Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘That will rather depend on the enemy, sir. They might want to get stuck in all the same, despite our plans. That’s one thing life in the army teaches you early on: the other side doesn’t always play along with the plan.’

‘Yes, well thank you for that pearl of wisdom.’

‘No need to get shirty with me, sir. Just saying. Besides, once they see the bolt-throwers going up in smoke, they might feel emboldened to go for us again.’

‘They might,’ Cato conceded. ‘That’s why my lads have been issued with caltrops.’

He gestured towards one of the nearest of the Thracians, who had a thick leather bag hanging from his saddle. ‘They’ll sow those across the ground behind the bolt-throwers after we fall back. If the natives recover their nerve enough to come after us, they’ll soon have a new reason to think twice about it.’

Macro pursed his lips and looked at his friend admiringly. ‘Seems you have thought of everything.’

‘Hardly. But I do try to cover the possibilities as far as I can. It helps to keep me alive.’

‘Which is always a good thing . . .’

‘Quite.’

The Druids had finished working up their followers, and war horns brayed from the top of the hill. A moment later, the warriors launched themselves down the slope towards the thin line of Romans waiting for them. The air filled with the sound of their war cries, invocations to their gods and the insults they screamed at those who had the temerity to invade their mountainous lands. Cato looked along the line and noted with satisfaction that the men under his command showed no reaction, but stood their ground and watched in silence. Such silence could be just as intimidating as the raucous din of a Celtic rush, speaking eloquently as it did of hard discipline and ruthless training.

‘I’ll see you afterwards, sir.’

‘Look forward to it.’

They exchanged a salute before Macro strode back to his position at the right flank of his cohort, hiding the discomfort in his leg as best he could. Cato heaved himself up into the saddle, not without some difficulty given his tiredness and the weight of his scale vest and equipment. Once settled, he adjusted his grip on the reins and eased his mount to the centre of the line, taking up position behind the concealed bolt-throwers. He nodded to the centurion in command of the battery, and the latter cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Bolt-thrower crews . . . load!’

The legionaries who had been standing ready by the windlasses now threw their weight into cranking back the torsion arms with a steady clacking of the ratchets, the rhythm slowing as the strain increased, then stopping as the cords, tense as lengths of iron, were held in place by the trigger mechanism. Finally, shafts were plucked from the ammunition baskets and carefully placed in the channel running down the length of the beam that passed between the thick twisted cords that powered the throwing arms. The telltale noise of the ratchets was lost amid the din of the charging warriors, and Cato could see no slowing or hesitation in those careering down the slope towards him, half a mile away.

As they approached, the first flakes of the day began to fall, drifting down from a dark sky. So much the better, thought Cato. The snow would help to reduce visibility so that there was less chance of the ruse being exposed and the charge halted before it entered the range of the Roman weapons. Timing was everything. If Cato gave the order too soon, the Blood Crows would reveal the ambush prematurely and the Druids might have time to call off all but the most headstrong warriors. If he gave the order too late, the bolt-thrower crews might only get off a few shots before the charge crashed home and shattered the Roman line. He waited as long as he dared and then barked the order.

‘Blood Crows! To the rear!’

Alternate riders walked their horses forward a length to allow space for their comrades to turn, before turning themselves and filing back between the bolt-throwers to form up and wait for fresh orders. Now that their target was clearly in view, the artillery crews hurriedly made last-minute adjustments to elevation pegs and aim, and then stood back as the team leaders stepped up ready to pull on the trigger pins. Now, at last, the enemy divined the nature of the threat that faced them. The men in the forefront of the charge slowed their pace, and there were pockets of confusion as those following on ploughed blindly into their backs. Cato raised his hand and shouted a fresh order.

‘Artillery! Prepare to shoot!’

The men eyed him tensely, and Cato was pleased that the firm discipline ensured that no man beat him to the trigger and unleashed a bolt prematurely.

‘Release!’

The legionaries wrenched the trigger levers back, and the throwing arms snapped forward and cracked against the densely stuffed leather buffers. The bolts leapt from their grooves, spinning viciously as they darted towards the enemy in a shallow arc and disappeared into their ranks. The impact of the first volley inspired awe and horror in Cato. There were nearly fifty serviceable bolt-throwers in the line. The rest – those needing repair – had already been broken and burned in camp. The volley descended like a fine veil on the enemy, and then it was as if the natives had run full pelt into an invisible wall. Scores were skewered and hurled back into the mass, and in places it was as if some great beast had ploughed a path through their ranks, striking men down and aside without mercy. The wild war cries died in their throats and the charge stumbled to a halt, those at the rear continuing to surge forward and adding to the confusion.

Cato looked on with grim-faced satisfaction before he turned to the centurion in command of the battery and called out, ‘Shoot at will!’

The crews worked as swiftly as possible and the air was filled with the clatter of ratchets and the sharp thwack of the throwing arms striking the buffers. A near-constant hail of bolts slashed down into the tightly packed mass of enemy warriors halted on the slope, while around them the snow was spattered with crimson, bright as poppies, thought Cato. Already, little heaps of bodies, some still writhing, lined the enemy’s front, and more fell all the time, torn down by the Roman artillery. A Druid ran forward a few paces and turned to cajole his followers, waving his arms frantically and thrusting a spear in the direction of the Roman line. An instant later he was caught squarely in the back and hurled several feet before collapsing in front of the tribesmen. A groan rose from their lips and spread through the throng, and then Cato saw men peeling away, falling back up the slope. Uncertainly at first, but then breaking into a run as they got further from their comrades still trying to move forward in the teeth of the Roman barrage. More turned to flee, and then their resolve broke completely and the entire force was streaming back up the slope, leaving hundreds of their stricken comrades in the bloodied snow.

‘Cease shooting!’ Cato yelled. ‘Cease shooting!’

One by one the bolt-throwers fell silent and still, and then Cato turned to his cohort. ‘Blood Crows, to the front! Form line and prepare to advance!’

The Thracians surged through the gaps between the weapons and jostled into place. As soon as they were ready, Cato drew his sword and pointed the tip at the fleeing enemy. ‘Advance!’

The line edged forward, tackle chinking as the horses’ hooves plunged into the soft snow. More snow fluttered in the cold air, mingling with the breath of men and their mounts. Cato gave the order to increase the pace to a trot, and the line grew slightly more ragged as the Thracians struggled to keep their horses moving at an even speed. Ahead lay the bodies of the enemy, scattered on the ground amid the shafts of the bolts that stuck up at every angle. The Blood Crows slowed as they picked their way through, the riders using their spears to strike down those natives who yet lived. Then they had passed beyond on to open ground and spurred their mounts on. In the last fifty yards, Cato drew a sharp breath and cried out the order to charge, and the Blood Crows galloped after their prey. They caught up with the first of the enemy and the bloodletting began with almost savage abandon as the cavalry stabbed about them with their spears, impaling one man after another.