Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (12 page)

Towards the rear of the column, Centurion Cato and his men followed the pace set by the century in front. Their equipment jingled and chinked as they ran along the track, accompanied by the laboured breathing of men who were heavily weighed down by their weapons and equipment. Now and then a centurion or an optio somewhere along the column barked out an order for their men to keep up, and followed it with a stream of abuse and threats of dire punishment to spur the men on. Cato swerved out to the side and slowed down until he was level with the middle of his century.

‘Keep it up, lads! Macro’s depending on us. Keep going!’

As he resumed running alongside, Cato kept glancing towards the far bank of the river. The dust cloud from Caratacus’ army was more pronounced now, and although the barbarian host that had kicked it up was out of sight Cato realised the cohort would be facing odds of fifty to one. If Macro had to face them alone then the odds were more like three hundred to one, and as his mind did the calculations Cato knew they were doomed the instant the enemy gained the south bank of the river. And that would surely happen.

The heat and the effort of carrying his chain-mail vest, shield, helmet and weapons soon caused Cato’s blood to pound in his ears. His breathing became fast and laboured. His lungs felt as if someone had fastened an iron strap around his chest, which was slowly being tightened. Soon every sinew of his body was screaming in torment. The desire to stop, to stop and vomit and gasp for breath, was almost impossible to resist. Had it not been for fear of the shame of being seen as weak in front of the men, and the fact that Macro was in danger, Cato would have dropped to the ground. As it was, he forced himself through the pain, one step at a time, with the same iron determination to fight on that had thrust him through every challenge he had faced since he had joined the legion.

So it was that in between bouts of harsh internal resolve, and strained cries of encouragement to his men, Cato looked up from the ground ahead and saw that Figulus had fallen back and was running in step beside him.

‘Why are you out . . . of position?’ Cato panted hoarsely.

‘Did you hear it, sir?’

‘Hear what?’

‘Thought I heard horns, sir. British war horns. Just now.’

Cato thought back a moment, but could remember hearing nothing beyond the sounds of the column running.’You sure?’

Figulus looked uncertain for a moment, shamefaced at the thought that he had allowed his imagination to take hold of his senses. Then his face suddenly lightened.

‘There, sir! You hear it?’

‘Shut up!’ Cato stopped and listened. There was the blood pulsing through his ears, his own panting and then . . . yes, a faint braying. A strident note from an overlapping chorus of war horns. ‘I hear it. Get back in position.’

Cato ran forward, back alongside his century, as Figulus sprinted ahead. They must be close to the ford now, no more than a mile away. Cato stared ahead. The river was bending to the north, lined with scattered copses on either side. A small vista opened out on the north bank and between two small hillocks, half a mile off, he saw a dense mass of infantry marching parallel to the cohort.

‘Keep going!’ Cato called to his men. ‘Not much further! Keep going!’

He steeled himself and drove every thought out of his head save the need to reach the ford in time to stop Caratacus and his army escaping - and to save Macro and his men from being annihilated.

Macro turned back to the north bank of the Tamesis as a fresh chorus of blasts sounded from the horns. With a roar the Britons swept down the track and into the ford, sending up a foaming white chaos of spray as they burst through the gleaming surface of the river.

‘Close ranks!’ Macro shouted above the din. ‘Shields up!’

Either side of him the legionaries shuffled closer together and raised their shields to present a continuous line of defence to the enemy. The Romans shifted the grip on their javelin shafts as they waited for the order to loose a volley on the enemy thrashing through the current towards them.

‘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 formidable 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!’