‘This one’s beginning to annoy me.’
Cato nodded, teeth gritted, his eyes fixed on the axeman. Then he lunged again, his height and reach superior to Macro’s, and he forced the axeman to give ground. Macro let out a roar and charged forward, and Cato followed suit. The sudden movement of the two officers caught the enemy warrior by surprise and he hesitated for less than a heartbeat, and that was the death of him. Macro struck first, stabbing into his right shoulder, jerking the man’s hand from his weapon so that the axe dropped to the walkway. Cato followed up with a thrust just below his throat, shattering the collarbone and driving six inches through his windpipe. The axeman staggered back defenceless and then jerked to a stop, head thrown back as the tip of a pilum burst through his side. Behind him a legionary wrenched the point free and kicked him down the turf slope of the rampart where he rolled to a stop, hands clamped to his throat as he spluttered and bled out.
‘Good work, soldier!’ Macro grinned. ‘Spitted him like a pig!’
The man smiled at the praise and turned back to face the parapet, bloodied javelin tip raised, ready to strike at the next man rash enough to attempt to scale the wall. Cato sheathed his blade, heedless of the blood that still stained it, and looked along the wall. A handful of duels were being fought at the top of the ladders but no more of the enemy had gained the walkway behind the parapet. He nodded with satisfaction.
‘All well so far. Come on. Back to the tower.’
They climbed to the top where they could gain a clear overview of the attack. The men to the left of the gate were also holding their own against the natives swarming in front of the fort, lit from behind by the faggots blazing on the ground. As he watched, Cato could see that the flames were starting to die down earlier than he had expected and he glanced up at the heavy loom of the night sky; the rain was falling harder, pinging off the curve of his helmet and providing a light background hiss to the sounds of battle. In the open ground behind the main gate the men of the reserve stood waiting with spears and shields grounded. In front of them Cato could easily pick out Severus, pacing up and down, tapping his sword against his greave. He could practically smell the man’s anxiety and despite himself Cato offered a brief prayer to the gods that the centurion would lead his men well if they were called upon to plug any gap in the line. Looking to his right, he saw Quertus shouting encouragement to his men. Every so often he would stand up, in full view of the enemy, and roar his defiance. Just the example the men needed at such a moment, Cato conceded with a touch of admiration.
He turned to Macro. ‘This rain won’t serve us well.’
‘It’s as bad for the enemy as us. Worse. At least we have shelter.’
Cato shook his head. ‘You’re missing the point. It’s starting to put the faggots out. If it carries on like this we won’t be able to light the signal beacon come the morning. Even if we could I’ll wager the clouds will swallow up any smoke we make.’
Macro stared up at the sky, blinking away the raindrops. ‘Is there nothing in this bloody land that isn’t against us?’
Before Cato could reply, his attention was caught by a movement on the slope in front of the gatehouse. As he strained his eyes he could just make out a large party of men stealing up the track out of the gloom. He leaned forward in an effort to see better.
‘Careful, sir!’ Macro warned. ‘You want to make an easy target for those bastard slingers?’
As if to underline his words, Cato heard a faint whup as a shot passed close overhead. He started guiltily and eased himself back behind the protective hoarding and watched from there. As the men approached, there was something about the way they clustered together that sent a ripple of anxiety through Cato’s guts. Then he realised what it was.
‘They’ve got a ram. . Macro! Look there!’ He pointed out the men climbing the track and making directly for the narrow causeway across the ditch.
Macro squinted through the dull shimmer of the rain and frowned. ‘That’s all we need.’
Cato turned to the other men on the tower. ‘Gather up the javelins and get over here, now!’
The legionaries grabbed the bundles of javelins and formed up along the front of the tower.
‘There’s a party of men heading for the causeway,’ Cato explained, speaking loudly to be heard above the din of the fighting and the rain. ‘They’ve got a ram. Don’t let them reach the gate.’
The legionaries grasped the danger at once. They hefted their javelins in an overhand grip and raised their shields to protect them from the slingers. Then taking aim on the approaching enemy they waited for Cato’s order, Macro taking his place amongst them. Cato watched the warriors closely and could now make out the long, thick length of timber they carried between them. More than likely it was the trunk of a pine tree felled from one of the forests that grew along the side of the valley. At least they would not have had the wherewithal to cap it with a heavy iron point, Cato reflected. But even though it was a blunt, roughly hewn weapon, it would still smash through the gate eventually. The head of the party was no more than thirty paces from the start of the causeway and Cato raised his arm.
‘Make ready!’
The range was long, and in the rain it was likely that his men’s grip would not be as good as it was in dry weather. Cato let the enemy come on. He wanted the first volley to be as devastating as possible.
There was a grunt as one of the legionaries swept his throwing arm forward and his javelin arced towards the enemy and fell several paces short.
‘Who the fuck was that?’ Macro raged, turning to stare along the parapet and glaring as his eyes located the culprit. ‘You’re on a charge. The moment this little fracas is over! Now pick up a fresh weapon and wait for the bloody order!’
The legionary snatched up a replacement javelin and took aim.
Cato saw that the enemy were escorted by men carrying large round shields. Beyond, he saw a smaller party of men led by a tall warrior who stopped well beyond javelin range to watch the progress of the men carrying the ram. Cato nodded to himself; it must be Caratacus. His enemy’s intention was clear now. While the Romans were kept occupied along the wall the ram would batter the gate before the defenders realised Caratacus’s intentions. It was a good plan, Cato conceded, except the Romans were ready and waiting.
The first men had reached the end of the causeway and Cato filled his lungs, swept his arm forward and roared, ‘Loose javelins!’
There was a chorus of grunts as the legionaries hurled their weapons down from the tower, over the causeway to where the bunched ranks of the enemy formed an easy target. The iron-tipped javelins punched through flesh and bone with soft thuds and an instant later the cries and groans of the injured cut through darkness. The party stopped abruptly, the ram dropped to the ground and those with shields swung them up to cover themselves.
‘Again!’ Cato ordered his men. ‘Pour it on, lads!’
The legionaries snatched up more weapons, took aim and hurled the javelins. More of the enemy went down, including those with shields — the wood and leather they were made of provided poor protection against the impact of the deadly iron points. Macro was shouting with glee as he threw one weapon after another and urged the legionaries on. Beyond the tangle of dead and wounded the survivors were breaking and running back down the track. Cato heard the enemy leader shouting angrily at them, and then breaking off to call out an order. A moment later more slingshot whirred out of the darkness, smashing into and splintering the hoardings, with a few shots cracking off the shields of the legionaries. One of the deflections caught Cato on his cheekguard with a loud ring. He felt the blow but luckily the small missile had lost most of its energy and did not injure him.
‘Take cover!’ he ordered as the sharp rattle of shot intensified, and another legionary was hit, the blow spinning him round. A further shot struck him in the face, pulverising his nose and eye socket in a spray of blood. He collapsed like a sack filled with stones and thudded on to the wooden bo
ards, his shield clattering beside him. The other legionaries ducked down behind the parapet, their heavy rectangular shields adding further protection as the barrage of slingshot rattled against the tower. Cato took an anxious breath during a brief lull and glanced over the wall. The enemy had taken up the ram once more and were making their way across the causeway. A loud crack on the wood beside him sent splinters flying and he felt a hot stab in his cheek and ducked back down.
‘Shit. .’ He reached a hand up and felt the blood pouring down his face, and then touched something hard protruding from his flesh. Gritting his teeth he pinched the end tightly and pulled it out and flung it away. The sharp, stinging pain intensified but Cato ignored it.
Macro crouched down beside him, breathing hard. ‘The bastards have got us pinned down, sir.’
A voice shouted in front of the gate and a moment later began a short rhythmic chant. At the third beat there was a crash of wood on wood and Cato and Macro felt the tower tremble beneath them. The timbers of the gate were sturdy, as were the fastenings, hinges and the locking bar, but Cato knew that there was a limit to the punishment they could take.
‘We have to hold them up as much as possible. I’ll stay here and have the men continue with the javelins.’
‘That’ll be hot work.’
‘Can’t help that. We have to whittle them down and try to save the gate. If the outer gate goes, there’s only the inner gate. If we lose that we’re as good as dead.’
Macro nodded.
‘I want you to take command of the reserve. Form up behind the gatehouse and open the inner gate. If they break the other one down, then you go in hard. Drive them out and take their ram. They’ll produce another soon enough, but it’ll buy us some time. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then go.’
As Macro clambered down the ladder, Cato turned to the men crouching behind the hoardings. He raised his voice so that he would be heard above the clash of weapons, the cries of men and the steady pounding of the enemy’s ram. ‘Lads, we have to keep up the pace with the javelins. Use ’em quickly and don’t fuck about or you’ll make yourself an easy target. Get to it.’ Cato knew the danger of exposing himself to slingshot, but equally he knew that he had to lead these men by example. He took a light javelin from the stack at the rear of the tower, deliberately making sure that he did not look at the two casualties that had been dragged to the rear. Then, bracing himself behind a hoarding, he readied the weapon, clamped his jaw tightly and sprang up, leaned forward and hurled the javelin down on the glistening backs of the men clasping the ram, their hair and clothes slick in the rain. He saw it strike a warrior between the shoulders before he dropped back down. A moment later two missiles struck the tower where he had been standing. He felt a rush of elation sweep through his body and he offered a triumphant thumbs-up to the men. ‘One more barbarian sent to his gods!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Macro hefted his shield as he emerged from the gatehouse, striding over to the half century formed up a short distance away. At his approach Centurion Severus stopped pacing and turned towards him expectantly.
‘Stand to!’ Macro ordered and the legionaries hurriedly raised their shields and presented their javelins in a neat action, just as if they were on the drill ground. He nodded with approval before turning to their commander. He noted the nervous expression on the other man’s face. Just then the ram crashed into the outer gate once again, causing Severus to flinch as his gaze shot towards the sound.
‘They’ll be through that soon,’ he said anxiously, ‘then the inner gate, and we won’t be able to stop them.’
‘Oh, I doubt that!’ Macro said loudly enough for the other men to hear. ‘Because we’re the men who are going to give those barbarian cunts a good kicking. Now, you two.’ He indicated the legionaries at the left end of the small formation. ‘Get the inner gate open. Smartly does it.’
Severus’s mouth gaped. ‘Open the gate? What the. .?’
Macro made himself smile and continued evenly, ‘Come now, those bastards are ruining one of the gates. Damned if I’m going to let them put a scratch on the other.’
Severus stared at Macro as if he were mad, but Macro gave him no chance to speak. He drew his sword and turned to the legionaries. ‘Lay down the javelins. This is a job for swords, lads.’
They set their weapons down and stood ready, hands resting on the pommels of their short swords as they waited for his orders.
‘Form column of fours! Close up and shields to the front!’
The rain had formed puddles on the ground and the men’s boots splashed through them as they took up their positions. The two legionaries sent to open the gate had lifted the locking beam out of its brackets and were hauling the heavy timbers inwards. The wooden peg hinges groaned as the gate opened to reveal the dark maw of the short passage leading to the outer gate. Their work done they joined their comrades and Macro took his place at the head of the tight formation, gesturing to Severus to join him.
‘Let’s give ’em the wedge. You and I are taking point.’ Macro grinned and muttered the centurion’s credo, ‘First into the fight, and last out!’
Severus nodded and smiled weakly. ‘First in. Last out.’
Macro’s expression hardened as he drew his sword and raised it into the damp air. ‘First Century, Fourth Cohort draw your swords! We fight for the glory of the Fourteenth Legion!’
The legionaries thrust their blades up and let out a cheer. Up on the wall on either side, the men who were not engaged with the enemy glanced round at the noise and Macro’s heart was warmed as he saw the men from the Blood Crows join in, echoing the cry from one end of the wall to the other. He lowered his sword and pointed the tip towards the passage. There was a sharp crack from the darkness as the ram shattered one of the timbers of the outer gate.
‘At the slow step. . advance!’
The legionaries paced towards the opening, shields raised to the front, covering all but the eyes of the men. As they entered the passage, the ram struck home again, smashing through the ruined timber and dislodging another length. As the ram was drawn back, Macro could make out the dim shapes of men through the jagged gap. He could also see that the locking beam was still intact. He halted his men, two paces back from the gate, far enough inside the passage so that the enemy would not see them in the darkness.
The ram struck again, accompanied by a raucous cheer from the Silurians as they sensed that it would break through in a matter of moments. Another length of timber gave way with a splintering crunch. The next blow struck the locking bar full on and it leaped in the iron brackets that held it against the inside of the gates. It fell back into place, only to creak and begin to split at the next blow. Two more strikes were enough to complete the job; the bar shattered and one side of the gate burst in, revealing the packed ranks of the enemy warriors waiting to charge into the fort. As Macro braced his boots and snatched a deep breath he saw two javelins plunge down. A warrior jerked upright with a howl of agony as he groped for the shaft that had pierced his back and plunged into his vital organs. Then he toppled off the causeway into the ditch.
‘For Rome!’ Macro bellowed, his cry instantly echoing back to him off the interior of the gatehouse passage. ‘Advance!’
Ahead of them the men clustered about the ram looked up, straining their eyes into the darkness. They were clearly outlined against the red hue of the faggots still burning outside. Before they could react, Macro and his legionaries thrust their way out of the passage. Macro punched his shield into the nearest man, knocking him back into his comrades, and followed up with a savage thrust of his short sword into the Silurian’s chest. At his side, Severus slashed at a shoulder and opened up a deep cut down the length of the arm, before he pushed his shield forward and stepped in behind it. The legionaries following the officers pressed forward on each side, stabbing at their enemies. The Silurians had not expected to be counter-attacked at the moment of their triumph and thos
e holding the ram released their grip and let it drop on to the causeway as they backed away from the danger, leaving their armed comrades to take up the fight. Some reacted quickly, raising their round shields and charging the Romans emerging through the broken gate.
This was the close-quarters fighting that the legions trained for and at which they excelled, and in the dense press of bodies covering the causeway the lethal points of their short swords flickered out from between their large curved shields, stabbing deeply into limbs and torsos before being ripped free, causing terrible, crippling injuries that bled freely. Macro grinned fiercely as he battered his way forward with his shield, thrusting his sword again and again. Sometimes his blows did not land. Sometimes they were parried aside, but most struck home and he felt the warm flow of blood trickle over the guard and on to his hand as he pressed on, leading his men step by step across the causeway. To his left he glimpsed the ditch, the slopes and bottom littered with the dead and dying of the enemy. More were crowded in the narrow strip of ground between the scarp and the wall, eager to climb ladders and hurl themselves at the defenders.
‘Down your javelins!’ he heard Cato shout from above. ‘Those are our men!’
Macro had given no thought to the danger of being struck down by his comrades and mentally thanked his friend as he thrust his sword again, only for his opponent to desperately throw up his shield and deflect the blow. Suddenly there was a surge through the ranks of the Silurians and a large warrior, dressed in furs, thrust his way to the front, a huge war axe clasped in his powerful hands. His comrades glanced at him in awe and hurried out of reach as the axe swung round in a vicious arc over his head. With a savage roar the giant fixed his attention on the crested helmet of Severus, determined to slaughter the Roman officers and break the will of the men following them.
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