Simon Scarrow - Britannia

The men of the rearguard were not so fortunate. Quintatus had given orders for the Blood Crows to stand watch, and Cato’s men were able to rest for only half the night. Once again, Macro’s cohort was assigned to Cato’s small command, and was to provide the backbone of any stand that had to be made in order to hold the enemy at bay. But at least the legionaries were spared the rigours of mounting a picket on a freezing winter’s night. As the watch changed, Cato rode forward with a small escort, warily picking his way back down the track for a few miles. If the enemy scouts were keeping an eye on the Roman column, they made no attempt to stand their ground and challenge the small party. And then, from the crest of a hill, Cato caught sight of the enemy’s campfires, some eight or so miles behind the Roman column. Less than a day’s march, and much closer than he had anticipated, given the earlier ruse to delay the natives.

The Romans broke camp and marched on at first light. For the first time in days, the sun rose into a clear sky. However, it shed little warmth over the winter landscape, and the mountains and hills cast long shadows across the snow. The rations had been halved the day before, and the first pangs of hunger made themselves felt by the end of the second day. Exhausted by the long hours of marching, the men had worked up a ferocious appetite, which had to be satisfied by the mean allocation of barley and dried meat.

During the afternoon, the enemy horsemen tracking the army had grown significantly in number, and as the column halted, just before dusk, Cato’s scouts reported that a large force of native infantry was no more than four miles away and closing. Just before the last light faded, they appeared along the skyline, silhouetted against the glow of the red sunset. They remained there in silence for a while before falling back out of sight. This time Quintatus had given orders to surround the camp with a ditch and rampart, and the men laboured into the night, struggling to break up the frozen ground, before their commander was satisfied.

Thin clouds were scudding across a starry sky as the tired officers shuffled into the headquarters tent at the first change of watch. Cato and Macro had made a final round of the pickets posted outside the camp and were the last to arrive. As they stood with the other officers, Legate Quintatus cleared his throat and coughed, then took a long look over the faces of his subordinates before he began the evening briefing.

‘Gentlemen, the situation has become somewhat more serious now that the enemy are upon us. We can assume that they will attempt to engage us on the morrow. Tempting as it is to turn about and give ’em some stick, that would only delay us and play into their hands. They will have guessed that we are short of rations and the longer they can keep us in these mountains, the weaker we become and so easier to defeat. We must keep moving. That in itself is going to become an increasing challenge thanks to the weather and the reduction to quarter-rations, effective tomorrow.’

Macro gave a low groan at the words, as did a number of the other officers. But the legate ignored them as he continued. ‘There is no choice in the matter. Quarter-rations will give us two more days. After that, we march on empty stomachs, until we are resupplied. Which is being arranged. I sent Tribune Glaber and a squadron of Dacian horses ahead of the column yesterday. He has orders to organise a supply convoy at Deva and bring it to us along the coastal route. At best it will take four days before we encounter them, which means our men will go hungry for two days.’

‘Hungry?’ Macro muttered. ‘They’ll starve, more like. In this cold, it will hit the men all the harder.’

‘Yes,’ Cato agreed.

‘There has to be something else we can do.’

‘There is.’ Cato stepped forward and raised a hand. ‘Sir, if I may?’

‘What is it, Prefect?’

‘We won’t last long in this weather without finding something for the men to eat. It’s time we slaughtered some of the mules. Enough to give us meat for a few days. Perhaps even enough to see us through until we reach Glaber and his convoy.’

‘And which mules did you have in mind? The gods know we have few enough of them.’

‘We slaughter the animals drawing the artillery train.’

‘To feed the men who will have to step into their traces to replace them?’

Cato shook his head. ‘Not what I was going to suggest, sir. I say we leave the artillery behind.’

Quintatus’s eyebrows rose. ‘Abandon our bolt-throwers and catapults to the enemy? Are you mad? Rome would never forgive me.’

‘With respect, sir. Rome might be even less forgiving if we attempted to save the artillery at the expense of the entire column.’

It was a bold assertion, and the other officers could not hide their surprised expressions as they glanced from Cato to their commander to see how the latter would react. Quintatus shared their consternation, but Cato continued before he could respond. ‘We don’t let the enemy capture our weapons. We burn the lot . . . but only after we give them one last taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end.’

Quintatus regarded him thoughtfully, torn between admonishing his subordinate and listening to his plan. In the end, the legate sucked his teeth and nodded. ‘Let’s hear it.’

The natives came rushing up to the brow of the hill as the last cohort of the Twentieth Legion was marching out of the camp, just behind the baggage train. The ramparts had been hastily shovelled into the ditch to deny the enemy any shelter, and the outline of the fort was preserved in the dark stain of turned earth against the white of the surrounding winter landscape.

Only the rearguard remained to defy the enemy, drawn up in a thin line across the route taken by the column the evening before. Cato had reversed the usual deployment by placing his mounted Thracians in the centre and the auxiliary infantry and Macro’s legionaries on either flank. The cavalry were in close order, with the narrowest of gaps between each rider. This served to screen the line of bolt-throwers just to their rear. Snow had been heaped in front of the stands to help conceal them from the enemy, and dry feed and pails of pitch were packed about the base of each weapon, ready to be set alight. The legionary crews stood by with wicker baskets containing the last of the army’s supply of bolts. Four braziers glowed some ten paces behind the line, and thin wisps of smoke eddied a short distance into the sharp dawn air before the light breeze dispersed them. All along the line the men breathed faint puffs of steam, while plumes jetted from the nostrils of the horses.

‘Noisy bastards, aren’t they?’ Macro opined as he settled his helmet on to his padded skullcap and fastened the ties securely under his chin.

On the ridge, the Druids were pacing along the front of the native horde, arms raised, working their followers up into a battle frenzy. Cato had witnessed it many times before, but even so, he felt a shiver trace its way down his spine at the terrifying din rising from the dense ranks of the enemy. He swallowed and did his best not to seem perturbed in front of Macro and the other men.

‘I hope our little surprise puts a dent in their hubris.’

‘Dent? Fuck that. I want it to tear a bloody great hole through their hubris, and their hearts whilst we’re at it.’

Cato could not help a wry smile. Nothing ever seemed to disturb his friend’s equanimity in the face of imminent battle. Then his expression hardened as he considered Macro’s hot-headedness when his blood was up. ‘Keep in mind that this is just a delaying action. The point of the exercise is to give them a hiding and make them pause for thought while we pull back in good order.’