Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (11 page)

A quarter of a mile to go, and the slope levelled out. Now the Second Legion could no longer see the desperate fight along the palisade. A large gateway lay to the front of Cato’s cohort, and the centurion pointed it out with his vine staff, giving the order for the cohort to wheel towards it. With a carelessness typical of the Celtic temperament, the gates lay wide open and the Fourth Cohort had brushed the slingers aside and was only a scant few feet from the fortifications before the first of the British heavy infantry appeared. With a defiant roar the Britons, in ornate helmets, kite shields and long swords, charged the Roman line.

‘Javelins! Release at will!’ Macro just had time to shout and the lead centuries of the cohort hurled an uneven volley that arced in a low trajectory straight for the British swordsmen. As always there was an instant of silence as the javelins swept down and their targets braced themselves for the impact. Then came a sharp crack and clatter followed by screams. Many of the javelins had lodged firmly in the British shields. Their soft iron shafts bent on impact and made it impossible for the recipients to throw them back or dislodge them from their shields, which then had to be discarded. After the javelin volley the legionaries quickly drew swords and closed with the Britons who were still reeling from the javelins. No amount of courage could withstand the ruthless efficiency of vigorous training and equipment specifically designed for such confined fighting conditions, and the Roman cohorts steadily pushed their way inside the fortifications. The superior numbers of the enemy, which might have made all the difference in an open battlefield, were here a handicap. The Britons were herded together in a tight press and cut down by the short swords stabbing out from between a wall of large rectangular shields.

The Sixth Century moved out to a flanking position once the cohort had fought its way through the gateway into a vast area of crude tents and other shelters erected by Caratacus’ army. Between the Second Legion and the two other legions now fighting all along the earthworks, thousands of Britons were massed. There was a momentary lull as the enemy suddenly realised the grim reality of their predicament, caught between two Roman forces with no easy escape route. Their chiefs realised the danger they were in and strove to bring some semblance of order to their men before the battle turned into a massacre.

In the middle of the Second Legion’s battle line Cato stood shoulder to shoulder with his centurion in the dense ranks of men waiting for the order to finish the fight. On the extreme right of the Roman line Vespasian gave the order to advance; the command was quickly passed along to each cohort and moments later, behind a wall of shields, the legion moved forward at the slow, even pace of the unit advance. Those slingers and archers still supplied with ammunition kept up their fire on the Roman ranks, but the shield wall proved to be all but impenetrable. In desperation the British warriors started to hurl themselves forward, directly into the shields, to try and break up the line.

‘Watch it!’ Macro shouted as a huge man lumbered in towards Cato at an oblique angle. The optio swung his shield left and thrust the boss towards the man’s face. He felt something connect and then automatically thrust his short sword into the man’s guts, twisted and withdrew the blade. The Briton groaned and collapsed to one side.

‘Nice kill!’ Macro smiled, in his element, as he stuck another Briton in the chest and kicked the man free of his weapon. Two or three men of the Sixth Century, overcome by the desire to get at the enemy, burst forward, out of the Roman line.

‘Get back in the ranks!’ Macro bellowed. ‘I’ve got your names!’ The men, instantly stilled by his voice, slunk back and rejoined the formation, not daring to meet the centurion’s withering gaze, for the moment more concerned about the inevitable disciplinary punishment than the present fight.

The battle on the palisade was over and the men of the Fourteenth Legion were pushing the Britons back down the reverse slope into their encampment. Caught between the two forces, the Britons fought for their lives with a wild desperation that Cato found truly terrifying. The savage faces, flecked with spittle from their hoarse screams, confronted him like the spirits of devils. The Roman army’s training took over and the sequence of advance-thrust, disengage-advance was carried out automatically, almost as if his body belonged to another entity altogether.

As the dead and dying fell beneath the blades of the Romans, the line slowly moved forward over a field of bodies, wrecked tents and scattered equipment. Suddenly the Sixth Century came upon an area the Britons had set aside for cooking; the turf ovens and open fires still crackled and burned with an orange brilliance in the failing light, bathing those nearby in a vivid red that only accentuated the horror of battle.

Before Cato could see it coming, a massive blow to his shield caught him off balance and he tumbled into a large steaming pot suspended over a fire. The flames seared his legs and before the water spilled and doused the fire, it scalded him down one side of his body. He could not help screaming at the sharp, nerve-searing agony of his burns and nearly dropped his shield and sword. Another blow landed on his shield; looking up, Cato saw a thin warrior with long pigtails looming over him, feral hatred twisting his features. As the Briton raised his two-handed axe for the kill, Cato thrust Bestia’s sword up to cover the blow.

It never landed. Macro had rammed his blade in under the Briton’s armpit almost up to the hilt and the man died instantly. Biting back the pain from his burns, Cato could only nod his thanks to the centurion.

Macro flashed a quick smile. ‘On your feet!’

The front rank of the century had passed them and for a moment Cato was safe from the enemy.

‘You all right, lad?’

‘I’ll live, sir,’ Cato hissed through gritted teeth as a river of pain raged down the side of his body. He could hardly focus his mind through the agony. Macro was not fooled by the bravado, he had seen it enough times in the fourteen years he had served in the army. But he had also come to respect an individual’s right to deal with it as he chose. He helped the optio back to his feet, and without thinking gave Cato an encouraging slap on the back. The youngster stiffened, but after only a moment’s trembling he recovered enough to take a firm grasp of his sword and shield, and pushed his way towards the front rank. Tightening his grip on his own sword handle, Macro waded back into the fight.

For Cato the rest of the battle for the Britons’ camp was a blur in his mind, so much effort was required to keep the terrible pain of his burns at bay. He might have killed any number of men but later he could not recall a single incident; he stabbed with his sword and countered blows with his shield oblivious to any sense of danger, aware only of the need to control the agony.

The battle flowed remorselessly against the Britons, crushed between the relentless pressure of the two legions. Desperately they looked for the point of least resistance and began to rush for the gaps between the closing lines of legionaries. First dozens then scores of Britons broke away from their comrades and ran for their lives, scrambling up the reverse slopes of the ramparts and running off into the gathering dusk. Many thousands escaped before the two lines of legionaries met and encircled a doomed band of warriors determined to fight to the last.

These were no ordinary levies, Macro realised as he exchanged blows with an older warrior whose sweat glistened on the skin of his well muscled body. A heavy gold tore hung round the Briton’s neck, similar to the trophy taken from the corpse of Togodumnus, which Macro now wore. The Briton saw it; recognition flashed across his features and he hacked at Macro with renewed frenzy in his desire for revenge. His wrath did for him in the end; the cooler-headed Roman let the man’s fading energy use itself up on his shield before a swift strike settled the matter. A legionary, one of the previous autumn’s recruits, knelt down and laid a hand on the dead Briton’s torc.

‘Take that and you’re dead,’ warned Macro. ‘You know the rules on looting.’

The legionary nodded quickly and threw himself at the dwindling knot of Britons, only to impale himself on a broad-bladed war spear.

Macro swore. Then he pushed on, and found Cato at his side once more, teeth clamped together in a snarl as he fought on with vicious efficiency. As the setting sun’s afterglow of orange and red stained the sky, a Roman trumpet blasted out the signal to disengage and a small space opened up around the surviving Britons. Cato was the last one to give way; he had to be physically hauled back from the fight by his centurion and shaken into a more stable frame of mind.

In the dusk, a small ring of no more than fifty of the Britons glared silently at the legionaries. Bleeding from numerous wounds, blood smeared bodies heaving with spent breath, they leaned on their weapons and waited for the end. From the ranks of the legions a voice called out to them in a Celtic tongue. A call for surrender, Macro guessed. The call was repeated and this time the surrounded Britons gave vent to a chorus of shouts and defiant gestures. Macro shook his head, suddenly very weary of killing. What more had these men to prove by their deaths? Who would ever know of their last stand? It was axiomatic that history was written by the victors in war. He had learned that much from the history books Cato had used to teach him to read. These brave men condemned themselves to die for nothing.

Gradually the defiant words and gestures petered out and the Britons faced their foes with fatalistic calm. There was a moment’s silence, then without need of any word of command the legionaries surged forward and wiped them out.

By torchlight the Romans took stock of their victory. The gates were guarded against counterattack and the work of searching the bodies strewn across the British encampment for Roman injured commenced in earnest. With torches held aloft, the patrols of legionaries located their wounded comrades and carried them to the forward casualty station hurriedly erected on the bank of the river. The wounded Britons were mercifully despatched with quick sword and spear thrusts and heaped into piles for later burial.

Macro sent a forage party out to find provisions for the Sixth Century and dismissed Cato. Only one thing was on the optio’s mind. The desperate need for some kind of relief from the pain of his burns. Leaving the century by the rampart, he climbed over the remains of the palisade and scrambled down the far side. He made his way across the ditch and up onto the river bank, eerily lit by the flickering torches and braziers of the casualty clearing station. Rows of injured, dying and dead had been arranged all along the river bank and Cato had to pick his way through them to reach the river. At the water’s edge he laid down his shield and carefully unfastened the straps of his helmet, mail corselet, and weapons belt. He felt a palpable sense of lightness seep into his exhausted body as he gingerly stripped off his equipment and felt himself for injuries. There were some cuts, now crusted over with dried blood, and the burns were starting to blister. They were agony to the lightest touch. Naked, and shivering more from tiredness than the cool evening air, Cato waded out into the gentle current. As soon as he was deep enough, he slumped down and gasped as the cold water enclosed his body. A moment later he was smiling in pure bliss at the numbing relief it brought to his burns.

Chapter Fourteen

‘Bet that hurts!’ Macro grinned as the surgeon spread salve over the blistered skin that ran up Cato’s right side from his hip to his shoulder. The blazing look the optio shot back at him was eloquence itself.

‘Keep still,’ the surgeon tutted. ‘It’s hard enough working by this light without you twitching all over the place.. Here, Centurion, hold that torch steady.’

‘Sorry.’ Macro raised the pitch torch higher, and by its flickering orange glare the surgeon dipped his hand in the small jar of salve between his knees and gently smeared it over Cato’s shoulder. Cato flinched, and had to clench his teeth as the surgeon continued the application. The cool air of the hour before evening made him shiver, but it provided some small relief from the intensely painful injury that was sending waves of nerve-searing agony up and down his side.

‘Is he going to be able to rejoin the unit?’ asked Macro.

‘Do me a favour, Centurion!’ The surgeon shook his head. ‘When will you officers learn that you can’t expect wounded men to jump up and dash right back into a fight? If the optio here goes off and opens up the blisters, and they get infected, he’ll be far worse off than he is now.’

‘How long then?’

The surgeon examined the mass of angry blisters and cocked his head on one side. ‘A few days for the blisters to come and go. He’ll have to keep his side open to the air, and rest as much as possible. So he’s excused duties. ‘

‘Excused duties!’ Macro scoffed. ‘You might not have noticed but there’s a bloody battle on the go. He has to return to the unit. I need every man I’ve got’

The surgeon rose to his full height and confronted the centurion. For the first time Macro realised what a giant of a man the surgeon was, nearly a foot taller than he was, and built like a bull. He was in his mid twenties, with dark features and tightly curled black hair that suggested African origins. Big as he was, there didn’t appear to be any fat on his muscled body.

‘Centurion, if you value this man he has to be allowed to recover from the burns. He is excused duties - and my decision has the backing of the senior surgeon and the legate.’ His tone and expression made it quite clear that he was in no mood to listen to any arguments about his decision. But that didn’t change the fact that the Sixth Century was badly undermanned and needed the presence of everyone who could still wield a weapon.