Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (18 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘Optio!’ hissed a voice.

Cato’s eyes flickered open. A dark shape loomed against the star pricked night sky. A hand was grasping his blistered arm, shaking him, and Cato nearly howled with agony but just managed to bite it off in time. He snapped upright, fully awake.

‘What is it?’ Cato whispered. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Sentry reports movement.’ The shape pointed to the end of the clearing near the track by which they had entered at dusk. ‘Should we wake the centurion?’

Cato looked over towards the source of the snoring. ‘I think we’d better. Just in case they hear us before we see them.’

As Cato hastily strapped his helmet on and picked up his equipment, the legionary woke Macro as quietly as he could. Not an easy task due to the depth of the centurion’s slumber, and even when Macro came round he seemed to be breaking out of a fairly powerful dream.

‘Because it’s MY fucking tent!’ grumbled the centurion. ‘That’s why!’

‘Sir! Shhh!’

‘W-what? What’s up?’ Macro jerked upright and immediately reached for his sword in a swift reflex action. ‘Report!’

‘We’ve got company, sir!’ Cato called out softly as he crept over to the centurion. ‘Sentry says he can hear movement.’

Macro was on his feet in an instant, his other hand automatically fastening his helmet strap. ‘Get the lads formed up across the clearing, but keep’ em as quiet as you can. We might want to avoid this one.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato crept off towards the sleeping legionaries and Macro quietly lifted his shield and made his way past the line of bodies, grateful that the drone from the flies had diminished with the coming of night. He almost missed the sentry in the darkness as the man was standing to one side of the track, completely still, straining to detect sounds from further down the narrow path.

‘Sir!’ the sentry whispered so quietly that had Macro not been listening so intently he might have missed it. As it was, the sudden sound caused him to flinch in surprise. He recovered in an instant, and silently crouched down beside the sentry.

‘What is it, laddie?’

‘Please, sir, there’s nothing now. But I swear I heard something just a moment ago.’

‘What did you hear, exactly?’

‘Voices, sir. Very low, but not far off. Talking very quiet like.’

‘Ours or theirs?’

The sentry paused for a moment before replying.

‘Spit it out!’ Macro whispered angrily. ‘Ours or theirs?’

‘I-I can’t be sure, sir. It was mostly something I couldn’t quite make out. But then again there was something that sounded like Latin.’

The centurion sniffed dismissively. He squatted in silence, straining his ears to detect the slightest sound from the direction of the path which bent out of sight a scant thirty feet from his position. The sounds from the clearing were all too audible even though the men tried to form up as quietly as possible. But, at last, they were still, and Macro renewed his concentration. But there was nothing out of the ordinary, just the occasional sound of frogs croaking. A dark shape drew close from the direction of the clearing.

‘Psst!’ hissed Macro. ‘Over here, Cato.’

‘Any sign of them, sir?’

‘Fuck all. Seems our boy here just got a little too carried away with his imagination.’

It was a common enough fault in sentries, particularly on active service.

Darkness heightened a man’s reliance on one sense, and imagination went to work on even the slightest noise for which there was no immediate interpretation.

‘Shall I stand the century down, sir?’

Macro was about to reply when a sudden rustle, as of a bush caught and quickly released, turned their blood to ice. There was no question about the sentry’s report now, and they squatted motionless in the warm night air, muscles tensed and ready for action. A faint orange glow flickered from round the corner of the track, and sparks pierced the gaps in the foliage as someone bearing a torch approached down the track.

‘Ours?’ Cato asked. ‘Quiet!’ Macro whispered.

‘Who’s there?’ a voice suddenly called out from the direction of the torch. Cato felt a wave of relief sweep over him, and nearly laughed at the abrupt easing of tension. He made to rise but Macro grabbed his wrist.

‘Keep still!’

‘But, sir, you heard him. It’s one of ours.’ ‘Shut up and keep still!’ Macro hissed.

‘Who’s there?’ repeated the voice. There was a pause, followed by what might have been a quick exchange of words in low whispers. Then the voice continued, ‘I’m Batavian. Third Cohort of horse! If you’re Roman, make yourself recognised!’

There was no denying the accented Latin sounded right for the Batavians, and Macro knew the Third mounted were in the area. And yet there was something in the man’s tone that prevented him from risking a reply.

There was another brief silence before the voice came again, this time with a quavering edge to it. ‘For the love of the gods! If you’re Roman, reply!’

‘Sir!’ Cato protested. ‘Shut up!’

With a sudden crackle, the glow from the torch grew bright and flames licked up above the gorse bushes. An inhuman scream cut through the thick, hot air hanging over the marsh.

‘What the?’ The sentry reeled back in shock.

Macro made to grasp him when suddenly a blazing figure burst from round the corner of the path and ran shrieking into the clearing, illuminating the ground about him in a lurid flickering glow. The air reeked of pitch and burned flesh, and the figure tripped and rolled on the ground, still screaming.

Macro grabbed the sentry and his optio and thrust them back towards the rest of the century. ‘Run!’

Just behind them the night was rent with savage war cries, followed by the shrill braying of a war horn. Down the track, in the wake of their Batavian captive, poured the Britons, dreadful in the blazing light of the torch raised high by the man at the head of their charge. Cato had time for just one glance, enough to see the Batavian mercifully still on the ground, before he bolted after his centurion. They burst through the silent line of legionaries waiting beyond the red loom of the torch and turned to face the Britons, ready to fight on the instant. But their pursuers had halted momentarily to lay into the line of bodies arranged alongside the track, hacking and slashing at the corpses.

‘What the hell?’ wondered Macro.

‘They think it’s us, sir! They think they’ve caught us asleep!’

With a savage shout of dismay the Britons realised their error and turned towards the legionaries lined up across the middle of the small clearing.

‘Release javelins at will!’ roared Macro.

The dark shafts arced in a shallow trajectory straight into the foremost Britons. Hidden by the night, the javelins tore into their victims before they were even aware of the danger; several of the attackers fell and were trampled by the feet of their comrades desperate to get at the Romans. There was barely time for the second volley to be released before the Britons were upon them, screaming their savage war cries. A sharp clatter and clash of weapons and shields rang out, accompanied by the shouts, grunts and cries of men fighting wildly in the darkness.

‘Close up! Close up” Macro shouted above the din. ‘Keep together!’ Unless the legionaries could remain distinct from their enemies, there was every chance that Roman would attack Roman.

Just then the moon began to appear from behind a dark bank of clouds and a thin grey light was thrown on the scene. Macro saw to his relief that his men were managing to keep close enough together to hold off the wave of Britons hacking and slashing at the shield wall. But even as he looked round, a large warrior threw himself between the shields of the men, nearly knocking them to the ground, and hurled himself on the centurion. Macro had only an instant to react and began to roll back to absorb the coming impact.

‘Sir!’ Cato shouted from one side, and he swung his weight behind his shield and slammed the boss into the Briton’s side. It was enough and the man crashed to the ground at Macro’s side, badly winded. Macro drew back his sword arm and smashed the pommel up into the Briton’s chin. The man went down with a single grunt, out cold.

Cato quickly helped his centurion back to his feet and then, shield to the fore, thrust his short sword into the mass of warriors confronting him. The tip of the blade struck home, a man cursed at the injury, and Cato pulled the sword free and struck again.

The moon was now clear of the clouds and beamed its melancholy light down on the writhing melee, reflecting dully on flickering blades, polished helmets and armour. Macro could see that he and his men were badly outnumbered and that even more of these fierce warriors were emerging from the path at the head of the clearing. The legionaries could not hope to last long against these odds and seemed doomed to the same gruesome fate that had befallen the Batavians.

‘Fall back! Fall back to the far end of the clearing!’ Macro bellowed above the din of the vicious skirmish. ‘With me!’

He parried a blow to one side and retreated a step. To both sides his men rippled back and gave ground, slowly moving into the neck of the clearing. It was just as well, since they could not have held the full width of the clearing for much longer. Slowly, slowly they inched back either side of the path, forming a tight knot, three, then four, ranks deep, against which the superior weight of the Britons ceased to have a significant impact. Now it became the kind of dense hand-to-hand fighting in which Roman equipment and training excelled, and the thrusts of the short swords began to claim more victims than the unwieldy blades favoured by the natives. Even so, the sheer volume of enemy numbers would eventually guarantee a British victory. Macro glanced anxiously about the dwindling ranks of his men.

‘Keep falling back! Back!’

By the time they reached the edge of the clearing the skirmish was being fought on a narrow front, and the surviving Romans instinctively compacted three shields across the path to provide a solid obstacle to the pursuing Britons.

‘Rear five men stay with me!’ shouted Macro. ‘Cato! Get the others along that track as fast as you can. Head for the river and go downstream. ‘

‘Yes, sir. But what about you?’ the optio called out anxiously.

‘We’ll be along, Optio. Now go!’

As the rest of the century ran off down the path, Macro looked round at his companions’ pale faces and grinned. He thrust his sword out into the mass on the other side of his shield. ‘Right, lads! Let’s make this one count. They’ll not forget the Second Legion in a hurry.’

As he raced down the track, Cato tried not to step on the last man’s heels. Every instinct drove him to flee as fast as he could from the sounds of the fight behind. Yet he burned with shame as well, and would have turned and run back to his centurion’s side were it not for Macro’s express order and the responsibility he now carried for these survivors of the Sixth Century. When the sound of the fighting had grown faint, Cato shouted out an order to halt, and quickly pushed through to the front of the century. He could not trust the man in the lead to pay heed to the location of the moon in relation to the river; he might just blunder off into the marsh.

Having got his bearings, and now no longer able to hear any sound of the centurion’s last stand at the clearing, Cato ordered the century to follow him at the trot. It was dangerous to run in the dark, there were too many irregularities in the path and too many twisted roots. Far better to move at a pace they could sustain for a while yet. Jangling and chinking, the legionaries wound their way along the path in the pale moonlight and Cato was relieved to find that the track grew steadily wider and followed a generally straight line - evidence that the track was now manmade and therefore led somewhere.

A distant shout from the track behind them revealed that the Britons had taken up the chase. Cato extended his stride, snatching at breaths as he pounded along. He frequently glanced back to make sure the men were still with him. All at once he thought he heard what he was searching for: the sound of water rippling along the banks of a river. Then he was sure of the sound.

‘The river, lads!’ he shouted, gasping hard to draw in enough breath to be heard. ‘We’ve made the river.’

The track twisted slightly to one side and then there it was, the great Tamesis, flowing seaward and glistening with reflected moonlight. The track abruptly gave out on to a smooth expanse of mud and Cato felt it giving way beneath his feet, sucking at his boots.

‘Halt! Halt!’ he cried out. ‘Stay on the track!’

As the century waited, gasping in the warm air, Cato poked the ground ahead with his sword tip. The blade passed into it with almost no resistance. The shouts on the track were drawing nearer and Cato looked up in terror.

‘What the fuck’re we going to do, Optio?’ someone called out. ‘They’ll be on us in a minute.’

‘Swim for it!’ someone suggested.

‘No!’ Cato replied firmly. ‘There’s no question of swimming anywhere. It’d be useless. They’d pick us off easily.’

He was gripped by a moment of paralysing indecision, before fresh shouting from the Britons stirred him. This time the shouting came not from the track but much closer, just along the river. He scanned the river bank until he saw a man shouting and jabbing a spear at them. Two more men squelched through the mud to join him. Beyond them, not fifty paces away, was a mass of large shell shapes hauled up from the river’s edge.