Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (14 page)

They urged their horses on and pounded into the shallows with a great shower of white, sparkling spray. But before they were a third of the way across a legionary burst into sight from between the willows that lined the banks of the island. More men appeared, thrashing through the water. As they caught sight of the scouts they paused a moment, then continued fleeing towards the south bank. This was no rout, Cato realised as he saw that every man still carried his cumbersome shield and bronze and iron helmet. The scouts paused midstream and Cato could see the decurion angrily addressing the legionaries and stabbing his hand towards the island. They ignored him, filing between the flanks of the horses before rushing back towards the near bank. From the island a small tight knot of men emerged and plunged down into the crossing, keeping their shields towards the enemy. A short distance behind them, a handful of Britons followed the Romans into the ford, then more and more joined them, surging after the tiny rearguard covering the retreat of their comrades.

Maximius threw his arm forward along the track and shouted the order to advance. The sweating and panting legionaries broke into a run behind him, boots thudding down on the baked earth. Ahead, Macro’s rearguard and the scouts fought a desperate withdrawal back across the ford, pursued all the way by growing numbers of the enemy. The men who had already reached the near bank were forming up, two deep, across the entrance to the ford. Even so, that thin scarlet line would not hold the bloodthirsty flood of Britons back for more than a brief moment.

The men of the cohort streamed along the track towards their comrades and soon the fittest and fastest of them began to join the Third Century, bolstering their small formation. Cato was close enough to the ford to make out more details of the unequal struggle being fought out midstream, and his heart rose at the sight of the transverse red crest of a centurion’s helmet bobbing about above the heaving figures locked in bloody conflict. Macro still lived then. Even in the face of almost certain annihilation that thought was of some comfort to Cato as he charged down the last slope towards the legionaries hastily being thrust into position at the edge of the ford. Massively outnumbered as they were, they still enjoyed the tactical advantage of occupying a position that could only be assaulted on a narrow front. There was some hope, Cato told himself. Some hope that they might hold Caratacus back.

‘Sixth Century!’ Cato called out. ‘Form up to the right of the line!’

His shattered men shuffled into place at the end of the cohort and could barely stand, coughing and gasping for breath as they leaned on their grounded shields. There was not much fight left in them, and wouldn’t be until they recovered from the forced march under a blistering sun. But the enemy was almost upon them and in a moment they would be fighting for their lives.

The survivors of Macro’s rearguard and the squadron of scouts fought their way back into the shallows, shields locked together as they thrust their short swords at any enemy body or limb that tried to force a gap through the Roman line. Maximius turned to men waiting on the river bank.

‘Fourth Century! Give way!’

A gap opened up in the cohort behind Macro to allow him passage into the line and he bellowed an order to the decurion. ‘Scouts first! Go!’

The mounted men disengaged and urged their horses towards the narrow gap. One rider was too slow, and as his horse struggled round a figure leaped up, grabbed him by the arm and wrenched him to the side. Attacker and scout crashed down into the water together and in an instant the enemy warriors closed round the scout with cries of triumph. A gurgling scream rent the air, then it was cut short as spears and swords thrust into the man’s chest, driving the air from his lungs under the crushing impact of so many weapons. The brief distraction allowed Macro and his men to pull back safely into the ranks of the cohort, soaked by the spray from the river and spattered with the blood of comrades and enemies.

Maximius, standing behind the centre of the cohort, met Macro’s wild-eyed gaze with a look of intense and bitter hatred. ‘You’ve lost the ford.’

There was no time for any exchange of words, and Macro turned round and formed up with his men, facing the endless tide of barbarians surging across the ford towards the cohort. They piled into the shields lining the edge of the ford and hacked and thrust at the Romans behind.

At first the legionaries held their ground, exhausted as they were. The relentless years of training paid off in the steady one-two rhythm of punching the shield boss forward, then withdrawing it as the short sword stabbed at the enemy; a pause for the counterstroke and then the sequence was repeated. As long as the line held. If it broke then all the advantages of tight formation and strict training that made them so ruthlessly effective in battle would be lost in an artless test of strength and violent savagery.

As the weight of enemy numbers increased the cohort began to give ground. It was almost imperceptible, but Cato, positioned on the end of the line and not yet engaged, saw the Roman centre begin to bulge backwards. Maximius saw it too and turned to the decurion and the handful of survivors of his squadron.

‘Find the legate and report the situation to him. Go!’

The decurion saluted and turned his horse downriver, ordering his men to follow. He glanced back over his shoulder one last time at his comrades. ‘Good luck, lads!’

Then he was gone, the pounding of hoofs lost against the clatter of weapons and wild shouts of men locked in the desperate struggle.

‘Hold the line!’ Maximius roared, thrusting his sword in the air towards the enemy. ‘Hold the line, you bastards! Don’t give them an inch!’

The violence of his words was no match for the violent efforts of the enemy, and still the Romans gave ground, forced back step by step. Now some of the legionaries, mostly newer men not yet hardened to the savage reality of battle, began to look nervously over their shoulders. Even as Cato glanced towards the rear of the Roman line he saw a figure take a step back, out of formation. The cohort commander saw it too and ran down to the man, swiping at his head with the flat of his blade.

‘Get back in line!’ Maximius screamed.’Move again and I’ll take your fucking head off!’

The legionary jumped forward, the fear of his cohort commander briefly overcoming his terror of the enemy. But he was far from alone in his dread of being butchered by the Britons. As the Romans were steadily thrust back, more and more heads turned to look for a passage to safety.

At the opposite end of the line Cato saw one of the men from Maximius’ own century suddenly throw down his shield, turn and run. Maximius caught the rapid movement and snapped his head round.

‘Get back in line!’

The man turned towards the voice, then snatched at the thongs tying his helmet in place, fumbling to undo them. Then they came free and he wrenched the helmet from his head, threw it to one side and ran towards a small thicket of gorse and stunted trees a short way off.

Maximius slapped the flat of his sword against the side of his silvered greave in rage. He screamed after the fleeing figure.’All right then, you scum! You coward! RUN! I’ve got your number! When this is over I’ll fucking stone you to death myself!’

The damage had been done, Cato realised. Other men began to shuffle back, with guilty glances at their companions. The Roman line began to lose more ground and the Britons pressed home their advantage. They forced their enemies back from the ford, all the time broadening the bridgehead so that they could feed more and more men into the fight. Soon the wings of the cohort would be pushed away from the ford and once that happened the legionaries would be enveloped and annihilated.

Maximius saw the building danger and knew that he must act swiftly to save his command. It would require some adroit handling of the cohort; only the First and Sixth Centuries were not engaged in the fight.

‘First Century! Refuse the left flank!’

As his unit folded back to form a right angle with Tullius’ century Maximius turned to the other end of the line and bellowed towards Cato, ‘Sixth Century! Form up on the left!’

‘Come on!’ Cato called to his men. ‘At the double!’

They ran across the rear of the cohort and took position at the end of Maximius’ century, also at a right angle, parallel with the men still fighting the Britons. When all was ready Maximius cast a last eye over the situation and then took the decisive step.

‘Cohort! Disengage to the right!’

Step by step the cohort shifted its ground downriver, the men facing the Britons now concentrating on keeping tight formation rather than killing their enemies. As the Fifth Century moved out of the enemy’s reach it began to wheel round and joined with the end of Cato’s men. But now the cohort had shifted along the bank far enough to open a gap on the left flank and the Britons quickly rolled round it and began to engage the men of the First Century. As more and more of them poured out from the ford and flowed round the Roman formation Maximius glanced towards the right, anxious to complete the transformation of his cohort from line to rectangle. At last the Fourth Century cleared the ford and at once wheeled round to form the last face of the defensive formation. Slowly, with shields facing out on all sides the cohort edged away from the ford and back down the track towards the rest of the legion, their only chance of salvation now.

More and more of the enemy had crossed the river and fell at once on the retreating Romans. Cato, in the front rank of his century, kept his shield aligned with the men on either side of him and slowly sidestepped as blows landed continuously on the curved surface. He kept glimpsing the enemy, and repeatedly thrust his sword out to keep them at bay. Now and then his blade struck a man and there would be a cry of pain, or shout of rage. As the cohort crept away from the ford it too suffered casualties. The wounded men dropped out of line, and the spaces they left were quickly filled by men from the next rank. Those injured who could still walk were shoved through to the centre of the formation, the others were left where they fell, to be butchered the moment their comrades had passed by. Once, this had seemed cold-blooded to Cato. Now he accepted it as a grim necessity of war. Much as he dreaded a disabling wound that would leave him helpless on the ground, Cato knew he could not expect others to sacrifice their lives to save his. That was the harsh code of the legions.

A sharp cry of agony sounded close to his left. Cato did not even glance round, not daring to risk tearing his intent gaze away from the enemy. Yet he was aware of someone on the ground as he sidestepped along with the rest.

‘Don’t leave me!’ a voice called out, shrill with terror. ‘For pity’s sake, don’t leave me!’

A hand suddenly grasped Cato’s ankle. ‘Sir!’

Cato had to look down quickly. One of his men, a young recruit not much older than Cato himself, lay on the ground, propped up on one elbow. A sword cut had shattered his knee and severed the tendons and muscles attached to his thigh, felling him at once.

‘Sir!’ the legionary pleaded, tightening his grip. ‘Save me!’

‘Let go!’ Cato snarled at him. ‘Let go of me, or so help me, I’ll kill you!’

The man stared back in shock, mouth hanging open. Cato was aware that the man to his left had taken a small pace to the left and a gap opened between them.

‘Let go!’ Cato shouted.

For a brief moment the grip slackened, then tightened again with renewed panic. ‘Please!’ the man wailed.

Cato had no choice. If he paused a moment longer, one of the enemy warriors was bound to leap into the gap between the centurion and the next man. Gritting his teeth Cato slashed down with his short sword and cut deep into the injured man’s forearm, just above the wrist. The fingers loosened and Cato tore his foot away and sidestepped quickly to link up with the next legionary. He heard the injured man scream in agony.

‘You bastards!’ he choked as his comrades stepped over him. ‘You murdering bastards!’

When Cato next looked round at the cohort he saw that they had left the ford behind and were halfway up the gentle slope on which the track followed the course of the Tamesis. The enemy were still swarming around the formation, intent on obliterating the Romans, but now they were no longer reinforced by those who continued to pour across from the far bank. They were already marching past and swinging upriver, making good their chance to escape the pursuing legions of General Plautius. As the cohort clawed up the slope the enemy warriors gradually broke off their attack and stood leaning on their weapons, panting for breath. The track from the ford was scattered with bodies, Britons and Romans, bloody and mutilated by the cuts and thrusts of sword and spear.

At last the cohort was free of the enemy, and Maximius led it up to the top of the rise before he ordered his men to halt. Three hundred paces away the army of Caratacus marched steadily past, making no attempt to close with the cohort. If Caratacus had a mind to wipe them out it could be done in short order, but the native commander could spare them no time.

‘Lower shields!’ Maximius called out, and all around the exhausted legionaries let their shields rest on the flattened grass as they leaned on them for support and struggled to catch their breath. Down the slope the Britons who had forced Macro and his men back across the ford and then dislodged the rest of the cohort, also rested on their shields. Both sides eyed each other warily for any sign of a renewed will to continue the fight. Neither was willing.