Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Given the situation, and the arrival of bitterly cold winter weather, such a punishment was as good as a death sentence, and every man in the tent knew it. There was silence, except for the low moan of the rising wind outside.

‘Very well, I think we can all appreciate the need to move as swiftly as possible. The army will start leaving the camp as soon as darkness falls. Our wounded will be transferred to the surviving warships and transports to make their way along the coast ahead of us. At least they will be spared the discomfort and danger of the march. The artillery will be broken down under cover of darkness and loaded on to their carts. The camp will be abandoned. We can’t afford to waste time demolishing it. We’ll leave a few of our dead set up on the rampart to look like we’re still here. It won’t fool the enemy for long, but it may buy us a few hours at least. The force blocking the mouth of the valley will be relieved at dusk by the remaining cohorts from the Fourteenth, and Prefect Cato’s Thracians and the archers can remain in place. They will light campfires and arrange more of our dead around them before pulling back to join the column on the march. With a bit of luck we will be several miles away before the enemy are aware that we have gone. After that, gentlemen, the race is on.’

Cato quietly sucked in a breath. Some race, he reflected. The army, hungry and cold, would have to march through ice and snow without let-up. Those too slow to keep their place in the line of march would lag behind and be at the mercy of the Druids and their allies. The only prize offered in this race was survival, at a terrible cost in suffering and danger. The price of losing would be that every man standing there in the tent, every man in the camp beyond, would die. For himself he cared little. What did life mean to him now that Julia was no longer there? He felt an awful abyss filled with grief opening up before him and forced himself to step back. He had to be strong, for the sake of his men, for Macro, and for his son. Until the campaign was over. Only then could he afford the luxury of grief.

Dawn was still some hours away when Cato reported to Legate Valens, who was warming himself by the embers of a campfire to the rear of the cohorts deployed to hold the mouth of the valley. With him were the commander of the archers and the centurions of the five cohorts tasked with holding the enemy off. The sky had been clear for most of the night, and a half-moon hung low above the horizon, adding its glow to the tiny glint of the stars. The enemy had tried to force their way through late in the afternoon, and again at dusk. Each time the attack had been broken up by volleys of javelins and arrows, and the caltrops and hastily erected field fortifications set up by the legionaries. After the second attempt, the natives had sent large parties of men up the sides of the valley to try and outflank the defenders. The Romans had countered the move, with the two sides struggling through deep snowdrifts to get at each other, dark figures flailing with sword, spear and shield against the white backdrop. At length, the fighting ceased as each side pulled back for the night and foraged for whatever wood was available to light fires, so that they could eat and stay as warm as possible during the bitterly cold night.

Cato and the Blood Crows had been positioned to the rear, ready to cover any retreat in the event that the infantry were forced back from the mouth of the valley. But they had not been needed, and once night had fallen, Cato gave orders for each squadron in turn to feed their mounts and remove their saddles to rest the horses’ backs and minimise the risk of saddle sores. Thanks to the ambient light of the moon and stars and the dull gleam of the snow, there was no opportunity to attempt any surprise movements, and a wary calm settled over the serene beauty of the mountainous landscape.

Then, in the depths of the night, the stars began to blink out, a dim veil of cloud appeared across the face of the moon and a light dusting of snow crystals began to fall. That was when Valens decided to call in his officers and make ready to carry out the most difficult part of his orders.

‘You sent for me, sir?’

‘Ah, Prefect Cato, then we’re all present. Come and stand by the fire.’ Valens gestured to a space amongst the men crowding the warm glow from the dull golden gleam wavering over the embers of the campfire.

Cato spotted Macro and nodded a greeting as he stepped into place beside him. He gestured towards his friend’s leg. ‘How has it been?’

Macro had resumed command of the Fourth Cohort and had marched at its head when they had relieved the men already guarding the valley as night had fallen.

‘Still a bit stiff, but I’ll manage.’

‘No surprises there. You always do. Tough as a horse, you are.’

‘An old horse, maybe. But I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard. Not by a long shot.’

‘Delighted to hear it.’ Cato smiled for a moment and then lowered his voice. ‘I have a mount set aside for you, in case you need it.’

Macro pursed his lips. ‘Thank you. Let’s hope I won’t, eh?’

As they were speaking, Valens looked searchingly towards the scatter of distant fires spread across the valley floor over a mile away that marked the position of the enemy’s army. Then he returned his attention to his officers.

‘It’s time to begin the withdrawal. Prefect Parminius and his archers will go first. Then the first of the legionary cohorts, allowing for a quarter of a mile between units. The Fourth Cohort will be the last of the infantry to leave, once they have carried out their final task.’

Macro could not help a glance towards the carts laden with corpses that stood a short distance away. He was not looking forward to that. But even in death his fallen comrades might yet be of help to those that lived, and he steeled himself for the job at hand.

‘The final element of Quintatus’s plan is that the Blood Crows will remain here to keep the illusion going that we are defending the line in force. Prefect Cato, you and your men will pull out only when the enemy rumble our little deception. Not before. I want you to buy us as much time as possible to rejoin the main column.’

Cato nodded firmly. ‘You can depend on the Blood Crows, sir.’

‘I dare say that was why the legate chose you to command the rearguard, Cato. The same reason why you were given the vanguard during the advance. First into the fight, and last out. You’re earning quite a reputation, eh?’

‘Maybe, sir. But the trick of it will be living long enough to enjoy having a reputation in the first place.’

The comment drew some welcome laughter from the other officers, and the tension over their difficult duty eased a fraction. Then Cato sensed a blur of motion pass his eye and felt something brush his cheek. Glancing up, he saw the swirling veil of snowflakes settling over the mountains. The others were looking at it too, and there was a brief silence before Valens coughed.

‘You have your orders, gentlemen. Prefect Parminius, begin pulling your men out the moment it is safe to do so. Keep your heads, keep your men quiet, and may Fortuna march at your sides. Dismissed!’

The snowfall increased and began to blot out the surrounding terrain, and the light from the enemy’s fires diminished into faint blooms of red. As soon as he was sure that the withdrawal could not be observed, Valens gave the order to the archers, and Parminius led his men down towards the coastal route being pursued by the rest of the army. When they were almost out of sight, the First Cohort of the legion followed, the men wrapped up in their cloaks as they hoisted their yokes on to their shoulders and trudged off quietly through the steady sweep of snow layering the rocks, trees and ground. The legate mounted his horse and rode off with the last of the detachment, leaving the rearguard of the Fourth Cohort and the Blood Crows behind.