Brothers in Blood (35 page)

The legionary raised the mouthpiece and spat to clear his mouth. Pursing his lips, he drew a deep breath and blew. The horn blared loudly, one long sustained note. He stopped, paused to take another breath and count to five before repeating the note. Before the second blast carried across the bastion, the whirring of slings and the crack of the light ballistas shattered the comparative quiet of the lull in the fighting that had followed the capture of the bastion. From over the palisade came a chorus of shouts as Macro and the remaining men of the First Century bolted from cover and raced towards the ram lying a short distance up the last stretch of track leading up to the fort’s gate.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

‘O
n me, lads!’ Macro shouted as he ran up the track. To his right he saw the helmets and faces of the auxiliaries as they whirled their slings overhead and released their missiles. To his left towered the earthworks protecting the enemy’s gate. The sudden hail of shot, and the iron-headed bolts and fist-sized stones from the light ballistas had taken the enemy by surprise and they ducked down behind their palisade as the Romans’ barrage smashed against the wooden posts. Macro knew the moment would quickly pass and the enemy would do all that they could to cut down the men making for the ram.

It was past midday and the heat had not abated. The air in the sheltered gap between the bastion and the fort was stifling. The weight of his armour and his exertions throughout the morning meant that sweat was streaming from his brow as Macro rushed towards the ram. Before him lay the bodies of the men who had fallen during Horatius’s ill-fated attack earlier in the day. Not all of them were dead. Some still writhed and moaned. Others looked up hopefully as they caught sight of their comrades rushing up the track. One reached out to Macro and croaked, ‘Water . . . For pity’s sake, water . . .’

Macro swerved round him and ran on. He saw a head appear above the fort’s palisade, dark against the bright sunlight, and heard the shout as the alarm was raised. Just ahead of him lay the ram, surrounded by bodies pierced by arrows and javelins, and more missiles lay on the ground about them. He reached the head of the ram, cut to an obtuse point to maximise its impact when it struck home. Ropes had been tied round the ram and provided the handles for its crew. Macro cast his ruined shield to one side and heaved aside a body lying across the roughly hewn wood. Then he grasped the handle nearest the front of the ram and glanced back as those legionaries following close behind discarded their shields and took position either side. As soon as there were enough men in place, Macro called out, ‘On my command . . . lift!’

With strained grunts the men heaved the ram off the ground.

‘Advance!’

They paced up the track as quickly as their burden allowed. An arrow shaft
shicked
into earth no more than a foot in front of Macro and he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Get some cover up here!’

Those men of the First Century who had caught up with their comrades carrying the ram hurried up the side facing the fort and raised their shields to protect themselves and their comrades carrying the ram. More arrows rained down, and stones, but the constant hail of missiles from the bastion forced the defenders to bob up and shoot without taking aim and they had little effect on the party moving steadily towards the gate. By contrast, the Romans in the bastion remained standing as they bombarded the wall of the fort opposite them. Ahead, Macro saw a ballista bolt smash into the top of the palisade, sending a burst of splinters into the air.

An enemy warrior, more foolhardy than courageous, rose up in full view and thrust his sword out towards Macro, exhorting his comrades to shoot the legionaries down. Then he was struck in the chest by a stone and was swept away by the impact, as if snatched from this life by an invisible giant hand.

Then there was cry just behind Macro and he felt the rope handle lurch in his grip. He hissed a curse as he was forced to a stop and turned to look back with a furious expression. One of his men had been struck on the helmet by a rock and had fallen back against the man behind him, causing them both to release their hold on the ram. Macro nodded to the nearest man carrying a shield.

‘Take his place!’

The legionary obeyed at once, tossing his shield aside and stepping over the fallen man to grasp the rope handle. As soon as he had taken up the strain, Macro gave the order to continue the advance. They slowly climbed the last remaining stretch of track and approached the ditch in front of the gate. Eight feet across, as near as Macro could estimate it. The bridge had been drawn up and hung a small distance from the gatehouse. Macro gave the order to lower the ram and ordered the nearest three men to follow him. They scrambled down into the ditch and hauled their armoured bodies up the rear scarp, pausing at the top to catch their breath. Macro pointed to the taut lengths of rope bound to the end of the drawbridge.

‘We have to cut those! Two men to each. Go!’

While the other legionaries scurried across to the other side, Macro nodded to the third man. ‘Back against the wall and make a step.’

The man did as he was told and cupped his hands. Macro placed his boot on the soldier’s hands and grasped his shoulders as he heaved himself up. ‘Lift!’

The man heaved with a groan of exertion and Macro pressed himself against the wooden timbers of the gatehouse as he felt for the man’s shoulder with his other foot. When both were in place, the legionary grasped Macro’s calves to steady him while the officer went to work. The exposed rope was a short distance above his head and Macro drew his dagger and reached up. With his left hand clutching the edge of the bridge, he began to saw away at the thick weave of cords, the strands steadily parting beneath the well-honed edge of the blade. All the while Acer’s men in the bastion did their best to force the enemy to keep their heads down.

Then there was a shout from behind the gate and Macro glanced down to see the dim form of a man looking up at him from the shade beneath the gatehouse.

‘They’re on to us!’ Macro called across to the men cutting the other length of rope. ‘Get moving!’

He continued cutting away furiously at the rope, his muscles aching and burning from the effort as he cursed the rope and willed it to part. Through the gap he could see several men moving towards the gate, and the dull gleam of the head of a spear. The spear point thrust towards him through the gap and glinted in the sun. Macro threw his weight to the side as much as he could while remaining steady on the shoulders of the man straining to hold him up. He just managed to maintain his balance and continue cutting. Only a slender strand remained, taut under the load it carried, which made it easier to work at. With a deep resonating twang the rope parted and the corner of the bridge lurched out, dislodging Macro from his perch on the legionary’s shoulders. He fell sideways, scrabbling for purchase on the coarse wooden post beside the gate. The ground came up and Macro landed heavily on his side, the air driven from his lungs with a pained grunt. The legionary stumbled and fell beside him, just as the head of the spear stabbed out of the gap, missing the man by inches. On the other side of the gate the other men were still struggling to cut through the rope.

Macro tried to warn them but was too winded to utter a cry. The legionary with the knife shuddered and gasped as he was stabbed by an enemy warrior but clung on and continued severing the rope. A moment later it parted and the drawbridge swung down and the far end crashed on the lip of the ditch, sending an explosion of dust into the air. The legionary slid off his comrade and fell into the ditch, blood coursing from the spear wound in his groin. But Macro could pay him no attention as he struggled to his feet, still fighting for breath, and saw the enemy warriors retreating into the shadows. Before the Romans on the far side of the ditch could react, the gate swung shut and the locking bar thudded into place. Macro ran back across the drawbridge to the ram with the two surviving legionaries and they took up their rope handles.

Macro grunted an order to his men to lift the ram and it swayed up from the ground. The party moved over the drawbridge and stopped a short distance from the sturdy-looking gates. Each side of them their comrades again raised their shields to protect them all against the men above the gate and on the towering earthworks on each flank. Lining the head of the ram up with the narrow gap between the two gates, Macro yelled over his shoulder, ‘Three swings then strike! One . . .’

The men braced their boots on the wooden boards of the drawbridge and swung the heavy tree trunk back, then let it wing forward as far as its momentum would carry it before swinging it back, harder this time, as Macro called out, ‘Two . . . three!’

The men swung the ram forward with all their might and the point crashed against the gates, dislodging more dust that shimmered from the seams.

‘Again!’

Macro took up the weight and repeated the process and each time the ram crashed home, more dust and debris showered down on his helmet and shoulders. Then he saw a faint sliver of light between the timbers.

‘The gates are starting to give, lads!’ he shouted to his men. ‘Keep going!’

The next blow drove in one of the thick boards of the gate and light poured through the jagged gap. The Romans let out a spontaneous cry of delight and pounded again, enlarging the opening. Now Macro could see glimpses of the men and weapons waiting for them on the other side. He felt his heartbeat quicken at the prospect of getting to them, avenging the men of the Seventh Cohort and putting an end to the rebellion before it could spread beyond Isurium. There was a deep crack as the locking bar gave way and the gates shuddered inwards a few inches.

‘Any moment,’ Macro warned his men as they swung the ram back again. Sweat gleamed on their faces but their eyes were bright with excitement. It took several more swings before the bar split in two and the gates leaped back on their hinges.

‘Down ram!’ Macro ordered. ‘Up swords and at ’em!’

His comrades released their rope grips and the ram dropped on to the bridge. Macro turned to one of the men protecting their flanks and thrust out his hand. ‘Give me your shield!’

The legionary hesitated for an instant, loathe to give up his personal property as well as his protection. Then discipline re-asserted itself and he handed the shield to Macro.

‘Find yourself another back on the track and get stuck in,’ Macro ordered as he adjusted his grip and then turned to the gate, drawing his sword. ‘Follow me!’

He rushed forward, just as the enemy recovered and began to push back against the gates, forcing them to close. The horn sounded twice from the bastion and began to repeat as the men of the Eighth Cohort let out a roar and charged down the steps to join the attack. Pushing hard against the inside of his shield, Macro braced it against the gates and thrust with all his strength. His men piled in on either side and then behind their comrades, straining to keep the gates from closing. Slowly they stopped moving and the two sides struggled to hold their ground.

‘Move aside there!’ a voice boomed behind Macro. ‘Make way!’

Then he felt someone push him roughly aside as Centurion Lebauscus, big and powerful, threw his weight into the contest. The Romans began to gain ground at once, inch by inch forcing the gates back and opening a gap between them to reveal the dense ranks of the Brigantian rebels beyond, desperately trying to hold their ground.

‘Hispania!’ Lebauscus bellowed the name of the Ninth Legion. ‘Hispania!’

The men of his cohort took up the cry as they added their weight to the struggle. The gates steadily parted until there was room for Lebauscus to fight the men in front of him. He let out a savage snarl and punched his shield into the first of the enemy, battering his body with the bronze boss before he stuck his sword in. The rebel grunted and tried to back away but there was nowhere to go and he was caught between the men behind and the ferocious Roman centurion in front of him, driving his short sword again and again into his vitals. Lebauscus eased back to let the body slip down, then stepped over it and engaged the next man.

At his side Macro pushed into the widening gap and pressed forward, stabbing through the gap between the edge of his borrowed shield and that of Lebauscus. The rebels were shoving their weight behind their own shields and the point of Macro’s sword could not find a way through, so he drew it back and pushed. The shouting of war cries died in their throats as Roman strained against tribesman, separated only by the thickness of their shields, and there was no clash of weapons, just the strained grunting, hissed curses and the dull scrape of shield on shield. Each step forward was bought at the cost of immense effort but slowly the Romans edged forward into the shade of the gatehouse.

Macro knew what the next danger would be and shouted an order over his shoulder. ‘Rear ranks! Shields up!’

The forward motion slowed and stopped as the legionaries gave themselves enough space to cover their heads with shields overlapping the man ahead of them. Once the men were ready, Macro gave the command to advance and they pressed on into the enemy again. As he expected, the rebels above the gate were standing ready to shoot arrows directly down at the Romans as they emerged into the fort. Some hurled down stones, but the shields kept them out. On the far side of the gatehouse the earth ramparts drew back like a funnel and the legionaries began to spill out on either side as they forced the enemy warriors back.

Macro turned to Lebauscus. ‘Take some of your men and clear the gatehouse.’

Lebauscus nodded and forced his way back into the tightly packed ranks behind Macro and edged towards the wooden steps leading up to the tower above the gate. His deep voice sounded over the struggle.

‘First Century, Eighth Cohort! Follow me!’

He strode up the steps leading to the rampart, his men running to keep up. A moment later Macro heard the clash of blades and the centurion’s voice bellowing a war cry as he threw himself on the rebels manning the tower.

Macro led the rest of the men forward, noting that the enemy were giving ground far more easily now. He slowed his pace and allowed a gap to open up between the two sides.

‘Dress the line!’

The men on either side took stock of the position of their neighbours, and the wall of shields shifted a small distance to and fro before the legionaries presented an even front to the rebels. Macro eased his sword forward so that six inches projected beyond the trim of his shield and then he gave the trim a sharp rap. The men followed suit and a sharp unsettling rhythm echoed across the interior of the fort.

‘Forward!’

The two sides closed on each other again, but this was the kind of fight the legionaries were trained for, and excelled at. Using their shields as protection and to batter their foes, they stabbed only when the enemy exposed their bodies. The Brigantians, more used to a free-flowing melee, could not easily wield their longer swords and long-hafted axes or spears and began to fall beneath the grinding advance of the heavily armoured men assaulting the fort. Lebauscus’s men were fighting their way along the ramparts either side of the gatehouse, steadily forcing their opponents back. Across in the bastion their comrades ceased their bombardment as they caught sight of the legionaries on the wall of the hill fort.