The Blood Crows (Roman Legion 12) (36 page)

A short distance away the giant who had battered the tortoise formation apart thrust his way forward to take a swing at a legionary. The soldier raised his shield to block the blow and it shattered under the impact and drove him down on to his knees. The Silurian kicked out and sent his opponent sprawling. One more blow caved in his chest and he fell motionless on the bloodstained grass.

‘Stellanus!’ Cato called out. ‘Take that one down.’

The centurion nodded, lowered his spear and urged his mount forward. The Silurian looked up with a brutal snarl as he spied another victim and raised his hammer. It blurred through the air and struck the horse on the side of the head. At the same time Stellanus thrust his spear and the point pierced the giant’s thick neck and burst out above his shoulder blade. He let out a roar of pain and rage, cut off abruptly as blood filled his windpipe and mouth. The horse staggered to one side and fell, rolling over the centurion and into the backs of three more legionaries locked in combat. The animal’s legs kicked out, sweeping two more men down, and left an opening in the Roman line. At once the Silurians rushed forward, bursting in amongst the defenders of the knoll. The giant staggered over to the horse, still twitching, and bent down to grasp Stellanus by the neck. The centurion could only move one arm and he beat it against the giant’s jaw, but for all the effect it had he might have been patting a hound. A moment later, powerful hands gave his head a sharp twist, breaking his neck. Then, blood coursing from his mouth, the Silurian’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed over his victim.

More tribesmen scrambled over the bodies and poured up the slope, spreading out as they threw themselves at the Romans. With the perimeter collapsing, the soldiers fought individually. Others went back to back or formed small clusters and hacked ferociously at the warriors swirling round them.

‘The standards!’ Mancinus cried out as he backed up towards the wagons. He turned and looked at Cato. ‘Save the standards!’

Cato hesitated for an instant, torn between his duty to fight alongside his comrades and the shame that would befall them all if the standards were taken by the enemy. Then he turned to the standard-bearers on the wagon and sheathed his sword. ‘Give them to me!’

The two men handed them over and Cato passed the auxiliary standard to one of the Thracians and kept hold of the legionary standard, ramming the base down into his spear holster. A small group of Silurian warriors broke away from the fight below and began to sprint up the slope towards the wagons.

‘Get out of here!’ Mancinus shouted to Cato and then ran to meet the enemy, knocking one man down with his shield and stabbing another in the stomach. He wrenched the blade free and struck again before he was borne back by three more men and thrown to the ground. He called out one last time. ‘Go!’

Cato kicked in his heels. ‘Blood Crows! Follow me!’

He charged down towards the melee, intending to cut his way free and make for the shelter of the trees now that the enemy blocking force had abandoned its position to join in with the destruction of the Roman column. The horsemen held together and those on the ground before them hurried out of their way and turned to slash and stab at them as they pounded by. The sounds of battle filled the air, while around them a raging sea of weapons flickered and blood spurted. A wild-eyed youth sprang at Cato, hands clawing for the shaft of the standard, and he lashed out with his boot, the nailed sole striking the tribesman in the face and sending him flying. They passed through what was left of the Roman line and plunged on through the ranks of the Silurians.

Ahead, a shrewder warrior stepped to the side of the oncoming horses and thrust his hunting spear out. Cato swerved aside but the rider following him did not see the danger and the spear got caught between the horse’s legs and it pitched forward, hurling its rider from his saddle. He landed in a group of warriors, knocking them over, and then they fell on him like wild dogs. Another Thracian was struck by an axe that nearly severed him at the knee, but he let out a defiant roar and then clenched his jaw shut, pressed his thigh tightly against the saddle and rode on. The enemy were thinning out and Cato saw that they were almost free of the melee. Ahead there was open ground at the end of the line of obstacles where the pine trees met the rock-strewn side of the pass. His heels nudged Hannibal’s flanks and the horse turned in that direction. The Thracians raced after him, knocking aside the last of the enemy, and then they were on open ground, hoofs thudding on the peaty soil as they desperately made their bid to save the standards and salvage some honour from the massacre taking place behind them.

They reached the end of the line of stakes and slowed down as they entered the trees. Cato reined in and looked back towards the knoll. The fight was almost over. Silurians were swarming over the wagons, hacking at the helpless injured who lay within. Only a few pockets of resistance still held out. Cato urged Hannibal in amongst the trees and out of sight before the enemy turned their attention towards the small party of horseman who had broken out. The thick pine branches overhead filtered the light into a dull green, pierced here and there by shafts of a golden hue. The sound of the fighting was muffled and birdsong chirruped above. The ground was covered with many years of fallen needles and twigs and the horses padded through the straight tree trunks, weaving their way into the forest. Cato knew that they had to regain the track as soon as possible and stay ahead of the enemy. If they remained in the trees, Caratacus would soon be able to throw a screen of his warriors round them and close in for the kill.

‘Sir.’ One of the men broke into his thoughts and Cato looked up.

The Thracian gestured to the man who had been wounded in the knee. ‘We have to see to Eumenes. He can’t go far with his leg in that shape.’

Cato saw that the injured trooper was in terrible agony, and his leg hung uselessly from the tissue that still held the shattered joint together. Blood dripped from his boot on to the forest floor. He shook his head. ‘We can’t stop. He’ll have to cope until we put some distance between us and the enemy.’

‘Sir, he can’t ride much further in his condition.’

Cato knew that was true. Just as he knew that they would be taking a great risk if they halted to attend to the wounded man. It was too bad. They had to save the standards and reach Glevum. It was vital that Governor Ostorius was made aware of the location of Caratacus and his army as soon as possible. He hardened his heart as he replied to the trooper.

‘Bind it up and then catch up with us. He has to ride on. If he can’t then he must be left behind.’

The Thracian saluted bitterly and turned to help his comrade. The order given, Cato flicked his reins and waved the other men on and headed in the direction of the road to Gobannium.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

By late afternoon the sky had cleared of clouds and the sun shone over the fort at Bruccium. Macro had given orders for the signal beacon to be kept burning and the grey plume of smoke rose high above the valley now that the breeze had dropped. In the hours that had passed since Cato had led the two squadrons out of the side gate Macro had remained in the tower above the main gate, the highest viewpoint in the fort. He had watched the riders climb up to the ledge and along the side of the mountain until they were out of sight. The last of the war bands had disappeared over the crest at the head of the pass and after that the rest of the enemy camp had settled down to continue their vigil. Scouts watched the fort from a safe distance while their comrades set about the daily business of foraging for food, firewood and timber for the construction of shelters. They were also busy constructing a number of screens to protect them from the defenders’ javelins when the order was given to attack the fort again.

‘It seems that these barbarian lads can be taught,’ Macro muttered wryly to himself. Then his expression resumed its stern fixedness as he turned his gaze back towards the pass. He was tormented by not knowing how his friend’s desperate act was playing out. The garrison badly needed the men of the reinforcement column, together with their escort. Bruccium could easily withstand any number of assaults by the enemy once the two cohorts were brought up to strength, together with whatever forces had been sent to ensure the reinforcements arrived safely. Looking round the line of the wall Macro was painfully aware of how thinly the remaining men were stretched. He had less than two hundred effectives. If Caratacus ordered an attack before Cato returned, there was a good chance that the Silurians would overrun the defenders. Straining his eyes towards the pass, he admitted to himself that it was possible that Cato might not return. It seemed like a long time since his friend had left the fort and Macro could not help fearing the worst.

He clenched his fist and smacked it against his thigh in frustration. Anything could have happened. Caratacus might have been driven off. The reinforcement column might have been forced to retreat. The battle might still be raging in the confines of the pass. There was still no indication of which of those three possibilities was most likely. He leaned against the wooden rail and closed his aching eyes to rest them for a moment, aware that he felt light-headed due to the lack of sleep over recent days. His limbs felt stiff and heavy and for the first time he began to wonder how many more years of soldiering he had in him. Macro had known many veterans who had served far longer than the twenty-five years they had signed on for. Longer than was good for them, frankly. But the army was inclined to overlook the handicap of their advanced years due to the invaluable experience they had accrued while serving in the legions.

As for himself, Macro, like many old sweats, had dreamed of retiring to a small Etruscan farm, with a handful of slaves to work it for him, and spending the evenings in a local tavern reliving experiences with other veterans. Now that prospect was growing ever more imminent, he realised that he regarded the idea with disdain . . . quiet despair even. Soldiering was all he knew. All he cared about. All he really loved. What was life without the routine, camaraderie and excitement that encased him like a second skin?

His mind wandered for a moment, losing itself in the warm fug of pleasing memories, and then he was jolted into wakefulness by a sharp pressure on his chin and he stirred quickly, eyes blinking open. His head had drooped so that the flesh under his chin had caught on a splinter on the rail. He bolted upright, horrified at the idea that he had allowed himself to fall asleep, even for a moment. The penalty for doing so while on sentry duty could be death. That he was not on duty was no excuse, Macro chided himself bitterly. It was unforgivable and he glanced round the tower to see if either of the two men keeping watch had noticed. Fortunately their attention was on the enemy camp and he allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. Nothing he could do would affect the outcome of the action in the pass. It would be better to allow himself a rest and get something to eat while the situation was calm around the fort. He would surely need his strength later in the day.

Casually stretching his shoulders, Macro crossed to the ladder. ‘I’ll be at headquarters. If there’s any sign of the prefect, or our column, or anything else, send for me at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’ One of the sentries bowed his head.

Macro climbed down the ladder and reached up to untie the chinstrap of his helmet as he left the gatehouse. He tucked the helmet under one arm and removed the padded liner, giving the matted hair plastering his scalp a good scratch. The legionaries had been relieved during the morning and were lying or sitting on the slope of the rampart. Some were managing to sleep while others conversed in muted tones. There was only one group playing at dice, by the corner tower, where their noise would not disturb their resting comrades.

As he entered the courtyard of the headquarters block Macro exchanged a salute with the sentry. Even with every man required to defend the walls, it was still necessary to ensure that the garrison’s pay chest was kept under guard. Inside the commander’s quarters Macro set his helmet down on a table and called for Decimus.

There was no reply, no sound of footsteps, and Macro frowned. Cato’s servant had been ordered to return here after the fight with Quertus.

‘Decimus! Damn you, man. Where are you?’ Macro’s shouts carried clearly through the building. With an irritable growl Macro glanced into the prefect’s office, found no sign of life, and decided to make for the kitchen to see what food might be had for a hurried meal. As he entered the room with its heavy scent of woodsmoke, Macro was aware of a shadow in the far corner and turned for a better look.

‘Fuck me . . .’ he whispered, standing still.

A body was hanging from a length of chain with two links looped over a meat hook in one of the beams. The man’s face was puffed up, his eyes bulged and a purple tongue poked out of his mouth. It was a moment before Macro recognised him and he shook his head in pity. ‘Decimus. You stupid bastard.’

Macro’s pity did not extend to sympathy as he stared at the body swinging slowly in the gloom of the corner. He felt a weary sense of disappointment in the servant for taking his own life. Why had the man chosen to do this? Fear of punishment for betraying Cato? Fear of being taken by the enemy when Bruccium fell? Whatever the reason, Macro was sure it was not good enough for Decimus to take his own life. That was no way for a man to die, particularly a man who had once been a soldier. There was no justification for such an end. Macro had no time for all those tales of noble Romans taking their own lives for the good of Rome, or their family line. Far better to die with a sword in your hand, facing the enemy and screaming curses into their face as you fell. This? Macro let out a long sigh. This was the choice of a coward . . . For a moment, without willing it, he imagined the servant’s last moments and an inkling of the man’s desperation found purchase in Macro’s thoughts.

He dismissed the notion swifly. That sort of thing was better left to the likes of Cato. Macro turned towards what was left of the rations on the shelf above the scored worktop. There was a chunk of the local cheese left and some brittle roundels of hard-baked bread. He took them down and pulled up a stool and ate stolidly, refusing to spare another look at Decimus’s body.

He was halfway through the cheese when he heard footsteps hurrying down the corridor that ran the length of the prefect’s quarters, ending at the kitchen.

‘Sir! Sir!’

Macro chewed quickly to empty his mouth and swallowed. ‘In here!’

A moment later the sentry appeared in the doorway, breathless. ‘Sir, the enemy are coming back.’

Macro felt his guts tighten. ‘Any sign of our lads?’

‘No, sir. Noth—’ The sentry’s response died in his throat as he saw the body. He stared at it, oblivious of Macro’s glare.

‘Finish making your damn report!’ Macro barked.

‘What?’ The legionary looked at the centurion, the horrified spell broken. ‘Yes, sorry, sir. Beg to report that the tribesmen are coming down from the pass. I saw Caratacus amongst ’em, sir.’

‘And no Romans. You’re certain?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘No prisoners?’ There was still that hope to clutch at.

‘I couldn’t make any out. Not before I came to report, sir.’

Macro stood up and gathered up what was left of his makeshift meal. He nodded towards the body. ‘Take that down and get it out of here.’

He made for the door to the corridor and stopped at the threshold. ‘Put Decimus with the other bodies. Might as well give the poor bastard a decent grave when it’s all over.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary nodded.

Macro stared at him. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Want him to start stinking the kitchen out? And make sure you clean up the mess underneath him.’

The legionary grimaced as he set his javelin and shield beside the counter Macro had been sitting at and headed for the slop bucket. Macro took a last look at the corpse, shook his head, and strode off.

As he made his way back to the main gate his face settled into a sombre expression. If Caratacus and his forces were returning from the pass then it was almost certainly because they had given the reinforcement column a hiding. Which meant the garrison was on its own again. With fewer men to defend the fort than ever. Not a happy prospect, Macro mused. The only hopeful aspect of the whole affair was that the beacon signal might have been seen further afield and a message had been carried to Legate Quintatus to alert him that the Bruccium garrison was in trouble. Even so, Glevum was over sixty miles away. It would take the Fourteenth Legion at least three days to march to the rescue of the garrison. Macro knew that they could not hold out for that long.

Macro’s muscles were aching by the time he climbed to the top of the tower and crossed to the parapet. The remaining sentry was staring along the valley where a large column of enemy warriors, several thousand strong, was marching down the track to the camp. The banner of Caratacus rippled above the group of horsemen at the front, and behind them the war bands came one after another. At their approach the men left in the camp surged forward to cheer their comrades’ return. The sun was dipping low over the rim of the mountains to the west as the warriors entered the camp. The valley was bathed in its red glow and long shadows spilled out across the grass and heather surrounding the fort.

The front wall was lined with the men from the garrison watching in silence. Macro could make out a number of horses being led beside the enemy force. The clipped manes and saddles were of Roman design, and he knew then that Cato’s attempt to assist the men of the reinforcement column had been in vain. Macro’s heart sank like a rock at the thought that his friend had perished along with the other men of the two squadrons of Thracians. He strained his eyes along the columns of warriors and saw men being supported by their comrades, and others being carried on makeshift stretchers fashioned out of pine branches and the red cloaks of legionaries. Finally, he saw what he hoped to see. A file of prisoners towards the rear of the column. Twenty or so men, hands bound behind their backs and linked together by loops of rope round their necks. They still wore their armour and as Macro stared he saw that one of them wore the breastplate and cloak of an officer, though the distance was too great to be sure of his identity. His heart quickened at the prospect that it might be Cato. But then the brief moment of hope chilled as he considered what fate Caratacus might have in store for his prisoners. If the prisoner was Cato, then it would have been better for him to have died in battle, Macro told himself bitterly.

As dusk closed in over the valley Macro gave the order for the garrison to be issued with full rations. He saw no point in letting the men go hungry. They would fight better on full stomachs when the morning came. Down in the enemy camp they had already begun to celebrate their victory and Macro decided that the enemy commander would be likely to indulge his men and there was little risk of another night attack. Even so, he had the men bring their bedrolls to the foot of the rampart so that they would be on hand if there was an attempt made to rush the fort.

One by one fires were lit across the floor of the valley. By the light of the flames Macro saw the enemy warriors drinking, and snatches of singing and laughter carried up to the garrison of Bruccium. The biggest fire burned in front of Caratacus’s shelter and Macro could easily pick him out where he sat with his comrades on the raised ground of the reviewing platform overlooking the parade ground. As the night wore on, there was no sign that the celebrations were coming to an end and a new moon rose over the mountains and took its place among the stars. Then there was a commotion down on the parade ground and Macro saw figures massing around the fire. More fuel was added until great tongues of yellow and red licked up into the night. Soon thousands thronged around the fire.

‘Centurion Macro!’

He turned towards the voice and leaned over the side of the tower. In the moonlight he could just make out Petillius on the wall.

‘Sir, do you see? They’re going to attack. Shall I sound the alarm?’

Macro looked back down the slope. The enemy were making very little attempt to conceal their preparations if they were about to make an attack. He looked back towards the waiting centurion.

‘No need to sound the alarm. Caratacus and his lads are just having a bit of fun. Let our boys rest. At least they’ll be more ready to face what the morning brings than the enemy will.’

Petillius was silent for a moment before he replied in a reluctant tone, ‘As you wish, sir. I hope you’re right.’

The last words stung Macro’s pride and he was about to snap at his subordinate when he realised that Petillius’s nerves were even more strained than his own. It would do the man no good to have his superior bawl him out. Macro sighed. ‘Get some sleep, Centurion. I’ll keep watch on them for a while.’