Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘The centurion’s down!’ a voice cried out. ‘Let’s get the bastards!’

‘No!’ Cato called back, then blocked the retreat of two men trying to push him aside. ‘You and you! With me. Let’s go.’

He did not give them a chance to hesitate, thrusting them towards the gorge, then increasing his pace to take the lead as he made for the stricken centurion. Some of the other legionaries were already dragging their injured comrades out of the danger zone, and on the far side of the barricade, the enemy cheered at the spectacle of the retreating Romans.

Their cries were met with a thin chorus from those on top of the crags as they ceased their attack and the last of the rocks thudded on to the ground. All the same, Cato kept his shield up as he rushed forward to Crispus and crouched down beside him. Grunting with effort, he turned the centurion over and saw the misshapen ruin of his shoulder and the deep dent in the side of his helmet. Crispus’s face was covered with mud, and Cato wiped it away as best he could.

‘I’ll cover you,’ he told the legionaries. ‘You take his arms and get him away from here.’

As soon as they moved him, Crispus let out a gasp and then howled in agony as his head lolled back.

‘Keep going!’ Cato urged as they dragged the body through the mud towards the safety of the second line of legionaries. There was a shout from the enemy as they caught sight of the officer’s crest on Cato’s helmet, and three men scrambled over the barricade, jumped down and raced towards him. He drew his sword, raised his shield and placed himself between the enemy and Crispus and the legionaries. Two of the tribesmen were armed with spears, while the third, a short distance ahead of his companions, carried a sword and round shield. Their expressions were wild, eyes glaring and lips drawn back in snarls, as if they were intoxicated. This would be a short, savage contest, Cato realised as he braced his boots in the mud and held his sword ready. The sodden ground, churned up by the nailed boots of the legionaries, slowed the enemy down as they advanced, desperate to claim the head of a Roman officer for a trophy.

Cato held his ground, determined to buy time for Crispus, and gritted his teeth as the swordsman closed in. There was no pause, no sizing up his opponent. The tribesman punched his shield into Cato’s and brought his sword round in an arc in a bid to decapitate the Roman. Cato swung his shield out and up just in time to block the edge of the sword, and it glanced over his head. He made to thrust back with his own sword, but his foot slipped and robbed his attack of any power, the blade striking a winding blow on the furs over the man’s chest.

Both men recovered their balance at the same instant and made to strike a head blow. The blades clashed sharply and held as each tried to overpower the other. One slip in the mud would be fatal, Cato realised, trying to get as much purchase as possible on the slippery ground. His features twisted into a tight grimace as he matched his strength against that of the enemy, their faces barely a foot apart. Over the man’s shoulder he could see the spearmen edging out around their comrade in order to get a clear strike at the side of the Roman officer. There was no time for a man-on-man duel. Cato abruptly angled his sword to let the warrior’s blade slide sharply towards his shoulder, trusting to the armour to protect him. As soon as his own sword was free, he raised his right arm and hammered the butt of the handle down on his opponent’s head with a sharp crack. At the same moment, the edge of the warrior’s sword struck a numbing blow to Cato’s shoulder. The tribesman staggered back, blundering into the nearest of the spearmen so that he slipped in the mud and had to thrust his weapon into the ground to steady his balance. The swordsman fell, arms outstretched, knocking his comrade to his knees as he did so.

Cato swung quickly towards the other spearman and tried to advance his shield, but the blow to his shoulder had weakened his arm, and his head remained exposed. The man thrust at his eyes, and he tilted his head to one side and flicked the spear tip aside with the point of his sword. At once the weapon was snatched back ready for another thrust. The initial impact of the blow to his shoulder was fading, but Cato lowered his shield a little further to tempt the warrior to aim high again. The tribesman steadied his grip on the spear shaft and punched forward. Cato was ready for him. Dropping the shield, he snatched at the spear, just behind the leaf-shaped blade, and viciously wrenched the wooden shaft towards him. His opponent held on tightly and lurched forward, losing his balance as he stumbled towards Cato. The prefect’s short sword swung up, catching the warrior in the side and penetrating deeply into his vitals. Cato twisted his wrist from side to side and ripped the blade free, then thrust the shaft of the spear back towards its owner, who fell into a sitting position and hunched over his wound with a loud groan.

Cato saw that the remaining spearman was a youth, despite his matted hair and straggling beard. He glanced from the unconscious swordsman to his wounded friend, then lowered his spear and took a cautious step towards the Roman. Brandishing his sword, Cato filled his lungs and bellowed with all the rage he could muster, ‘If you don’t want to join ’em, then fuck off!’

The vehemence of the words carried ample meaning, and the tribesman recoiled a step, torn between pride and the prospect of fighting the man who had struck down two of his comrades in less time than it took to draw a handful of breaths. He carefully retreated another pace, keeping his spear up and staring hard at Cato.

‘That’s better,’ Cato nodded. ‘Now piss off like a good boy, eh?’

The youth retreated further, and Cato kept a keen eye on him as he bent down to retrieve his shield and cautiously edge back towards his own men. When he was sure he was no longer in immediate danger, he turned and trotted after the two legionaries dragging Crispus to safety. The men who had fallen back from the first assault were already re-forming about their standards at the rear of the cohort, while the injured were laid out to one side to wait for the surgeon and his medics to come forward to treat them. As the centurion passed through the ranks of the legionaries, they looked on in shock and anger at their stricken commander.

The two men released their grip on Crispus’s arms, and the centurion lay on his back, eyes fluttering as he moaned. Cato set his shield aside and knelt beside him. He saw the blood trickling from the centurion’s nose and mingling with the rainwater running over his cheeks.

‘Crispus . . . Crispus! Can you hear me?’

The centurion blinked and opened his eyes, staring straight up at Cato. He frowned and then licked his lips as he made to speak. ‘Lu . . . luck has nothing . . . to do with it.’

He grimaced, and his eyes rolled up as his body trembled. Cato looked up. ‘Surgeon! Over here!’

Pausinus and his bandage dressers were already examining the first victims of the boulders and those who had been wounded on the barricade. The surgeon swiftly tied off a strip of linen and hurried over. He hunkered down opposite Cato and laid his fingers gently on the crushed shoulder.

‘His days of soldiering are over, if he lives.’ He sensed the trembling and then noticed the dent in the centurion’s helmet. ‘Help me get this off.’

While Pausinus steadied the helmet in his hands, Cato undid the chin strap and eased the cheek flaps aside. Then the surgeon eased the helmet free, together with the felt skullcap. The latter snagged on something, and Crispus gasped as blood seeped out from under its rim. Before the surgeon could react, the wounded man jerked violently and the cap came free with a large flap of bloodied scalp and a jagged piece of bone to reveal the terrible damage done by the rock that had struck the side of Crispus’s head. Blood and brains slooshed out of the cavity opened up by the removal of the skullcap as the centurion writhed and shuddered and then went limp.