Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘Good luck!’ Livonius called after them.

‘Pftt!’ Crispus sneered. ‘Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s down to steel, grit and years of back-breaking training. Not that he’ll ever have to understand that. Once he’s served out his year, he’ll be off back to Rome and some cushy number looking after the drains or the markets or some such bollocks.’

Cato was well used to the begrudging tone of centurions towards the young men serving out the military phase of their career ladder, and adopted a mocking tone as he asked, ‘Would you want to exchange all the pleasures of soldiering for inspecting the drains of Rome, Centurion?’

‘Not fucking likely, sir.’

‘Then let’s get this over with.’

They parted company as they reached the waiting soldiers, and Crispus went forward to the right of the front line, where the first century of the cohort stood ready. Hoisting his shield and swinging it round towards the enemy, he drew his sword and punched it up towards the lowering clouds. Rain ran down the blade, gleaming dully.

‘Fourth Cohort! At the walk! Advance!’

The centuries were drawn up with a frontage of ten men, narrow enough to fit into the mouth of the gorge, with eight files giving plenty of weight to the assault. If all went to form, the second line should not be required to fight, Cato reasoned. The centurion commanding the three remaining centuries waited until the regulation gap had opened up between the two lines before ordering his men to follow on. Cato waited a bit longer, then called out to his Thracians to advance. The grass beneath his boots was drenched, and the soil below soft and yielding, and as the auxiliaries began to follow in the footsteps of the heavy infantry, the ground became churned and slick with mud.

As they approached the enemy, who had been standing still and silent all the while, a great roar tore from the tribesmen’s throats, and they raised their weapons and shook them at the oncoming shield wall. The rain provided one blessing at least, thought Cato. It was too wet for archers, and the confined space in which the skirmish would be fought would make it difficult for slingers. A straight fight, then, between the iron discipline of the legions and the fanatical courage of the native warriors. And there was no question who would prevail.

The air filled with the squelching of boots in the mud and the laboured grunts of the tired men struggling to hold their line as they approached the barricade. Over the heads in front of him, Cato could make out some of the faces of the warriors behind the barricade, mouths open as they roared their challenge. There was a sudden blur of motion amid the leaden streaks of rain, and Crispus shouted a warning.

‘Shields up!’

The leading ranks of the cohort raised their shields and angled them back to deflect the incoming missiles. Javelins. Cato could see them now, arcing down towards the legionaries. They struck home in an uneven chorus of clatters and thuds. After the din of the first volley died away, one of Crispus’s men bellowed, ‘You’ll get yours, you British cunts!’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Crispus raged. ‘Silence in the bloody ranks!’

The men trudged on, heeding the warning of their centurion, and Cato felt a thrill ripple through his body at being part of the spectacle. There was nothing quite as impressive and terrifying as the sight of these well-trained soldiers advancing in ordered lines beneath their drenched standards without a word escaping their lips. And it seemed that the enemy sensed it too, as their shouts and cries began to die away and their features set in grim expressions, mirroring the faces of their Roman opponents. Another ragged volley of javelins was unleashed, mixed with rocks small enough to hurl from the top of the barricade. On either side the crags loomed up, dark and daunting, and the sound of rain and the shouts of the defenders echoed loudly off the rocks.

‘Close up!’ Crispus ordered. ‘Close up!’

His men were no more than ten paces from the foot of the barricade, and the officer commanding the second line brought it to a halt. Cato held up his arm.

‘Blood Crows! Halt!’

The auxiliaries stopped, twenty paces back from the rearmost legionaries. There was a slight rise that allowed Cato a clear view of the mouth of the gorge, and he blinked away the rain that had dripped from the brim of his helmet into his eyes. He could see the first rank of the legionaries starting to clamber up the barricade, shields overhead. The long swords of the natives slashed down at the curved surfaces. Some had axes, and their blows landed with splintering thuds that carried clearly to Cato’s ears as he looked on. Most of Crispus’s men could barely move under the intensity of the blows raining down at them, but here and there individual legionaries had managed to climb high enough to strike back at the enemy, and the fight raged along the length of the barricade.

‘Push on! Push on!’ the centurion cried hoarsely, and Cato was reminded of Macro in the man’s fearless drive to overcome his foes. ‘Keep pushing, lads!’

More legionaries forced their way up to join their comrades duelling desperately in the rain. Swords flickered in savage thrusts and men tried to batter each other with their shields. Some of the natives grabbed at the legionaries’ shields and tried to wrench them aside to allow their comrades to strike home. Behind the fighting line, the follow-up ranks of the first three cohorts were densely packed together as they were funnelled into the gorge. For the moment, the attack had stalled as the two sides battled for control of the top of the barricade.

A horn sounded from behind the enemy warriors, a deep braying note that echoed off the crags on either side. At the sound, the enemy cheered again, their voices horribly amplified. A dark shape plunged down from the top of the crag, and the motion caught Cato’s eye. He looked up and clearly saw the first of the large rocks as it struck a projection and spun end over end until it smashed down amongst the legionaries packed in front of the barricade. More boulders tumbled down, and Cato saw several men outlined against the grey sky as they picked up fresh rocks and hurled them. Now the legionaries began to look up and realise the danger, but such was the dense press that escape was impossible.

Cato ran forward, pushing his way through the ranks of the second line as he called out hoarsely, ‘Back! Fall back!’

The rearmost men in the gorge looked round and began to edge away, easing the pressure on the men ahead of them as more rocks fell, dashing legionaries to the ground, crushing skulls and shattering bones. Ahead of them, Crispus was still urging his men forward, heedless of what was occurring behind him.

‘Fall back!’ Cato shouted again and again, raging at himself for letting his men walk into this trap. ‘Get back!’

Others began to take up his cry, and the legionaries retreated individually towards the second line, thinning out the ranks so that more of their comrades could escape the peril from above.

Cato stood against the flow of men and called out again. ‘Centurion Crispus!’

At last the officer sensed something was awry. Thrusting his shield into the face of an enemy warrior, he glanced round quickly and saw for the first time the score of men who had been pulverised by the rocks. He grasped the danger at once and turned to the legionaries still fighting along the barricade.

‘Fall back!’

One by one they disengaged and clambered back down to the ground. Away from the danger of the enemy warriors, they still had to run the gauntlet of falling rocks, and Cato saw three more men go down as Crispus waved them away from the barricade. Only when the last of them was far enough away from the cliffs to escape the danger did the centurion back away himself, keeping a wary eye on his enemy. So it was that he missed seeing the rock tumbling through the rain. Cato spotted it too late to shout a warning, and Crispus was driven to his knees by the impact that glanced off the side of his helmet before smashing through his shoulder and chest. He swayed a moment before his shield and sword slid from his grasp and he pitched forward on to his face.