard and his shield. He slipped the shoulder strap of the shield over one of the saddle horns and then climbed back into the saddle, holding the standard aloft so that the weighted fall clearly revealed the image of the crow. His heart was filled with relief that the danger of the unit being shamed by the loss of the standard had been averted.

  He turned his horse up the slope and saw the two Thracians flick their reins and steer their horses down the slope. Cato scowled at them and was about to berate them when he realised there was something in their expressions that wasn’t right. They looked at him coldly as they drew closer, then lowered their spears and held them out to the side, ready to strike.

  Ready to strike Cato down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Most of the enemy had fallen and the survivors clustered around their chief and the tall man with the blond hair, who fought as well as any man Macro had ever seen. He moved lightly on his feet and struck deft, lethal blows with his spear. He had already killed two of the Thracians and injured a third, without suffering a scratch in return. Around him were another ten or twelve Silurians, some injured, but all of them keeping their shields raised and their weapons pointed towards their foes.

  There was a brief pause as the horsemen drew back and formed a crescent round the Silurians who were backed against the entrance to the chief’s hut. Their chests heaved as they stared warily at the Thracians.

  Macro found himself close to Quertus and called across, ‘Time to tell ’em to give up. Do you know their tongue well enough to ask?’

  Quertus glowered as he faced Macro. ‘They’ll fight to the end. There’ll be no prisoners.’

  Macro edged his horse alongside the Thracian. ‘Yes, there will. You heard the prefect. We’ll take any that surrender. Only those that don’t are fair game.’

  Quertus growled and glared towards the men in front of the hut.

  ‘Those are the orders,’ Macro said firmly. ‘Tell them to lay down their arms.’

  For a moment it seemed that the other man would refuse. Then he nodded and drew a breath and called out to the enemy. As the fair man made his reply, Macro sat tall in his saddle and looked round for Cato.

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Sometimes I reckon it’s not safe to let that lad out. .’

  Then he recalled the glimpse he had had of his friend chasing a man round the rear of the chief’s hut. Macro turned back to Quertus who was still trading comments with the native. He could see that the Silurians were easing themselves into upright postures as the exchange continued. Macro sensed that their surrender was almost assured and that he was no longer needed at Quertus’s side. He tugged on his reins and worked his way through the horsemen and then trotted towards the rear of the hut, in the direction he had seen his friend take a short time earlier. He passed a body lying sprawled on the ground and continued round. As he reached the top of the slope he felt a surge of relief as he spied the red crest of Cato’s helmet and saw that the prefect had the standard of the Thracian cohort in one hand and his shield in the other. A short distance in front of Cato were two of the Thracians, casually riding towards him. Macro was about to call down to his friend when the words died in his throat. The two men spurred their horses into a canter and charged towards Cato with their spears lowered.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Macro muttered. The realisation that his friend was in great danger hit him like a blow and he jabbed his heels in and slapped the rump of his mount. ‘Yah!’

  The horse leaped forward, galloping down the slope. Ahead he could see the Thracians closing in. Cato watched them intently as he struggled with his shield, swinging it round to cover his body. Then, at the last moment, he lowered the standard, like a lance, and made for the man to his right. The three men came together with a thud as a spear glanced off the shield. There was a clatter of weapons as Cato and the man to his right wildly exchanged spear thrusts and parries. The standard was never designed for such work and was unwieldy in Cato’s hand as he fought for his life. His chances of surviving were made worse by the need to keep glancing to his left and fending off the attacks of the other Thracian. Macro could see that his friend could not hold his own for much longer and savagely urged his horse on. Then there was a sharp cry of frustration as the standard lurched out of Cato’s fingers and fell into the grass. He snatched his hand back and fumbled for his sword as his opponent moved in closer to his unprotected side to deliver the fatal blow. At the last moment Cato thrust his shield into the face of the man to his left and threw himself under the upraised spear of the other assailant and inside his shield to grab at his cloak and tunic in a desperate attempt to unseat the Thracian. The two writhed, with Cato half out of his saddle, while the other Thracian worked his horse towards the prefect’s back to strike from the rear.

  At the sound of Macro’s horse the second man hesitated and looked round, then instinctively swerved his mount round to face the unexpected threat. Macro held his shield up and hunched down so that it covered him up to his cheek. There was no time to think and he simply clamped his jaw shut and rode directly towards the man. Only at the last instant did the Thracian understand Macro’s intention and try to spur his horse out of the way. It was too late and Macro’s horse collided heavily. With a shrill whinny of terror the other horse was knocked off its feet and it fell on to its side. It rolled on to its back, legs kicking wildly in the air. The rider let out a cry of panic before the weight of the horse above him drove the breath from his lungs and crushed his chest and limbs.

  Cato was still struggling with the other man, one arm scrabbling for purchase around his torso while the other grasped the wrist of his spear hand and fought to keep the point away from his body.

  ‘Hold on, lad!’ Macro shouted as he took control of his frightened mount which was trying to shy away from the fight.

  The remaining Thracian jerked hard on his reins, moving his horse away from Cato’s and pulling the prefect out of his saddle. Cato held on desperately, knowing that he was finished if he released his grip and gave the man enough room to use his spear. Then, when he felt as if he must fall under the other man’s horse, he released his grip on the man’s wrist and snatched at the handle of his dagger. He drew it out as quickly as he could and stabbed at the Thracian’s thigh and groin. The man let out howls of pain and rage
and let his spear drop as he punched his fist into Cato’s cheekguard, and then struck him hard on the bridge of his nose. Cato felt something crack with a sharp pain and then blood coursed from his nostrils. The Thracian grunted, his fist raised to strike again, and Cato looked up to see the edge of a sword buried in the angle of his neck and he felt the warm splatter of the man’s blood on his face. The Thracian looked down at Cato, his mouth gaping, a look of surprise in his eyes, before they rolled up and he slumped in his saddle with a deep groan. Then the sword was wrenched back and the man uttered one more cry before his horse shimmied to one side, dragging Cato with it a short distance until he pulled his dagger from the Thracian’s leg and released his grip on his cloak. He fell to the ground, thrusting his dagger to the side so that he would not land on it. The impact was hard, driving the air from his lungs and jarring his helmeted head, but Cato had the presence of mind to tuck up as he lay on the ground as hoofs thudded into the grass around him.

  ‘It’s over, lad,’ Macro’s anxious voice called down to him.

  Cato risked a look up and saw the transverse crest of a centurion’s helmet blocking out the strengthening light of the dawn sky. Reassured, he rolled on to his feet and rose unsteadily, wiping the blood from under his nose with the back of his hand. Macro retrieved the standard from where it was lying in the grass and planted the sharpened butt firmly into the ground. Then he turned and looked at the two Thracians. The horse which had been knocked over had struggled back on to its feet and stood a short distance from its rider who writhed feebly, gasping for breath. The other man swayed in his saddle for a moment and then slid off to one side and dropped to the ground. His mount skittered off a few steps before stopping and lowering his head to graze.