Simon Scarrow - Britannia

He was quickly forced to go down on his hands and knees as he struggled up the slope, clutching at rocks and scrabbling for toeholds as he heaved himself up. The weight of his armour and the shield hanging from a strap across his shoulder quickly made exhausting work of it, and the cold and wet of earlier was soon not even a memory as sweat poured from his brow and his heart pounded against his ribs.

The Blood Crows had made it halfway to the top of the crags when Cato heard the order to form testudos.

‘Shit . . .’ he muttered. Festinus and the leading three centuries of his cohort were about to advance into the gorge, beneath the cliffs from where the enemy would batter them to pieces well before they could reach the barricade and engage the Deceanglian warriors. Cato renewed his efforts, snatching at handholds ahead of him and hauling himself up. Ahead he could see a narrow ledge, and a short distance beyond that what looked like the top of the crags, outlined against the clearing sky. He barely noticed that the rain had finally stopped and that the water on the surface of the rocks was gleaming in the first rays of the sun.

When he reached the ledge, he slumped down on his haunches, gasping for breath. As he waited for the others to join him, he looked down on the foreshortened ranks of the legionaries and saw the last men joining the testudo formations. There was little sense of rush about them, and a moment later Cato saw the legate ride forward and start gesticulating forcefully at Centurion Festinus. The latter saluted and turned to shout an order, and the three centuries began to tramp forward, the formations looking like scaled beetles as they edged into the gorge.

The first ten of Cato’s men had joined him on the ledge, red-faced and gasping. There was no time to rest them. ‘Come on, lads. One last effort and we’re at the top. Then we’ll cut those bastards down before they can do any more harm.’

He did not wait for a response but rose to his feet and reached for the next handhold. Thanks to the breadth of the ledge, the others could scale the rocks on either side, and they would reach the top in a wave, rather than singly, he realised with relief. Then there was a cracking noise, and a sudden rush of loose earth, and he turned to see one of his men clinging on desperately with one hand while the rock he had dislodged slid on to the ledge, its momentum carrying it further and over the edge. An instant later there was a sharp cry of alarm, cut off, and then a wild cry as one of the Blood Crows was struck and fell away from the cliff, tumbling thirty feet or so through the air before his head smashed into a boulder and his cries were silenced. But even then, their echoes sounded clearly off the sides of the gorge.

‘Keep moving!’ Cato called out to his companions as loudly as he dared, fearful that the man’s fall had attracted the attention of the enemy above them. The Blood Crows realised the danger well enough and struggled up frantically. Cato saw that he was no more than ten feet from the top and felt the lightness of relief fill his guts. Then a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention, and he turned and spotted a fur-clad figure staring down at them, fifty feet away along the crag. The warrior thrust out his arm, at the same time crying out in alarm.

‘They’re on to us!’ one of the auxiliaries called, and the Blood Crows hesitated.

‘Keep going!’ Cato bellowed, all sense of discretion gone now that they had been spotted. ‘Get up! Get up!’

They climbed on desperately as the enemy warrior sprinted across the uneven ground, leaping between the boulders as he drew his sword and charged towards the Romans. He reached the first of the auxiliaries as the Thracian was pulling himself on to the top of the crags. Too late he saw the danger and threw his arm up in an effort to protect himself from the blow. The swordsman’s weapon flashed in the sunlight and there was a deep grunt as the heavy blade cut through flesh, shattered bone and all but severed the limb before the edge bit into the auxiliary’s shoulder, driving the breath from his body, blood spraying from the stump just below his elbow. Beyond the fallen soldier his comrades were scrambling on to the crags, unslipping their shields and drawing their swords before the enemy warrior could turn on them.

Looking beyond the tribesman, Cato took in the wider scene. There were perhaps twenty more warriors fifty paces away, lining the edge of the crag, heavy rocks in their hands as they prepared to hurl them down on to the approaching legionaries. So far it seemed they had not paid the swordsman’s warning cries any attention. But now he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted to them as loudly as he could. The nearest men turned to look over their shoulders, then, seeing the handful of Romans, abruptly dropped their missiles and began to rush across the rocky terrain to confront the threat to their position. Emboldened by his approaching comrades, the first man buried the point of his sword in the back of his victim’s neck before wrenching it free and charging towards the next auxiliary. There were already five men on the crags with Cato, and they braced themselves to deal with the warrior as the prefect glanced back down the side of the cliff to where the rest of his men were still climbing.

‘Get up here! Fast as you fucking can!’

Then he turned to join the others as the warrior leapt at them, swinging his sword in a vicious wide arc at the first auxiliary in his path. Despite the strain of the long climb, the man brought his shield up and punched out to deflect the blow, then stepped into his enemy’s reach to deliver a brutal thrust of his sword. The tribesman doubled over as the impact drove him off his feet. The point of the blade burst through the fur cloak on his back, having cut through his spine, and his legs buckled, dragging the sword down with him. The auxiliary kicked him to the rocky surface and braced his foot against the man’s sternum as he wrenched the bloodied blade free.

‘Good work!’ Cato slapped the auxiliary on the shoulder, then drew his own sword and readied his shield as his men fell in on either side. Behind him he could hear the grunts and curses of the other Blood Crows as they reached the top and struggled to their feet before joining their comrades facing the enemy. As one of the auxiliaries made to advance across the crags, Cato called out, ‘Hold your position! Wait until the others catch up.’

By the time the last of the squadron had reached the top, the first of the enemy had stopped only a spear’s length away, expression wild as he weighed up the Thracians, sword in one hand, a small shield barely bigger than a buckler in the other. As his companions began to join him, equally determined-looking, he fixed his gaze on Cato and screamed a war cry, mouth agape, lips stretched back and teeth bared, then charged. Cato just had time to thrust his shield out to absorb the warrior’s first blow. It caught the edge of the oval shield, forcing it round in Cato’s grip so that his chest was exposed as the man followed up with a savage punch of his own shield. Cato caught it on the guard of his sword, and then pressed on with a weak thrust that delivered no more than a bruising impact to his opponent’s chain-mail vest. But it was enough to send the man reeling back a pace before they both recovered their fighting stances and faced off again. Cato was dimly aware of the struggles on either side as his men and the enemy joined the contest for possession of the crags. The scrape and clatter of blades and the crash of blows landed on shields mingled with the grunts and curses of the combatants.

The man facing Cato lowered himself into a crouch, watching intently as he waited for his opponent to make a move. The prefect smiled grimly, recognising that the initiative had passed to him, then stepped forward quickly, leading with his left boot and pushing his shield forward, forcing his enemy to strike out with his sword in order to stand his ground. Cato let his shield absorb the blow before he struck back. Up came the blade, knocking the short sword aside. As the man’s arm swung out after the sword, Cato rushed forward into his body. At the last moment, he lowered the brim of his helmet and savagely butted the reinforced brow guard into the warrior’s face. The blow was hard and jarred Cato’s neck, but the unexpected attack did its job and the man staggered back, dazed. Too dazed to save himself as Cato stabbed his sword up into the tribesman’s throat and ripped it free in a welter of blood. The warrior dropped his sword and clasped his hand to his throat as he slumped to his knees, gurgling horribly.