Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Cato looked down at him in horror.

The surgeon packed the felt cap against the wound and eased himself back. ‘He’s done for. Nothing I can do to save him, sir.’

‘Nothing?’

Pausinus picked up Crispus’s wrist and felt for a pulse, then let it drop. ‘He’s dead.’

Cato placed a hand on the centurion’s forearm but sensed nothing. No movement at all. He swallowed. ‘All right . . . Then see to the others.’

As Pausinus moved away, Cato gave the centurion’s forearm a last squeeze. ‘Rest easy in the shades, Centurion Crispus,’ he muttered. ‘You have earned it. Rest well with our fallen comrades.’

He took a calming breath, then rose to his feet and turned back towards the gorge. The enemy warriors were still cheering defiantly. All around Cato, the legionaries glared back. He sensed their bitter, angry mood and their thirst for revenge. The fire of battle burned in their veins, and they were keen to avenge their fallen comrades. That was all very well, he thought, but what could be done? The Deceanglians had chosen a fine position to mount their delaying action. Until the crags were cleared, there could be no further assault on the barricade blocking the gorge. And to reach the men who had broken up the attack would mean a steep climb, all the while exposed to yet more rocks tumbling down on the heads of the Roman soldiers. It would be murderous work.

He reluctantly concluded that there was no alternative but to find another route around the gorge. He went in search of Tribune Livonius and found him watching from the rise, with the mounted contingent of the Blood Crows.

‘Good to see you’re safe, sir,’ Livonius greeted him. ‘That was quite a trap the natives set us.’

‘Yes, it was,’ Cato said. ‘You’ve got your campaign map with you?’

‘Yes, sir. Over there.’ He gestured to where his servant Hieropates stood by their two mules laden with the mapping tools and the tribune’s campaign supplies.

‘I want to see it, now.’

Livonius glanced up into the rain. ‘But, sir, the ink will run.’

‘Not if it’s kept out of the wet. Get some of my men to use their shields as a shelter. Do it now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As the tribune hurried away, Cato turned to Miro. ‘Decurion, get down to the Fourth Cohort and find out the number of casualties. Tell Centurion Festinus that he’s in command. The optio of the First Century can take charge of the unit for the present.’

‘Yes, sir . . . Centurion Crispus?’

‘He’s dead,’ Cato responded bluntly. ‘Now get on with it.’

Miro saluted and trotted down the gentle slope as Cato made his way to where Livonius was ordering two of the Blood Crows to hold their shields steady overhead. Hieropates, leather tube tucked under his arm, moved into the makeshift shelter and removed a roll of vellum, holding it open for the tribune and Cato as they ducked under the shields. The route of the army had been clearly marked, with estimated distances between camps and notations concerning the lie of the land on either side of the route. Livonius tapped a blank area just beyond the previous night’s camp.

‘We’re roughly here. Of course, we won’t have a chance to update it until we make camp.’

Cato shot him an irritated glance. ‘Very helpful.’

He closed his eyes a moment as he recalled the day’s march. They had spent all of it struggling along the track that passed through the meandering valley. The slopes rose steeply on either side, broken by rocky outcrops. There had been no other obvious routes to take. He thought back to the site of the night before. There had been two further valleys that had led away from the spot where the army had halted. He pointed to the mark and the notes relating to the camp.

‘What about the other valleys? Is it possible we can use either of them to work round this position?’

Hieropates shook his head. ‘Not unless you want to lose two days, Prefect. I rode a few miles up each as the army was making camp. One turns to the north and bends back almost in the direction of Mediolanum. The other leads south towards Ordovician territory. But the country there was slightly more open.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘We could use that to bypass the gorge.’

‘Good.’ Cado decided. ‘If we can get round it, Quintatus can always send a small force back to clear the gorge from the other side and open our lines of communication back to Mediolanum by the most direct route. Of course, it’ll mean a delay while the army turns around and takes the southern route tomorrow.’

Livonius clicked his tongue. ‘The legate’s not going to be happy, sir.’

‘I can’t help that. Put the map away, Hieropates.’

As the slave carefully rolled it up and returned it to its leather case, Cato turned to take another look at the gorge. The enemy’s barricade did not look formidable, nor did the body of warriors behind it. It was the men occupying the impregnable crags who presented the real strength of the position. He hissed in frustration and mentally composed the report he would make to the legate advising him to turn the column around and march back the way they had come. The rank and file would feel bitterly resentful about retracing their steps through the mud. But then soldiers were wont to grumble even when things were going well. It was Quintatus who presented the real challenge. He had wanted to make a quick strike into the heart of enemy territory. Instead, the army had crawled forward at a slow pace, and now would have to turn around. The legate was sure to be furious, but Cato could see no way of forcing the gorge without very heavy casualties.

He was about to give Thraxis the details for a verbal report when there was a commotion a short distance back down the track, and over the heads of the men and beasts of the army who had been held up by the action in the gorge appeared Quintatus’s personal standard and that of the Fourteenth Legion.

‘It’s the legate,’ said Livonius. ‘Come forward to see for himself, no doubt.’

‘Then he’s saved me the trouble of finding him.’

They watched as the men on the track, cajoled by their centurions and optios, struggled aside to make way for the army’s commander and his senior officers. As soon as he caught sight of Cato, the legate reined in beside him and glared down.

‘Why has the column stopped? What are those men doing formed up?’

Cato pointed towards the gorge. ‘It’s the enemy, sir.’

Quintatus sat up in his saddle and stared briefly at the barricade and the warriors beyond. ‘That rabble? Just sweep them aside and get the column moving.’

‘We’ve made an attack already, sir. But they’ve got men up there on the crags, ready to bombard us with rocks. I lost a centurion and several legionaries. The position’s too strong to force without risking further losses. I suggest we fall back and find another way round, sir.’

‘What? Are you mad? Are you willing to let a handful of barbarians deflect an entire Roman army? Have you lost your senses? If we retreat from that motley bunch of barbarians, the enemy will ridicule us. Is that what you want, Prefect?’

‘Of course not, sir,’ Cato replied at once. He accepted that the legate had a point. If the army was forced to turn aside, the Deceanglians would score a moral victory over Rome, and the Druids would make sure that news of it spread rapidly across the island. But if confronting the tribesmen resulted in the loss of many Roman lives, they would be able to boast about the handful of their comrades who had defied a vastly greater force. Either way, the enemy would have cause to celebrate their humiliation of Legate Quintatus and his men.

He thought quickly. ‘We could bring forward some of the bolt-throwers and a catapult, sir. Give them a taste of our artillery and I’m sure they’ll turn tail and abandon the gorge.’