Brothers in Blood (11 page)

They could see their comrades struggling through the gaps in the barricades, slipping and slithering as they negotiated the saturated ground, each laboured step making conditions even worse for those that followed. The lightly armed enemy easily outpaced them and the more daring amongst them stopped to snatch up rocks and hurl them back down the slope, some finding their mark and shattering the jaws, knees or shins of the pursuing Romans. Very soon it was clear to Cato that the men of the Twentieth would soon be a spent force, too exhausted to close with the enemy and fight. They were not even halfway up the slope before their advance came to a halt, men and kit coated in the thick dark mud, some having sheathed their weapons as they went down on hands and knees to get greater purchase on the slope. The centurions, identifiable by their transverse crests, still led the way, urging their men on. Behind came the optios lashing out with their long wooden staffs to try and drive forward those who were floundering at the rear.

Their slow climb was made more hazardous yet by the defenders now that the men of the first line had joined their comrades defending the upper barricade. A steady rain of rocks and other missiles clattered down on the legionaries, inflicting more casualties, and halting those men who raised their shields to try and protect themselves.

‘We’re in danger of losing this,’ Cato said quietly.

Macro grunted non-committally as he regarded the stalling attack. The first six cohorts had merged into one muddy mass, like maggots, and the remaining four cohorts were struggling to stay in formation as they began their climb from the riverbank. They reached the remains of the first barricade and picked their way over it before re-forming on the far side. At least their officers were keeping them in strict formation, Cato noted. Casualties stumbled past them and made for the river below, weakened by their wounds and the terrible exhaustion of the fight for the hill. Only once the four cohorts were ready did the officer commanding them give the order to advance. There was no steady progress as on a normal battlefield. Instead the front ranks seemed to inch forward as they started up the slope to reinforce the leading units. The glutinous mud made the going even harder for them.

The sprawling mass of the first six cohorts was at last approaching the upper barricade. The slope behind them was littered with men, few of whom had been wounded. Many simply sat, or lay, slumped in the mud, summoning up fresh reserves of strength before trying to continue. Before them a figure rose up on the barricade, brandishing a sword, and the blast of the enemy’s war horns rang out along the breadth of the hill. Hundreds of warriors poured over the barricade in a wave and launched themselves down the slope, plunging in amongst the Romans only a short distance below them. Sword and axe blades flashed form side to side as the disorganised front ranks of the Twentieth Legion were engulfed by the frenzied attack. Still more of the enemy were flowing over the barricade, adding their weight to the charge. Incredibly, the legionaries seemed to be holding the line but then there was no mistaking it, they began to be driven back down the slope.

‘Shit . . .’ Macro gripped the wooden rail of the gate tower tightly. ‘Now they’re for it.’

Cato nodded. Caratacus had timed his attack to perfection, allowing his enemies to exhaust themselves as they tried to close with his men. Now his warriors had the advantage of the high ground, as well as being fresh from their rest behind the upper barricade. They threw themselves at the mud-plastered legionaries, hacking and slashing with their blades as they wrenched the heavy shields aside and fell on the heavily armoured Romans like wolves. The foremost legionaries were cut down or driven back on their comrades, slithering in the bloodied quagmire. Nothing could resist the pressure from above and their comrades on the far side of the river could only look on with a growing sense of horror at the disaster unfolding before them.

The worst of it was yet to come, Cato knew, as the last four cohorts became entangled with the retreating men from the first wave. More legionaries stumbled and slid back until the entire legion was swiftly turned into a leaden mass of armoured men flailing in the mud. The enemy pressed their advantage home, thrusting the Romans down the slope, falling on any legionary who had tumbled to the ground and hacking him to death without mercy.

Macro thrust his arm out towards General Ostorius and his command party watching the battle from the calm refuge of the near bank. ‘For pity’s sake, why doesn’t he sound the call?’

‘I don’t know,’ Cato muttered. ‘I don’t know.’

All semblance of cohesion had disappeared. There was no hope of forming up around the standards or centurions as the legion was pressed back relentlessly. Then, at last, the shrill call ordering the retreat sounded from the cornus to one side of the general and his officers. The men of the Twentieth responded to the signal at once, clambering down the hill to the river. As they fell back, a roar of triumph welled in the throats of the native warriors pursuing them. Small knots of legionaries kept their face to the enemy and tried to hold some semblance of a line as they covered their comrades.

As the first of the men reached the riverbank they picked their way through the remaining stakes in the shallows and began to wade to safety, no longer even able to hold their shields overhead to save them from the water. Some were lost as the current tore them from the exhausted grip of their owners and they sank from sight, tumbling over and over in the river, occasionally throwing an edge above the surface before being rapidly born away again. The first men began to stagger up on to the near bank and collapse on the wet grass, gasping for breath. Others helped wounded comrades to make the crossing before slumping down beside them as soon as they reached solid ground. Gradually the bank filled up, like a vast casualty clearing station, and still more men dragged themselves out of the river.

On the far bank the enemy had pushed the Romans back beyond the lower barricade and were pursuing them all the way to the river. Several groups of Romans still managed to fight on, shield to shield as they retreated off the slope and into the water.

The sudden crack of the ballistas made Cato flinch. He had been so absorbed by the scene that he had not noticed the crews making their weapons ready to resume the bombardment. Iron bolts shot across the river, over the heads of the scattered legionaries churning through the water. The missiles fell amongst the enemy, slamming men into the ground, pierced through. The catapults joined in, lobbing lethal rocks into high arcs that added to the enemy’s casualties. A moment later the war horns sounded and the enemy began to break off, scrambling back up the slope to the cover of the first line of defences. Soon the last of them had gone to ground and the side of the hill lay almost still. Only the wounded still moved, writhing pitifully amid the glistening mud, tussocks of grass and grey rocks. Cato could see that there were still some Romans alive there who had somehow escaped the attentions of the enemy during their wild charge.

The fighting had stopped and the last men of the Twentieth made their way back to the near bank. The ballistas and catapults kept up their work for a little longer before being ordered to cease shooting. Then an awful stillness and quiet seemed to hang over the scene, as if both armies were giant fighters, bloodied and bowed, breaking away from each other a moment to draw breath. A handful of figures broke cover on the far side of the river and scurried out to retrieve their wounded, and cut the throats of any living Romans they encountered. They were too few and too far away for accurate shots from the ballistas and were permitted to go about their work unhindered.

Cato felt the nervous tension that had gripped his body during the attack begin to drain away and he found that he was sweating heavily and he felt a sudden tiredness. He lowered his head and closed his eyes for a moment, relieved that the disastrous attempt to take the hill with a frontal assault was over. At length he took a deep breath, opened his eyes and looked up. The last men from the Twentieth had returned across the river. But they had not been allowed to rest. A staff officer was riding along the edge of the water shouting orders and waving his arm frantically. The legion’s officers began to stir the men to their feet and march them away from the crossing.

‘What’s going on there?’ asked Macro. ‘I hope it’s not what I think it is.’

Cato did not reply. He had guessed the general’s intention, but prayed that he was mistaken. As they watched, the men drew aside, leaving an open stretch of ground in front of the combined cohorts of the Fourteenth and Ninth Legions. When the way before them was finally cleared, General Ostorius raised his arm and held it aloft for a moment before dipping it towards the hill. The artillery crews sprang to their weapons and the quiet that had settled over the battlefield was broken by the crack of the ballistas and the crash of the catapults’ throwing arms.

The cornus sounded the advance and the order was echoed along the lines of fresh legionaries facing the river crossing. Then, sunlight gleaming off their helmets, they tramped forward, as neatly as if they were performing a drill on the parade ground.

‘What does the fool think he’s doing?’ Macro hissed. ‘What the fuck is Ostorius up to?’

Cato shook his head. ‘Madness . . .’

Cohort after cohort descended the gentle slope down towards the river and from the far side came the jeers and challenges of the enemy, sounding more defiant than ever to Cato’s ears. Abruptly he turned from the rail and strode towards the ladder leading down to the ground.

‘Sir!’ Macro hurried after him and caught up with Cato as the prefect swung himself on to the topmost rungs of the ladder. Macro stared down at him. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Someone’s got to try and put a stop to this,’ Cato replied firmly. ‘Before Ostorius turns defeat into a full-blown disaster.’

CHAPTER TEN

B
efore Macro could protest further, Cato rapidly descended the ladder and trotted over to where Thraxis was holding his horse. Cato snatched up the reins and swung himself up into the saddle. With a kick of his heels he turned Hannibal towards the gate and urged the animal into a gallop. The hoofs echoed off the wooden confines of the tower and then he was pounding over the bridge across the ditch and down the slope towards the general and his officers. Cato resolved to do whatever he could to prevent Ostorius repeating the first, futile attack and sending more men to their deaths needlessly.

The leading centuries of the Fourteenth were already wading into the river, with Quintatus at their head. The legate drew his horse up in the shallows and swung himself down from the saddle to splash in the current. Handing the reins to a servant he took a shield from one of his men and drew his sword and fell into step alongside the colour party carrying the legion’s standards aloft, where all the men could see them. At the rear Cato caught sight of Tribune Otho astride a white horse, sword drawn as he waved it above his head in a circle, shouting encouragement to his men. They advanced in an earnest silence, fully aware of what lay in store for them. Thanks to the slope down to the river and the hill opposite, not a man amongst them had missed what had happened during the first attack. Now they were marching in the footsteps of their beaten comrades. Cato could not help marvelling at the discipline of soldiers who obeyed their orders without question, without the least sign of hesitation or dissent. The very qualities that made the men of the legions so effective in battle rendered them little better than lambs being led to the slaughter when under the command of foolhardy generals.

Perhaps Ostorius would relent, Cato hoped desperately. Perhaps he would issue the recall before it was too late, without Cato having to intervene. But there was no sign of movement from the officers gathered on the knoll a short distance away and Cato gritted his teeth, reined in his mount and slowed to a trot as he approached the general and his staff. A few faces turned at the sound of his approach but Ostorius’s attention was fixed on the men crossing the river. The leading ranks, uneven now, reached the remaining stakes and began to rise up from the water towards the bank.

Once again the Roman artillery ceased shooting and as the last bolts and stones fell to earth, the defenders rose up from behind the barricade and unleashed their own barrage of missiles into the faces of the fresh legionaries. This time the Romans knew what to expect and the officers gave the order for the front rank to present a shield wall, with the following lines raising their shields above their heads so that the entire formation was sheltered from the hail of stones, arrows and slingshot rattling off the curved surfaces. While the men were better protected, the formation was unwieldy and tiring to maintain for any time and the inevitable gaps between the shields meant that there were still casualties.

Cato eased his horse forward to the side of the general and forced himself to draw a calming breath.

‘Sir?’

Ostorius turned, a look of mild surprise on his face. ‘Prefect Cato, what are you doing here? You should be with your men back in the camp.’

Cato ignored the question and sat erect in his saddle as he addressed his superior. ‘Sir, you must call the men back.’

‘What? What did you say?’

‘General Ostorius, I respectfully suggest that you recall the Fourteenth and the Ninth.’

Cato was aware of the shocked glances that the officers around him were exchanging, as well as the darkening of the general’s expression. Ostorius’s nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply. ‘You forget yourself, Prefect. You dare to question my orders?’

‘Sir, I am urging you to reconsider. Before we lose any more men without result.’

‘You young fool, can you not see that we are on the cusp of breaking through? One more push and they will flee. They will break and run and it will all be over. We had victory in our hands before those fools threw it away.’ He gestured angrily at the men of the Twentieth slowly re-forming their units while the wounded, hundreds of them, were tended to by the legion’s medical orderlies. ‘It seems I was wrong to put so much faith in those men. But Quintatus and the second wave are made of sterner stuff. They won’t stop until they have broken through the enemy lines and taken the hill.’

‘They are still men, sir. The ground before them is a quagmire. They will tire long before they can defeat the enemy.’

‘Enough, Prefect! Return to your post. I will deal with you later.’

‘Sir—’

‘Begone! Now!’ Ostorius thrust his hand towards the camp.

Cato could see there was no further point to his protest. He had tried and failed. The men of the second wave were doomed to repeat the failure of their comrades. And if, by some miracle, the army survived the day, Cato would be subjected to the wrath of his commander. He had challenged his authority before witnesses. There would have to be a punishment.

He saluted stiffly and turned his horse around and cantered back to the camp. By the time he had returned to Macro’s side, the Fourteenth had closed with the first barricade and the two sides were locked in combat. Macro looked at his friend with a concerned expression.

‘I take it the general wouldn’t listen to reason.’

Cato shook his head. ‘I had to try.’

‘Of course you did.’ Macro smiled sadly. ‘And I bet you pissed him off.’

‘Oh yes.’

There was nothing more to say and they turned their attention back to the hill. The fighting was ferocious, with the more frenzied of the native warriors leaping on to the shields in a bid to smash gaps in the Roman line. But the legionaries held their discipline and steadily forced their way through the gaps in the line created during the first attack. Inch by inch they pushed Caratacus’s men back. Then, as the horns sounded, the enemy broke off and clambered up towards the upper defences.

‘That went better than last time,’ Macro commented.

‘There’s still the slope to deal with, and more mud than ever this time. And more on the way.’ Cato pointed towards the top of the hill. The sunny interlude was about to come to an end. More clouds were edging in from the west, dark and threatening further rain. The first drops were already falling by the time the native warriors had reached the second barricade. Cato saw that their ranks had been thinned out by the fighting and their leaders were pulling the men in from the flanks to oppose the Romans struggling up the slope towards them. Even as he watched he saw small parties of men abandon the rocky outcrops and crags that towered either side of the contested ground, which seemed to provide the only practicable route for an attack on the hill.

A fresh barrage of missiles struck the leading ranks of the Fourteenth as the shadow of the clouds cut off the sun so that the gleam of their armour dulled. A fine veil of drizzle swept down the hill and covered the enemy and a moment later the legionaries who had reached the point where easy footing gave way to the glutinous mud. Yet still they advanced, clawing their way up towards the waiting Britons. There was no further doubt in Cato’s mind. This attack would fail just as certainly as the first. Caratacus had massed all of his men behind the barricade to make sure of it. Ostorius would be defeated, his men spent, and when the news spread across the province, every native who still nurtured a hatred of Rome would rejoice. Many would be encouraged to take up arms, and those tribes whose neutrality hung in the balance might finally join Caratacus’s alliance. The consequences appalled Cato.

His mind worked feverishly as he surveyed the battlefield. Then he saw it, the faint trace of a path away to the left, beyond the crags that flanked the battlefield. He felt his pulse quicken as he framed his plan. It flew in the face of common sense and his duty to obey his orders. If he failed, then he would be killed. If he survived it was likely that he would be ruined and discharged from the army. But neither of those possibilities took into account the likely defeat of Ostorius’s army. If that happened then Cato and his men would die anyway.

He made his decision and turned to Macro.

‘Have the men form up outside the south gate at once. I want the Blood Crows with their mounts.’

Macro stared at him in astonishment. ‘Cato, what are you doing?’

‘At the moment, nothing. Nothing to prevent the disaster that’s going to happen over there.’ He jerked a thumb towards the hill. ‘But there is something we can do that might make a difference. Get the men formed up. That’s an order.’

‘Your orders are to guard the camp, sir.’

‘Macro, I’m doing this on my own authority. There’s no time to waste. Trust me and do as I say.’

Macro rubbed his bristly jaw and then nodded. ‘All right, you fool. The gods protect us!’

He turned and hurried to the ladder and a moment later Cato heard him bellowing orders for the officers to summon their men. Cato took a last look at the hill. The Fourteenth were no more than a hundred and fifty paces from the upper barricade and the rain was falling hard. There was still time to make a difference to the outcome, but only just. He thrust himself away from the wooden rail and descended from the tower and raced to his horse.

The two cohorts of the escort detachment stood formed up outside the camp in the hissing rain. Cato noticed the curious and anxious expressions on many of their faces. Just over two hundred soldiers in all. Barely enough for the task he had in mind, but these men were battle-hardened, veterans all, and if anyone could turn defeat into victory, they could.

Cato drew a breath and shouted to be heard above the rain. ‘There’s no time to explain. We must move and move fast. You’ll know exactly what is expected of you when we are in position. All I ask is that you fight like demons when the time comes. Second Thracian! Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth, advance!’

Cato turned his horse and urged it into a quick walk as he led the men away from the camp. Ahead and to the right stood the knoll on which a handful of civilians still stood watching the struggle on the other side of the river, in despairing silence. Cato led his men, cavalry first and the two understrength centuries of legionaries under Macro, at a brisk pace round the back of the knoll and behind a thin belt of trees that ran along the edge of the river. Through the trunks he could make out the slow flow, pockmarked with ripples from the rain. The river was much deeper here. Too deep to ford. Yet he recalled from Ostorius’s briefing before the battle that there were a handful of crossing places unsuitable for a large-scale crossing further down. His plan depended on them not being guarded. If the enemy had not been recalled to the main body to help overwhelm the second attack, then Cato’s plan would surely fail. Even if he could fight his way across the river he might lose too many men to see his desperate scheme through. On the far bank, a short distance ahead, loomed the crags, grey and foreboding.

The small column hurried on, passing by the crags until there, just beyond, the trees opened on to the riverbank and a narrow track led down to the river where the water raced over shallows, foaming around the scattered rocks on the river bed. Cato threw up his arm to halt his men, swung his leg over the saddle horns and dropped to the ground. Macro came trotting up, panting hard.

‘What is it?’

‘I need to see if the way is clear. Stay here. Soon as I give the command, get the men across as quickly as you can.’

Macro saluted and Cato turned towards the river. He followed the track down to the water’s edge and paused, looking across the narrow ford to the far bank. There was no sign of movement. Glancing upriver he realised he could no longer see any sign of the battlefield, or the camp, and nodded with satisfaction. Then, steeling his nerve, he began to wade across, eyes constantly scouring the crags and the slope to the left where a steep track wound up towards the top of the mass of dark rocks. There was no sign of the enemy. Even though the water gushed around his calves he found that his footing was good and he was able to wade across with ease. At the midpoint the water reached no higher than his thighs and Cato breathed a deep sigh of relief as he splashed on, reached the shallows and emerged dripping on to the far bank. At once he turned and cupped a hand.

‘Macro! Bring ’em over!’ He beckoned with his arm in case his voice was lost in the sound of the rushing water. A moment later the first of the Blood Crows appeared, slipped off their saddles and led their mounts into the river, not risking any injury to themselves or their horses from slipping on the stones carpeting the river bed. Behind the cavalry came the legionaries, instinctively holding their shields high, even though it was raining. Cato gestured to his senior decurion, Miro, and pointed to the track.

‘Up there. Stop before you get to the top of the crags.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Miro saluted and ordered his men to follow him as he tugged on the reins and led his mount up from the river. Macro had Cato’s horse and handed the reins over as the first legionaries reached the bank.

‘Reminds me of the first real battle against Caratacus. Back in the early days of the invasion. Remember?’

Cato nodded. ‘Hope our luck holds just as well this time.’

He turned towards the path and followed the rear of the Thracian cohort. The rest were picking their way up towards the crest and Cato set off, pushing himself and his mount to work his way back to the head of the column. By the time he caught up with Miro the decurion was a short distance from the top of the crag where the rain was being blown at an angle by the rising wind. Cato was relieved to hear the sounds of battle more clearly, the clash of blades and faint cheers and cries. It was proof that the Fourteenth were in action and holding their own, for now.

‘Form the men up here,’ Cato ordered. ‘Hold my horse. I’ll be back directly.’

Leaving the decurion with the reins, Cato jogged forward up the final rise and along the top of the crags. He slowed down as he saw the ground begin to fall away and continued in a crouch as he fumbled with the ties under his helmet and took it off in case the red plume and gleaming metal drew the enemy’s attention. There was a stunted bush ahead, growing at an angle determined by the prevailing wind that swept across the mountains. He used that for cover as he gazed down on the battle raging along the side of the hill. The top of the crags were nearly a hundred feet above Caratacus’s second line of defence and Cato could see clearly along the length of the battle line.