The Eagle's Prey Page 37

  Septimus loomed over them, glanced at the javelin and nodded to Cato. ‘Hold him!’

  Taking a firm grasp of the shaft, and ensuring that the angle was right he suddenly pulled the javelin out as Decimus howled with agony. The point came free and there was a rush of blood from the puncture. The optio examined it quickly, then wrenched the legionary’s neck cloth away and bound the wound tightly.

  ‘Serves you bloody well right!’ Septimus snapped. ‘Shouldn’t have dropped your shield. How many times have you been told that in training?’

  Decimus winced. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Now get up. You’re useless to us with that leg. Get back to the cohort.’

  The legionary looked to Cato, who nodded his assent. With gritted teeth Decimus struggled to his feet and limped through the lines of his comrades. He started down the track, leaving a trail of small splashes of blood from the sodden dressing.

  A voice shouted, ‘Here they come again!’

  Cato raised his shield and pushed forward into the front rank. Septimus hurriedly took up position to the extreme right of the century. Cato glanced round, saw that his men were grimly prepared for the next charge by the enemy horsemen. Just behind him the century’s standard-bearer had drawn his sword and was leaning forward expectantly.

  ‘Standard to the rear!’ Cato snapped at him. The bearer frowned, sheathed his sword and pushed his way to the rear of the small formation. Cato shook his head angrily. The man should know better. His first duty was to guard the standard, not to get stuck into the enemy He’d have to have words with the bearer, if they were still alive tomorrow.

  With a wild cry the horsemen surged forward, the hoofs of their mounts drumming deafeningly on the dry track. For a moment Cato was about to order another volley of javelins, but then realised that the century would need to conserve every advantage in the ordeal of arms they would have to endure.

  ‘Shields up!’ Cato shouted. ‘Second rank! Pass javelins forward!’

  The iron heads of the javelins rippled forward to the men in the front rank. Cato snatched at one and lowered the point towards the swiftly approaching horsemen. On either side, his men thrust their points out between the shields. Cato hunched his neck down so that his face was protected by the rim of his shield, and stared into the oncoming charge. The Britons were screaming their war cries with maddened exultant expressions in the last instant before their mounts slammed into the Romans. There was a thud of bodies on shields, and the grunts of legionaries driven back. Cato felt his arm jerk as the flank of a horse thrust itself upon the iron head of his javelin. The animal reared, threatening to tear the weapon from his grasp, and Cato yanked it savagely, gouging a bloody hole in the animal’s sleek hide. Something flashed above his head and he just had time to duck down as a spear tip slashed forward, narrowly missing his head and glancing off the neck guard with a sharp clatter. Cato’s head snapped back painfully and he found himself staring up into the horseman’s face, frozen in a feral grin of stained teeth under a dark drooping moustache. Instinctively, Cato swung his javelin round and thrust at the man’s eyes. Before the thrust landed the rider yanked sharply on his reins and wheeled his horse away, knocking the tip of the javelin to one side.

  For a moment Cato was not engaged, and he glanced round. A horse was down on its back, lashing the air with its hoofs as its screaming rider was crushed beneath it. Two more of the enemy were down on the track, mortally injured, one of them writhing as he clasped his hands over a terrible injury that had ripped open his stomach. But not one Roman had been cut down. After the impact, they had recovered and maintained the shield wall in good order, while above them spears and shields clattered uselessly against the large curved surfaces of the Roman shields.

  The enemy horsemen kept the attack up for a little while longer, then their leader bellowed an order and they abruptly disengaged and trotted back a short distance, just out of javelin range. Beyond them Cato glimpsed the head of the enemy column marching round the corner where the two Roman lookouts had been posted shortly before. It was time to start the withdrawal.

  ‘Fall back! Optio!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Take half the men. Retire a hundred paces and form a new line. Leave a gap for us to pass through when we reach you.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Septimus gathered his men and they trotted up the track until they reached a point where the space either side of the track was again hemmed in by clumps of gorse. The optio halted the men and formed them up.

  Cato nodded his satisfaction then turned back to assess his situation. The horsemen were preparing to charge again; tightening the grip on their reins and weapons. As soon as the first man urged his mount forward Cato shouted an order to ready javelins. The horsemen faltered at the sight of the dark, deadly shafts being prepared for them, and then reined in and drew up, still out of range.

  ‘Good,’ Cato muttered. ‘Port javelins! Sixth Century will prepare to retire … march!’

  The legionaries started to retreat in good order, keeping their faces to the enemy, as they stepped back carefully to avoid any stumbling. The horsemen stared at the Romans for a moment and then a chorus of jeers and catcalls pursued the legionaries up the track. One of Cato’s men started to shout some abuse back.

  ‘Silence!’ Cato shouted. ‘Ignore them. We’ve got nothing to prove. It’s not our men who are lying dead on the track!’

  The five sections under Cato’s command steadily withdrew towards Septimus and his men. Even so, the gap between the Romans and the head of Caratacus’ column had narrowed considerably by the time Cato passed through the gap Septimus had left for him.

  ‘My turn to fall back,’ said Cato. ‘Their infantry might well be on you before you get to us.’

  ‘Looks that way, sir.’ Septimus nodded. ‘Don’t get too far ahead of us.’

  ‘I won’t. Good luck.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ muttered Septimus. ‘We’re going to need bloody divine intervention to see us through this lot.’

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ Cato smiled. ‘Stick it to them, Optio.’

  Septimus saluted and turned away to make sure that his thin line was tightly closed up and ready to resist the coming onslaught. Cato led his men further up the track and as they reached a bend he halted and formed them up. In the distance, above the low-lying expanse of rushes and stunted trees and clumps of gorse he could see the distant figures of the rest of the cohort toiling away at the contruction of the rampart and palisade.

  ‘Not so far to go, lads!’

  ‘Far enough,’ someone muttered.

  Cato spun round. ‘Silence there! We’ll make it back. I swear it.’

  He turned back to see how the Optio was faring. Septimus was already on the move and the rearmost rank trudged slowly backwards. Only a short distance beyond them the horsemen had edged off the track and the main column of enemy infantry was marching swiftly forward, eager to close with the hated Romans and cut them to pieces.

  Towards the front of the column was a chariot. Standing on the platform, behind the driver, was Caratacus, bare-headed and bare-chested, with the huge gold torc around his muscular neck. One hand grasped the shaft of a great war spear, nearly twice as tall as the man himself. The other rested easily on the side rail of the chariot and despite the rutted surface of the track the native commander rode his vehicle with a superb sense of balance and self-confidence.

  Caratacus raised his spear and thrust it towards the retreating Romans in a savage gesture of command. At once his warriors let out a huge roar and surged forward, swords and spears raised up and ready to strike. Septimus halted his men, closed up and shouted an order for them to unleash their javelins. It was a desperate measure and Cato wondered if the optio had let desperation overcome good sense. The effect of the collective volley in the confined space of the track would be devastating, but there would be no javelins left after that, only swords.

  Septimus’ shouted commands were just audible above the
din of the enemy. ‘Javelins … loose!’

  A tattered dark veil lifted up from the legionaries, arced into the air and then lashed down on the natives. Their war cries faded for a moment, then the sound of the impact carried to Cato and his men: a rattling, thudding chorus that was quickly swallowed up by cries of pain and shouted curses. Septimus yelled at his men to continue falling back.

  There was a brief respite while the Britons picked their way through their dead and injured littering the ground from which the dark shafts of javelins protruded at every angle. Then the battle cries picked up once again and the enemy raced forward. But the full impact of their mass charge had been broken by the volley and they hurled themselves individually upon the broad shields and glinting blades of the legionaries. The first few were cut down without difficulty and the men did not even break step as they continued towards Cato. Then, as warriors charged home as a mass, Septimus and his men slowed to a halt and were forced to fight to stay in formation. To fight for survival.

  As more and more of the enemy piled into the mêlée the legionaries began to move towards Cato again, only this time they were not giving ground, they were being driven back. Watching them draw closer Cato knew that it was only a matter of time before Septimus lost enough men that the survivors would no longer be able to hold their formation. Then they would be broken and cut down. The leap-frog withdrawal of the sixth century would no longer be possible, Cato realised. Their only chance was to stay together now.

  As Septimus’ men began to pass through the gap left open for them, Cato called out to the optio, ‘Form your men up behind me. We can’t afford to divide the century any more.’

  Septimus nodded and turned to deploy his men as the five fresh sections under Cato’s command took over the fight.

  Tightening the grip on his sword and hefting the shield forwards and up, Cato stepped forward and pushed into the front line. At once a heavy blow from an axe drove his shield back into him. But this dense fighting at close quarters was what the Roman legions trained for, and Cato rode back with the blow. Then, transferring his weight on to his back foot he launched himself against the enemy and felt his shield smash into a body with a loud thud. There was a grunt of pain and surprise, and Cato rammed his short sword forward, round the edge of the shield, and was rewarded by the shock of an impact that ran up his arm. He withdrew the blade, noting the blood dripping six inches from the point. A fatal injury in all probability and, he realised with surprise, he had never even seen the man who had suffered it.

  Another impact on his shield, and this time fingers curled over the top of it, inches from his face, and wrenched it back. Cato held on with all his strength, then swung his helmet forward, crushing the enemy’s knuckles with the solid iron cross brace above his brow. The fingers were snatched back and Cato thrust his shield forward, into space this time, and then stepped back to draw a breath.

  ‘Sixth Century! Sixth Century, give ground! Optio?’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Call the time!’

  ‘Yes, sir … One! … Two! … One! … Two!’

  At every command the men in each rank carefully retreated a pace in the face of the enemy, and then resumed the fight. Cato was content to yield control of the pace to the optio. Once the fighting started in earnest the world of the men engaged in a deadly contest became a whirling chaos of weapons clashing, men grunting, cursing and screaming their defiance and agony. Instinct, honed by relentless years of training, took over, and any sense of the passage of time was lost in the savage intensity of surviving the moment.

  There were few chances for lucid thought as Cato fought to stay alive, but he snatched glimpses of Caratacus, only fifteen or twenty feet away, urging his warriors on, bellowing a war cry that carried clearly over the cacophony of battle and drove his men to new heights of ferocity.

  ‘One!’ Septimus called out.

  If only Caratacus could be killed, Cato managed to think, as he drew back another step. He chopped at a bare foot raised to kick at his shield.

  ‘Two!’

  If Caratacus fell, then maybe the fight would go out of these demons, who seemed to know no fear as they threw themselves at the line of Roman shields. The legionaries in the front rank were starting to tire and the first two men to die were cut down and killed in quick succession. Their places were instantly filled by men from the second rank, and the retreat continued under the relentless attack. One by one, more legionaries fell, to join the native dead and wounded trampled down by the wave of warriors that flowed down the track.

  Cato thrust his shield into the face of an older warrior, no less savage than his younger comrades, and backed out of the front line.

  ‘Take my place!’ he shouted into the ear of a legionary in the second rank, and the man pressed forward, shield out and sword ready to thrust into the mêlée. The centurion pushed his way through the dense pack of Romans, until he found Septimus, standing beside the century’s standard-bearer.

  The optio nodded a greeting. ‘Hot work, sir.’

  ‘Hot as it gets.’ Cato made himself smile, desperate to give the impression of calm professional detachment that Macro seemed to achieve so effortlessly. He looked up the track towards the cohort’s fortifications, now just beyond the final bend in their return journey.

  Septimus followed the direction of his centurion’s glance. ‘Shall I send a runner back for more men, sir?’

  The thought of more legionaries hurrying forward to support their retreat was a comforting, tempting prospect. But Cato realised that such a request, even if Tullius agreed to it, would only place more men in danger and weaken the cohort where its soldiers were most necessary: on the rampart, denying Caratacus and his warriors any escape from the marsh.

  He shook his head. ‘No. We’re on our own.’

  The optio nodded slowly. ‘Fair enough, sir. But we’re not going to be able to hold them back for much longer. If they break the line, we’re finished.’

  The line was now no more than five deep and Cato knew that if they could not reach the fortifications soon, then the enemy would be able simply to brush aside the few remaining legionaries. He had to act now, and gamble his remaining javelins on one last cast of the dice.

  Cato turned to his optio. ‘I’m going to give the order to use the last javelins in one volley. When it strikes, we fall back. If we’re lucky we can make it most of the way back to the cohort before the enemy come on again. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Is that wise – to use them all up?’

  ‘Maybe not. But we’d better use the javelins while we still can, eh?’ Septimus nodded.

  ‘Rear ranks!’ Cato shouted, his voice rough and grating in his dry throat. ‘Ready javelins. Aim long. Aim for that big bastard on the chariot!’

  The retreat had stopped and while the men in the front rank fought off the enemy, those behind, still carrying their javelins, quickly opened their ranks and swung back their throwing arms.

  ‘Remember, aim long! Javelins, loose!’

  This time the thin spread of dark shafts arced up high, gleeming as they reached the top of their trajectory, then dipped down sharply to plunge into the tight mass of men around Caratacus and his chariot. Cato was watching this final volley with an intense stare and saw a javelin strike through Caratacus’ shoulder, carrying the enemy commander down on to the bed of his chariot and out of sight. Above the cries of the injured a deep groan sounded from the throats of the British warriors as they realised that their leader had been struck. The column wavered as those at the front turned to see what had happened, then they began to ebb back towards the chariot, disengaging from the Romans. Cato saw his chance and took it.

  ‘Fall back! Fall back!’

  The remnants of the Sixth Century started to march away from the enemy, the rearmost men keeping a close watch behind them as they made best speed towards the safety of the distant cohort. Cato led them round the final corner and ahead of them the track led straight towards the hastily erec
ted fortifications, no more than two hundred paces away. The temptation to run for it was overwhelming but Cato knew that he and his men must retire in good order.

  ‘Don’t run, lads! Keep in formation!’

  Behind them, there was a shout, an order, and Cato recognised the voice of Caratacus, bellowing at his men to renew the assault. They took up his cry with a roar.

  Cato glanced at his optio. ‘That didn’t last long.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Septimus smiled ruefully. ‘Not much gets between your average Celt and the prospect of a good fight.’

  Ahead of them, Cato could see figures rushing to man the rampart that stretched across the track and a short distance into the marsh on either side, ending in a small redoubt on each flank. A hundred and fifty paces to go, and there was a glimmer of light from the gate as it was heaved open. Cato glanced back and saw the first of the enemy warriors burst round the bend, weapons raised and mouths gaping as they screamed out their war cries. With a pounding of hoofs and a rumble of wheels, Caratacus’ chariot lurched round the corner. The enemy commander stood over the axle, one hand clasped to his injured shoulder, the other jabbing his war spear towards the enemy. Cato could only admire his ruthless sense of purpose that spared him no agony.

  When the Sixth Century had halved the distance to the fortifications Cato glanced back again and was shocked to see that the enemy were almost upon them. Ahead, on either side of the track, lay the defensive ditch, strewn with sharpened stakes. Then the earth rampart, where the rest of the cohort leaned over the palisade, shouting desperate encouragement to their comrades. Cato realised that he and his men weren’t going to make the gate before the enemy crashed into them.

  ‘Halt! Form up to the rear!’

  Even with the open gate tantalisingly close to them the men of the Sixth Century readily obeyed the order. They quickly turned, raised their shields and closed ranks into a compact defensive formation. But this time, when the enemy charged home, the legionaries reeled under the impact. The line of shields was driven in, sending one of the men sprawling back. Before anyone could step into his place a huge Celtic warrior burst in amongst them, whirling an axe over his head. An instant later it swept down towards the legionary who had been thrown back on to the ground. He saw the blade coming and threw up an arm to protect his face. The axe barely shuddered as it cut clean through the man’s forearm, shattered his helmet and buried itself deep in his skull.