The Blood Crows c-12

by Simon Scarrow

  Severus stood his ground, shield raised and sword held back ready to strike. He had no choice. The ranks of the men behind him made retreat impossible. The giant planted a foot forward and swung his axe in a wide arc at chest height. Macro heard the whipping hiss of the axe head as it cut through the air, then the shattering crash as it tore through the edge of Severus’s shield, shattering the bronze trim and the layers of wood and leather which exploded into fragments under the terrifying power of the blow. The ruined shield leaped from the centurion’s numbed fingers and tumbled over the side of the causeway into the ditch. The giant let out a triumphant cry and continued his swing with bunched muscles. The axe swept round again, this time at a slightly greater height. Severus half turned to throw his sword up and try to block the blow, his mouth opening as a last cry tore from his lips. ‘Noooo!’

  The axe head clanged as it knocked the sword from the centurion’s grip, sending the weapon cartwheeling through the air. An instant later the edge struck the centurion in the neck, cleaving through flesh and bone and sending the head, encased in its polished helmet, leaping from the officer’s shoulders.

  ‘Fuck me. .’ Macro was momentarily astonished by the deed, then, with a cold stab of reason, he knew that he would be the man’s next victim.

  ‘Not me, friend!’ he growled as he turned towards the giant and powered forward, crouching to lower his centre of balance. Nothing could resist the impact of such a heavy axe, Macro knew. He had to get close to the giant, inside the range of his fearsome weapon. Already the Silurian warrior was turning towards him, wielding his axe and making ready to strike. Macro charged home, thrusting his shield up just before he crashed into the man. The trim at the top of the shield caught him under the chin, snapping his jaw shut and cutting off his bellowing war cry. At the same time Macro swung his sword arm out and stabbed in at an angle. It was not the most effective blow, lacking power, but it caught his man in the side, below the ribs; it penetrated the folds of his fur cloak and bit into his flesh before Macro fetched up hard against the inside of his shield, marvelling at the solidity of his opponent. He braced his boots and shoved as he snatched his sword out and stabbed again, and again, hearing the man’s grunt as the blows drove the breath from his lungs.

  Knowing that his axe would not serve him well in such a close struggle, the giant threw it down and grasped the sides of the shield and tried to rip it from Macro’s grasp.

  ‘No, you fucking don’t!’ Macro spat, tightening his grip on the handle. Above him he saw the furious face of the man looming over the top of the shield. Instinctively, Macro powered up from the balls of his feet and headbutted the giant with his helmet, the solid metal of the brim guard crushing the bridge of the man’s nose. He released his grip and staggered away, blood pouring down over his beard and more soaking the tears in the folds of his cloak, matting the fur. Gasping for breath, Macro drew up, realising that he had reached the far side of the causeway. Before him the last of the party charged with breaking down the gate had turned to flee, leaving a score of bodies scattered over the packed earth in front of the ruined gate, most skewered by javelins.

  ‘Macro!’

  He turned and looked up and saw Cato pointing down.

  ‘Macro, get the ram inside!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  He turned and ordered two of his sections to sheath their blades and take up the stumps of branches that the enemy had been using as handles. The remaining men formed a shield wall at the end of the causeway to cover their comrades. Not a moment too soon. As the enemy drew away from the Romans, a hail of shot flew out of the darkness and clattered off the surface of the shields. The men carrying the ram struggled back inside the gatehouse, grunting under the load, as Macro steadily called the step for the shield wall to fall back inside the fort.

  Above them Cato let out a sigh of relief. The capture of the ram would win them several hours at least. Although he had lost the outer gate, the inner gate still held and there would be time to seal up the passage with earth and rocks to render it impassible. Looking up at the sky, he detected the first hint of the coming dawn amid the rain and clouds, a thin skein of grey along the edge of the mountains to the east. Already he could pick out more detail in the fight on each side of the gatehouse, and the ground in front of it. There, he saw Caratacus again, fists clenched and resting on his hips as he glared up at the fort. Then the enemy commander turned to his followers and a moment later a war horn blared out, its deep notes carrying across the battlefield. One by one the men at the top of the ladders, struggling to gain a foothold on the wall, broke contact and eased themselves down rung by rung. Those below backed away cautiously, climbing down and then out of the ditch before hurrying back down the slope, some with sufficient presence of mind to carry their assault ladders away with them. For a moment Caratacus stood still, then it seemed to Cato that his enemy picked him out on top of the tower and he raised a finger and pointed directly at him, his threat clear enough. He would not give up. Not until the the fort of Bruccium, its garrison, and its commander were wiped out.

  Caratacus turned away and paced slowly down the slope, along with the rest of his army.

  Cato heard the ladder creak behind him as Macro climbed into the tower and came and stood at his side.

  ‘Round one to us,’ Cato said quietly.

  Macro nodded. ‘But we lost Severus, and a handful of others. Did you see?’

  ‘I saw.’ Cato’s gaze flicked briefly down at the causeway where the centurion’s headless corpse lay sprawled across the body of one of the Silurians killed by a javelin. Then he recalled his first duty in such a situation.

  ‘Give the order for the men to stand down. The Thracians can take the first turn on the wall. Have the wounded taken to the surgeon and rations issued to the rest. Oh, and let them know that I’m proud of them. We’ve made certain that the enemy will remember the garrison of Bruccium for the right reasons now. They know we can put up a decent fight as well as burn and massacre.’

  Macro nodded, then paused before he turned to leave. ‘You sure you want to tell the lads that?’

  Cato stroked his chin. ‘Perhaps not the last bit. Just tell them I’m proud of them. Proud to be their commander. That should put some fire in their hearts. . They’ll need it, when Caratacus comes for us again.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Dawn broke over a very different scene to the previous morning. Nothing remained of the haystacks except blackened piles of smouldering ash. There were scorched patches on the slope in front of the fort where some of the faggots had burned out and bundles of charred kindling where the rain had extinguished others. Bodies lay scattered along the ditch and below the wall. The enemy had taken their worst losses before the main gate where bodies covered the ground and much of the causeway, amongst which the shafts of javelins poked up at all angles like a carelessly used pincushion. As soon as there was light enough to see that the enemy had retreated as far as the parade ground, some two hundred paces away, Cato sent out a patrol to retrieve the still serviceable javelins from amongst the corpses. At the approach of a group of slingers, the patrol hurried back through the ruined gate into the shelter of the fort, with salvaged javelins bundled up under their arms. Another section had brought in the bodies of two legionaries who had been killed in the attack on the ram, as well as the corpse of Severus. His head had not been found. One of the natives had probably taken it as a trophy before retreating down the slope, Cato decided as he stood in the tower and surveyed the scene.

  The enemy camp sprawled across the floor of the valley. They had not yet built themselves any shelters and slept in the open, around the fires they had struggled to light in the hours since the sun had risen. The rain had stopped but the ground and the branches of the trees were soaked and only those who had ventured far enough into the valley’s forests to penetrate the most sheltered parts had returned with readily combustible fuel. From the size of their camp, Cato roughly estimated their number at close to
ten thousand, perhaps several hundred of whom were mounted, judging from the horses grazing along the floor of the valley.

  ‘Outnumbered at least twenty to one,’ Cato muttered to himself. ‘Even Macro wouldn’t bet on those odds.’

  Casting his eyes over the terrain surrounding the fort, Cato could see small parties of men camped on the far bank of the river that curled around the high ground on which the fort was constructed. There would be no escape in that direction. It would take a courageous man to swim the fast-flowing river, dodging the rocks around which the water swirled. Even if it was possible to swim the river, there was the enemy to evade before any attempt could be made to escape from the valley and reach the nearest Roman outpost and raise the alarm. It would be a suicide mission, he decided. But it might yet be necessary to send a man, if the overcast did not lift. The heavy clouds hung low in the sky, obscuring the tops of the hills that lined the valley, thicker since dawn had broken and visibility seemed to be steadily reducing. It would be pointless to light the signal beacon. There was no chance of the smoke being sighted from Gobannium, or any other outpost. For the present the garrison was on its own.

  Cato stifled a yawn, determined not to show that he was tired, and turned to the nearest sentry. ‘Let me know the moment the enemy makes a move.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary saluted and turned his attention to Caratacus’s army as the fort’s commander descended the ladder into the gatehouse. At the bottom he saw that Macro was overseeing the blocking up of the passage between the smashed outer gate and the inner gate. The end of the nearest barrack block was being demolished and men were carrying the rubble across to the passage in wicker baskets and piling it up inside.

  Macro nodded a greeting. ‘Soon be finished here. They’ll not get through that lot.’

  ‘Very good,’ Cato responded with satisfaction. That was one less weak point in the defences to worry about.

  Macro lowered his voice as he continued, ‘Do you know the butcher’s bill yet?’

  Cato sighed. A clerk had brought the report to him at the end of the first hour of the day. ‘Twelve dead, eighteen injured. Most of them downed by slingshot. We’re going to have to be careful not to expose ourselves on the wall unnecessarily from now on. It’s too much of a risk.’

  ‘What isn’t in this situation?’

  ‘True enough.’ Cato rubbed his brow and then saw Decimus, still in legionary kit, limping from the direction of headquarters, carrying a mess tin and a cup, stepping carefully around the puddles and mud. As the servant looked up and saw his commander, he hurried over.

  ‘Brought you something to eat, sir. Need to keep your strength up, so here’s stew and some posca.’

  Cato took the mess tin gratefully, realising just how hungry he was after the night’s action. The stew was warmed through rather than hot and he spooned it down hurriedly.

  Macro licked his lips. ‘Any more of that about?’

  Decimus glanced at him. ‘All gone, I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Macro tapped his nose. ‘I hope you enjoyed it as much as the prefect seems to.’

  Decimus looked down awkwardly. ‘Seemed a shame to let it go cold, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Macro growled.

  For a moment Decimus looked anxiously down at the ground, before he summoned up the nerve to speak. ‘Sir, is there any hope of us getting out of this alive?’

  Cato chewed on a morsel of meat and then swallowed. ‘There’s always hope.’

  Decimus’s shoulders sank and he nodded in a resigned fashion.

  Cato was watching the expressions of the men passing by as he finished his snatched meal. They looked tired, but grimly determined. There were even some who were engaged in cheerful exchanges with their companions. This early success had boosted their morale. But that was hardly necessary. These men were legionaries, hardened professionals, used to hardship and danger and imbued with a firm sense of tradition and the need to uphold the honour of their legion. They would play their part well enough. It was the auxiliaries who concerned Cato. Their morale was more uncertain, a problem exacerbated by the excesses of Centurion Quertus. Although their ranks had been leavened by those legionaries transferred in from the other cohort of the garrison, Cato sensed that their morale was more brittle. They were used to patrolling and raiding the enemy’s territory. This kind of static, stand-up fight required firm resolve. Both units were bound to be tested to the limit in the days to come.

  As if anticipating his thoughts, he saw Quertus approaching him along the open ground behind the wall.

  ‘Here’s trouble,’ said Macro.

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘With him, necessarily, I’d say.’

  Cato drew himself up to his full height as the Thracian approached and nodded an informal salute to his superior. ‘A tough night, sir. But we gave them a hiding and sent ’em packing.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Macro scratched the stubble on his jaw. ‘You think we’ve won then?’

  ‘For now. They won’t dare to make another frontal assault in a hurry,’ Quertus asserted confidently. ‘Not now we’ve proved, once again, that they should be afraid of us.’

  Macro glanced at Cato and cocked an eyebrow. ‘Heroes all, eh?’

  Cato ignored the comment and addressed the Thracian. ‘I take it you have something to report?’

  ‘Yes, sir. My horses. We’ve got oats to feed them for a few days as you know, but they’ll need watering.’

  ‘Of course they will. There’s plenty in the fort’s cistern. And there’s plenty in the well.’

  Quertus shook his head. ‘They’ll drain the cistern in a couple of days. And they’ll run the well dry in even less time.’

  ‘I see. Then we’ll have to ration their water and their feed.’

  ‘That’s not possible, sir. The food we can restrict, but they can’t do without water. Not if we want them in a fit state to ride.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  Quertus gestured towards the rear of the fort. ‘There’s a narrow track that winds down the cliff there. Wide enough for a man to lead a horse. My lads can take ’em down there to the river to be watered.’

  Cato considered the suggestion. ‘Best do it under cover of darkness.’

  ‘Too dangerous, sir. If they put a foot wrong on the path they’ll fall into the river. We can only use the path in daylight.’

  Cato sighed in exasperation. ‘Then see to it. Make sure you give the handlers an escort in case the Silurians try to spring a trap.’

  He considered the exchange concluded, but Quertus did not move away.

  ‘Is there something else, Centurion?’

  ‘Just the question of what you intend to do next. . sir.’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘I’m next in the chain of command. If you fall, then I will need to carry out your intentions.’

  Cato smiled thinly. ‘I intend to defend the fort.’

  Quertus nodded in the direction of the enemy camp, his earlier bluster gone. ‘We’ve beaten them off once, but we can’t do it indefinitely. If we lose men at the rate we did earlier then it’s only a question of a few more attacks before we’re spread so thinly they’ll overwhelm us.’

  ‘I thank you for that assessment,’ Cato responded curtly.

  ‘We can’t stay trapped in here. We have to get out.’

  ‘That’s not possible. We’re surrounded, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to break out. While we still have enough men to do it.’ Quertus glanced up. ‘If this weather holds, it’ll be dark tonight. Dark enough to cover our escape.’

  ‘And dark enough to have us blundering into each other, if not the enemy.’

  ‘What if we use our prisoners as a shield? Caratacus would hardly let his men attack us if there was any danger to his brother and the others.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘He might not. But given the suffering you’ve visited on the local people in recent months, I dare say Carata
cus will have trouble restraining his allies. They want nothing more than to butcher us all and take our heads as trophies. It’s too dangerous. We’ve been over this, Quertus. Our best chance is to sit it out until we are relieved. That’s my decision.’

  The Thracian gave him a frosty look. ‘It’s the wrong decision.’ Before Cato could respond, he turned and strode away, back towards his men resting on the slope leading up to the wall.

  Macro glared after him. ‘The enemy would be doing us a favour if they knocked that gobshite on the head.’

  Cato was too tired to comment. He finished the last of his stew and drained his cup. Then he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully for a moment.

  ‘I think it’s time we brought Maridius and the other prisoners into play.’

  It had started to rain again as scores of men stood along the wall looking on curiously as two legionaries lowered a ladder to the ground close to the causeway. Beside them Macro regarded Cato with concern.

  ‘This ain’t a good idea, lad.’

  Cato gestured towards the prisoners pressed together behind the gatehouse under the watchful eyes of several legionaries. ‘I think it might buy us a little more time.’

  ‘What makes you think Caratacus will agree?’

  ‘It’s more than likely that he won’t, but he will think it over. And every hour that he wastes pondering the problem improves our chances of getting through this alive.’

  ‘Not by much. You said it yourself. We’re out on a limb here and as long as this cloud stays above us then no one’s the wiser in the rest of the army.’ Macro hawked up some phlegm and spat over the wall. ‘Fucking weather in this island is unbelievable. You’d have to be a mad dog or a Celt to venture out into the noonday gales in this dump, I tell you.’