Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Cato had a clear view of the defenders behind the barricade and saw that there were more of them than he had thought: as many as four hundred warriors, closed up and ready to defend the gorge. In amongst them he picked out some figures in dark robes and cloaks, waving their arms, shouting encouragement at their men and hurling curses at the Romans. Druids, he realised. The enemy would be sure to put up a good fight and hold the line for a while yet.

Then he smiled to himself and turned quickly to the men who had followed him to the cliff’s edge. ‘Sheathe your swords and down shields!’ Once they had done as he had ordered, he pointed to the rocks. ‘Let’s pay those bastards back in kind. Help yourselves, lads.’

He picked up a rock half the size of a melon and carried it along the crag until he was past the barricade, then heaved it over the edge. He watched it tumble through the air, shrinking to a dot, then saw it glance off a shield and strike the ground. He growled with frustration and turned back to fetch another rock as the Thracians began to throw their missiles down on the enemy, letting out shouts of glee or disappointment as they struck down the natives or missed. Cato’s next rock was aimed, as best he could, at the place where the enemy ranks were most tightly packed, and this time he was rewarded with a strike squarely on the top of a warrior’s head. The man went down as though he had been hammered into the ground. Some of those around him looked up, their faces white specks surrounded by dark hair. As soon as they saw the auxiliaries far above, they began to point and shout warnings to their comrades. More were crushed under falling rocks, and soon the tribesmen were swirling around as they tried to dodge the bombardment, their attention drawn away from the struggle along the barricade.

Cato saw one of the Druids rush forward, thrusting his fighters towards the attacking legionaries. He had rallied several of the men before he too was struck down, his skull crushed and his body laid out, arms and legs splayed below the bloody ruin that had been his head. The sight of the dead Druid badly unnerved the tribesmen, who began to break ranks and retreat down the gorge to the open ground beyond, where they would be safe from the falling rocks. The panic was infectious, and soon only a handful of defenders remained, desperately fighting an uneven battle along the length of the barricade. Outnumbered and outfought by soldiers who had been trained and equipped to fight as effectively as any man in the known world, the tribesmen began to give ground, forced away from the barricade as the first of the Romans climbed over and pressed forward.

Turning to his men, Cato called out, ‘That’s enough, lads! Put those rocks down before you do any mischief to the legionaries.’

Having been delighted at the chance to turn the tables on their enemy, the Thracians reluctantly set the rocks aside and watched as the men of the First Century created a gap in the barricade wide enough for men to stream through and join the fight. The result was no longer in doubt, and a short time later, a native horn blasted three times. At once the remaining fighters broke away from the legionaries and ran back to join their comrades beyond the gorge. One of the surviving Druids pointed towards the side of the valley, and the Deceanglians began to stream up the slope. Seeing their retreat, Cato hurried back to the crags overlooking the Roman column and cupped his hands to his mouth.

‘Miro! Decurion Miro!’

The men of the rearguard looked up towards him, and a cheer rose from their throats at the sight of the prefect who had taken the enemy’s position. Cato spotted the legate and his staff, and then picked out Miro close to the leading squadron of Thracian horsemen.

‘Miro! Mount the men and start the pursuit! Ride ’em down before they can get away.’

If the decurion acknowledged the order, Cato never heard him, but a moment later he was relieved to see Miro vault into his saddle and lead the Blood Crows into the gorge at a trot. They passed through the barricade and fanned out on the far side, their longer cavalry swords drawn, ready to cut down any of the enemy they encountered. Those who had been injured and were slowly making their way to safety were the first to be dispatched without mercy. The rest had started up the slope, and now Cato could readily understand why their leaders had picked such difficult ground over which to make their escape. The inclination of the valley side and the runs of scree made it impossible for mounted men to follow them, and he realised that there would be no effective pursuit of the fleeing tribesmen. It was bitterly frustrating, but he reminded himself that at least the path before the advancing army had been cleared and the column could continue on its way. Or at least it might have done had it been earlier in the day. Looking up at the low angle of the sun, Cato saw that it was a scant few hours before dusk. Quintatus would have to give the order to halt the army soon to allow the men time to construct their marching camp.

The enemy had achieved their goal, Cato mused as he watched them make their escape. It had been a classic delaying action. They had held up the Roman advance for half a day and inflicted a number of casualties. More importantly, they had bought themselves time for whatever plans they had to counter the advance. He felt an icy tingle in the back of his neck at the possibility that the Druids and their Deceanglian allies were plotting something and Quintatus was unwittingly playing into their hands. Then he smiled bitterly at himself. Of course they would try to delay the Romans. This was their land, their home, and for the Druids, Mona was their most sacred soil. They would take every chance to keep the Romans from it. There would be more attempts to delay them long enough for the onset of winter to force Quintatus to withdraw from the mountains. It would be a hard-fought campaign, Cato knew. Contested every step of the way. This afternoon’s brutal action was only the first taste of what was to come.

The warmth of the late-afternoon sunlight was causing vapour to rise from the tunics of those around him so that they seemed to be smouldering. As they noticed it, the soldiers began laughing at each other, as men will gladly seize on anything light-spirited after a desperate action against the enemy. Despite his sombre mood, Cato indulged them. Once again the Blood Crows had proved themselves, and they deserved the brief moment of respite.

‘Hey, Optio!’ one of the men called out. ‘Since they’re handing out promotions to the rank and file, do you think you could put in a word for me? I’m sick of staring at your horse’s arse at the head of the line.’

The other men of the patrol laughed loudly, and Pandarus shifted in his saddle to look back down the narrow track.

‘Diomedes, if they ever promote you, then the rest of the rankers will be hard pressed to tell you from the back end of your horse. The army could not afford such confusion.’

The men laughed again, this time at their comrade’s expense, and after the briefest of delays, Diomedes joined in, anxious to be seen to take it as well as he dished it out.

It had been a month since Optio Pandarus had been elevated to his new rank, and yet he was still being ribbed by his comrades. And mightily wearing it was becoming too, he mused with a flick of the reins. He was leading the patrol along the forest track that angled up the side of the valley towards a prominent ridge. In the last few days the sky had been mostly clear. But the change in weather had been accompanied by a sharp drop in temperature, and the morning frosts had been bitter indeed. It was close to noon, yet the sun was still low in the sky and gave off little warmth.