The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (28 page)

Cato laughed, and then smiled at the momentary release of tension. He reached for his helmet liner and slipped it on before putting on his helmet and fastening the strap. Macro followed suit but finished before his friend, and noticed the clumsiness of his younger friend’s fingers.

‘Here,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll do that.’

Cato took a step away, and shook his head, angry with himself for betraying the anxiety he felt inside. ‘I can do it.’

He forced himself to continue steadily tying off the thick leather thongs.

‘Do you think Caratacus is going to back down when you threaten his brother, come the morning?’ Macro asked.

Cato lowered his hands and paused. ‘I don’t know. He has marched his army down here to put paid to Quertus and his raids just as much as he has come to rescue Maridius, I should think. If I were in his place, I’d put the need to shore up the support of my allies above the life of my brother. But then I’ve never had a brother so perhaps I cannot understand the depth of his feeling for Maridius.’

‘I haven’t got a brother either, but I think I would want to save one if I had the chance,’ Macro mused. ‘If I failed in that, then I’d not rest until I had avenged him.’

‘Then you have something in common with Caratacus.’ The thought caught Cato by surprise. Perhaps there was more truth in that than he would like to think. There was a kindred spirit between the likes of Macro and Caratacus, brothers in arms regardless of the causes for which they fought. They had certain attributes of valour, integrity and honesty of feeling that Cato felt he could only aspire to and never achieve. He was too questioning of things to allow himself the pleasure of such certainties. His heart ached as he felt a keen sense of loss over knowing that he could never share the sureness of sentiment enjoyed by Macro.

Macro looked outraged. ‘Me? Share anything with that bastard? Never! Bollocks to that.’ He reached for the latch. ‘The very fucking idea . . . I have to get back to the wall.’

Before Cato could say another word his friend had strode out of the room, muttering darkly to himself.

‘So much for the notion of the universal bond of the warrior.’ Cato shrugged and set off after his friend.

Throughout the night the garrison of Bruccium kept watch over the approaches to the fort. Stocks of javelins were brought from the stores and stacked at the foot of the rampart, along with bundles of kindling, tightly bound and liberally doused with pitch so that they would readily catch fire when the time came to bundle them over the wall and illuminate the enemy. Flames flickered in a handful of small braziers spread around the inside of the ramparts and some of the soldiers were warming themselves by the meagre blazes, their faces washed in a ruddy hue. The watches changed as a horn sounded from headquarters, blowing a brief series of notes over the camp. The haystacks had burned fiercely for a while, bathing the ground and the enemy warriors below the fort in a lurid red. The flames died down after midnight and only pinpricks of red still glowed in the darkness.

Cato and Macro based themselves in the gatehouse, taking turns to walk the defences and ensure that the men were alert. Every so often Cato would pause and stare down into the night, straining his eyes and ears to detect any sign of enemy movement. But there was nothing save the occasional muted order or brief exchange of words from the direction of the parade ground. There was no sign of any activity beyond the other walls of the fort where, in any case, the rush of the river over the rocks made it impossible to pick out any faint sounds. On his return to the gatehouse, Cato laid his helmet to one side and sat against the side of the guardroom. He pulled his cloak tightly about him and closed his eyes. Opposite, Macro snored deeply, until he was roused at the appointed hour to take his turn around the defences. Cato could not sleep, but wanted to show the sentries in the gatehouse that he was confident enough to slumber in the presence of his enemies. It would create a good impression on the men, he knew, and word would quickly spread about the cool-mindedness of the fort’s commander.

But although his head tilted in repose and his chest rose and fell with an easy rhythm, his mind was seething as he went over the layout of the fort and the ground upon which it stood. Then he tried to place himself in the mind of Caratacus and assess the weak points in the defences, and where and how he might assault the fort. For each possibility Cato considered his response and how he might deploy his meagre numbers to hold off the enemy horde. The greatest danger would be if Caratacus unleashed a rolling assault along two or three sides of the fort. That would soon force Cato to commit his reserves and inevitably leave some section of the wall vulnerable. There was one other issue to plague his thoughts. Caratacus would be determined to deal with the fort and its defenders as swiftly as possible, before Ostorius got wind of his location. The garrison could expect an assault at any moment.

As if in answer to his concerns, Cato heard the tramp of boots on the floorboards beside him and a hand shook his shoulder. He hesitated just long enough to give the impression that he was being roused from a deep sleep and then blinked his eyes open and looked up at the dark shape of the duty optio looming over him, barely visible in the wan loom of the single oil lamp burning inside the guardroom.

‘What is it?’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but one of the lads says he’s heard something in front of the gate.’

Cato gestured across the room to the bulky form of Macro, snorting and rumbling in his slumber. ‘He heard anything above that? Amazing . . . I’ll come.’

Cato rose stiffly and picked up his helmet. As he tied the straps he strode over to Macro and prodded him in the side with the tip of his boot.

Macro groaned and recoiled with a smack of his lips and a sleepy, ‘Arrrrr.’ Then his eyes opened and he sat up, rubbing his thick curls vigorously. ‘What’s up?’

‘Seems the enemy are on the move.’

‘Right,’ Macro muttered decisively. He picked up his helmet and stood up. ‘Let’s have a look then.’

Up on the platform the section commanded by the optio was staring down the slope. The optio indicated a tall figure in the corner. ‘That man, sir.’

A light drizzle was falling, just enough to impart the faintest of hisses as it fell on the timbers and turf of the fort. There was no sign of any stars, just a barely discernible mass of dark cloud weighing down the sky. The two officers approached the sentry quietly and took up position at his side.

‘All right, lad,’ Macro said softly. ‘What’s happening?’

The legionary replied without looking round. ‘I heard a clatter a moment back. Like a spearshaft catching on the trim of a shield, sir.’

‘That’s a pretty precise description. You sure about it?’

‘I’ve heard the sound enough to know, sir. I’m sure.’

‘All right.’ Macro nodded, then leaned forward to peer into the gloom alongside Cato. For a moment both men were still, then Macro eased himself back and shook his head. ‘Whatever it was, there’s nothing there now.’

Cato did not move. Even as he was listening his tired mind would not rest. He calculated that there was no more than an hour left before dawn. The light would begin to return to the world long before then. It was the best time to attack. The defenders of the fort were sure to have had a sleepless night for the most part. They would be weary and on edge so that the slightest thing would further shake their nerves and undermine morale.

‘I said, there’s nothing there,’ Macro repeated patiently.

Cato turned towards him with an irritable expression. ‘I heard you, Centurion. And I’ll be obliged if you kept your opinions to yourself until I ask for them.’

Macro breathed in deeply and bowed his head. ‘As you command, sir.’

‘That’s right.’ Cato took one last look down the slope to satisfy himself that the fort was safe for the moment. Then he turned back to Macro. ‘I want Maridius up here on the tower at first light so I can show him to Caratacus. Have him chained in one of the nearest stables so we can get him quickly, if need be.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro saluted and made his way towards the optio who was waiting by the top of the ladder leading down into the guardroom. Cato watched his retreating back with regret. He had not meant to snap at his friend. His temper was not improved by being awake all night, ears and eyes straining to detect the slightest sign of danger. He was about to call Macro back on some pretext so that he might apologise when he heard a faint whirling noise from the direction of the parade ground. At once the sound grew in volume and seemed to come from a broad area directly in front of the fort. Other men heard it and craned their necks towards it. A word of command was barked from somewhere in the darkness and the noise intensified for an instant before ceasing, to the accompaniment of a swift ripple of grunts. Cato recognised the sound and immediately grasped the danger.

‘Down!’ He cupped his hands to his mouth and called to both sides of the gatehouse. ‘Get down!’

An instant later the air was filled with the sharp crack of stone missiles striking the wooden stakes and boards of the parapet along the wall and atop the gatehouse. The terrible crack and rattle of shot striking home all but drowned out the zip of overshoots passing harmlessly over the wall and on into the camp. There was a handful of sharper sounding impacts and a few cries of agony as the more exposed of the sentries were struck by the slingshot.

Out in the darkness another order was shouted, and Cato recognised the voice at once – Caratacus. A great roar erupted and then the ground in front of the fort seemed to come alive as thousands of figures rose up from the knee-length grass and charged towards the ditch beyond the walls

‘Sound the alarm!’ Cato cried out as loudly as he could, his throat straining. ‘Man the wall!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

More slingshot rattled off the wooden palisades with a deafening clatter, drowning out the shrill sound of the long brass trumpet that blasted out across the fort, calling the men to arms. The shouting of the enemy had swiftly subsided as they charged up the slope towards the outer ditch. Only a few voices bellowed out of the darkness, urging their men on and no doubt heaping curses on the Roman defenders. Cato glanced round the tower and saw that one man was down. Macro was leaning over him, grasping the legionary by the armour on his shoulders.

‘You all right, soldier?’

Cato crossed over to him, crouching low as the air was filled with the soft whip of shot flying overhead. A keening rattle was coming from the soldier’s throat. Cato could just make out a shadow on the man’s helmet and reached out to touch it. Sure enough, there was a shallow indentation, the depth of a spoon, where the helmet had taken the full impact of a slingshot. Even if the man’s skull had not been shattered by the blow, the force would have rendered him senseless.

‘Get him to the rear of the tower!’ he ordered one of the legionaries crouching nearby, and then scurried to the back of the gatehouse and glanced down into the fort. The fires in the braziers had been stoked up to ensure that they weren’t extinguished by the drizzle and by their flames he could see men streaming up the wooden steps set into the turf ramparts, before spreading out along the rampart. Their centurions and officers shouted at them to move quickly and keep their heads down as they took up their positions, on one knee behind their shields. The legionaries held the wall either side of the main gate, with the Thracians on each flank. Satisfied that the garrison had responded quickly, Cato turned to beckon to Macro and made his way to the front of the tower. The sound of shot still cracked against the timbers but Cato knew that he must observe the enemy’s progress. Steeling himself, he rose up behind one of the boarded crenellations and looked down at an angle towards the ditch.

The dark slope seethed with shapes and the first of the enemy had already reached the edge of the ditch and were scrambling down towards the shadows that filled the bottom. At once there was the clatter of shards of broken pottery, which were commonly planted in the ditches of forts across the empire, along with other obstacles, to slow attackers down. Cries of pain told of those who had cut their feet or hands on sharp edges. Abruptly the slingshot ceased as the enemy feared hitting their comrades closing in on the defences.

Macro stood up and cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed along the wall.

‘Prepare the faggots!’

Several men heaved the bundles on to the rampart while others held torches to the braziers, and the moment they were alight their bearers hurried up to join their comrades.

‘Light ’em up!’ Macro ordered. ‘Then over the wall!’

Despite the flammable combination of kindling and pitch, the drizzle made it difficult to set fire to some of them but a handful caught quickly, crackling furiously. The moment they were well ablaze two soldiers holding a long pitchfork between them pierced the bundles and swung them back, took up the strain and then on a grunted signal heaved them in an arc over the rampart. The flames roared ferociously as they plummeted down through the darkness, struck the ground in a fiery explosion of sparks and rolled on a short distance before coming to rest, casting a wavering red loom across the surrounding area. Some fell short and rolled back into the ditch amongst the attackers picking their way across to the scarp, causing some to cry out in panic as they thrust themselves out of the path of the blazing faggots. Some were not so lucky and were seared by the flames and howled in agony. By the glow of the faggots Cato could see small groups of men glistening in the drizzle as they struggled up the slope with crudely made assault ladders.

He filled his lungs and shouted, ‘Loose javelins!’

The legionaries and Thracians stood up against the palisade and readied their throwing arms. The range was short and the iron points of the weapons angled down towards the wave of native warriors surging up the slope towards the fort. There was no need to aim and each man hurled his weapon forward with an explosive grunt. The lethal shafts, momentarily picked out by the fires below, flew through the air and plunged down amid the heaving mass of the enemy. Cato saw a man struck as he stood on the edge of the ditch to the right of the gatehouse, pierced through the stomach by the iron shaft at the head of the weapon. He doubled up, dropping his axe, and fell back, hands clutching the shaft.

More of the attackers went down. It was difficult to miss them as they clawed their way up towards the foot of the wall. Then the first of the ladder parties reached the ditch and carried their awkward burden down, across and up the other side. They planted the base on the sodden ground and swung the top of the ladder up against the palisade, close by the gatehouse. At once warriors swarmed up the rungs, urged on by a nobleman in a chain-mail vest, who was striking his sword and shield together in frenzied excitement. Cato turned to Macro and pointed down.

‘See him?’

Macro nodded.

‘Take him!’ Cato ordered, trusting to his friend’s far better talent with the javelin. For himself, he had never quite got over the danger he posed to his own side after once nearly impaling Macro with a javelin during his first combat on the Rhine frontier.

Macro snatched up one of the weapons stacked to the rear of the tower and stepped up to the parapet. He aimed with his left arm as he drew his right back, bicep powerfully bunched in readiness. Macro’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and then he hurled his throwing arm forward with an animal grunt of effort. The javelin flew down in a flat trajectory, and passed harmlessly by the native leader who had just taken a step to one side to shout encouragement to his warriors, wholly oblivious to the weapon that slashed through the space where he had been standing an instant before.

‘Bastard!’ Macro yelled in frustration. ‘Wait. I’ll have you . . .’

He turned away to fetch another weapon but Cato caught his arm. ‘Too late for that. Look!’

The first of the enemy warriors had reached the top of the ladder and was battling with a pair of legionaries blocking his way. The native carried a long-handled axe in his right hand which he swung wildly as he edged himself up another step. The heavy blade of the axe battered the shield of one of the defenders, splintering the surface and driving the man back. His comrade instinctively retreated a step at the sight of the fierce weapon slicing through the chilly air. At once the warrior threw a leg over the palisade and nimbly dropped on to the walkway. He slashed right and left with his axe, the head crashing off the heavy shields of the legionaries, holding them off, while a second man clambered to the top of the ladder. Further along the wall more ladders were being raised and the defenders were fully committed as they struggled to thrust the ladders back, and if that failed, desperately striking at the heads and shoulders of the men scaling the ladders. Cato saw Quertus, fifty paces away, hacking the arm off an enemy trying to clamber over the palisade. The Thracian let out a triumphant roar as the warrior fell off the ladder, and then he turned to look for another opponent.

Cato swallowed nervously and drew out his sword. ‘Macro, on me! We’re needed on the wall.’

He climbed down the ladder into the gatehouse, dropping the last few feet, and rushed towards the doorway giving out on to the wall. No more than ten feet away the comrade of the axeman dropped down into a crouch and turned to face Cato as he burst out of the gatehouse, sword held out to the side, ready to strike. Light from a brazier directly below cast a vivid glow on the near side of the man’s face, revealing a wiry beard and wet locks of hair, beneath which his eyes blazed as he weighed up his Roman opponent. Then, with a snarl, he charged Cato, a long sword raised above his head, ready to slash down and cleave his opponent’s skull. Cato was raising his sword ready to parry the blow when Macro barged out of the gatehouse behind him and knocked him towards his opponent. Half stumbling, half falling, he instinctively knew that he must use his forward momentum if he was to survive the next instant. Already the warrior’s sword was sweeping round, glinting like molten bronze as it reflected the bright glow from the brazier.

‘Shit!’ Macro hissed as he leaped to the side.

Cato threw his weight forward, tumbled under the warrior’s outstretched arm and crashed into the man’s chest. An acrid sweaty odour filled Cato’s nostrils. The impact drove the man back a step before his heel caught on the edge of a rough-hewn plank and he tripped and fell. Cato thrust out his leading foot and locked the knee to break his momentum and stumbled to a halt over his opponent. The Silurian was still holding his sword and he desperately swung it in an arc at Cato’s shin. It would have been a crippling blow had the tip not struck the inside of the parapet with a thud. Both men exchanged a brief look before the native tried to snatch his sword back. But it was too late for him. Cato leaned forward and punched his short sword into the man’s ribs, felt the impact ripple down his arm before a bone cracked and the blade sliced into his resisting flesh. Cato gave the sword a violent twist, just as he had been trained to do as a recruit. He placed his boot on his victim’s chest and wrenched his sword out of the wound with a wet sucking noise. The Silurian gasped and slumped back, mouth agape.

Ahead of Cato was the ladder and the axeman a short distance further on. A hand appeared on top of the parapet and an instant later a head and shoulders and the tip of a sword. The man saw Cato at the same time and let out a cry of alarm. Cato grabbed the top of the ladder and tried to thrust it to the side, but the weight of the men on the rungs was too great. The Silurian, fearful of toppling, had clamped his sword hand to the ladder shaft to steady himself, but now saw that he was safe and grinned as he drew his sword back to thrust at Cato.

There was a blur of motion at the periphery of Cato’s vision as Macro’s sword punched forward into the man’s face, shattering his cheekbone and knocking his head back. He cried out and snatched his hand away from the ladder to clutch at the wound and lost his balance, falling from the ladder into the unlit shadows below the wall. His cry alerted the axeman who glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with rage as he saw the two Roman officers.

‘Take the ladder!’ Macro snarled. ‘He’s mine!’

There was no time for Cato to respond as his friend thrust past him, lowering himself into a crouch as he sized up the tall, broad Silurian who was twirling his axe shaft as he turned, showing off his slick skills with the weapon.

Cato hurriedly sheathed his sword and grasped the ladder shafts. Bracing his boots, he wrenched the rough pieces of timber to the side, and felt the ladder give under its reduced burden. Slowly, then more easily, it tilted and Cato released his grip. It toppled against the angle of the gatehouse, shaking two men loose before it fell into the ditch.

Meanwhile Macro feinted at the axeman, testing his reactions. At once his opponent swirled his axe round and grasped the shaft in both hands to block the blow.

‘Fast reflexes,’ Macro complimented him in an undertone. Then he stepped forward to make a genuine attack, thrusting at the man’s guts. The Silurian knocked the blade aside with a sneer and then blocked the next thrust at his face and let his right hand slip smoothly down the axe shaft as he made a diagonal cut towards Macro’s shoulder. It was done so swiftly that Macro only just had time to leap to the side; the blade of the axe missed him by less than a finger’s breadth. He fell against the palisade, a short distance in front of Cato, knocking the breath from his lungs. The axeman stepped forward and thrust the butt of his weapon into Macro’s chest, striking one of the silver medallions on his harness and knocking him back a step. He made to punch the heavy shaft again but Cato leaped past his friend and thrust his sword into the warrior’s chest. It was a blow struck at full stretch and resulted in a shallow flesh wound, but it halted the axeman in his tracks and he hurriedly faced the new threat. Macro snatched a breath and took his place at Cato’s side.

‘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.