Simon Scarrow - Britannia

They passed several other men sitting or lying in the snow, quite evidently alive, but Cato realised he could not stop for them all without putting himself, and therefore his men, at risk, and he forced himself to ignore their fate. As they reached the crest, he paused to look back. In the distance, the vanguard of the enemy army appeared, spilling through the gap where the Roman rearguard had stood earlier. His gaze shifted to Murenus, and he saw the legionary turn to look, then shuffle to a halt. For a moment he was still, and then he slowly slumped to his knees and sat hunched over. A heavy sadness settled in Cato’s heart at the sight. Then he steeled himself, turned away and continued forward, to catch up with Macro’s cohort a short distance ahead of him.

As he entered the camp at dusk, Cato was instantly aware of a change in the mood of the men. There were still hundreds of stragglers stretching out behind the rearguard, and most did their best to pick up the pace as the last line of defence between them and the enemy marched by. The work on the ditch and rampart was not as far advanced as it should have been. The soldiers were working lethargically, despite being driven by their officers, while others were slowly erecting their tents. Several lame mules and horses were being butchered outside the headquarters tents, and even the blood was being collected to thicken the thin gruel being prepared for the senior officers.

An optio guided the rearguard to their tent lines, and while Macro’s men downed their yokes and retrieved their tents from their carts, the Blood Crows shared out the last of the remaining oats and then fed and watered their horses. There was a listlessness in the beasts as well, Cato noted, as he watched them standing where they were tethered, heads weighed down by hunger and weariness.

‘This can’t go on much longer,’ Macro observed quietly. ‘Within a day, or two at the most, the column is going to start falling to pieces. Even our lads will be losing the will to go on, whatever I threaten ’em with.’

‘If that happens, we need to be ready for it.’

Macro turned to face him directly. ‘What does that mean?’

Cato glanced round to make sure that they were not overheard. ‘It means that the rearguard needs to stay together and fight our way out, by ourselves if need be. If every man looks to his own safety, then we’re all dead. We’ll have to keep discipline tight for as long as possible.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.’

‘I know you will.’ Cato punched him gently on the shoulder. ‘I will be counting on you.’

Macro rubbed his nose. ‘We’ve watched each other’s backs plenty of times before and been through every shit storm the gods have thrown at us. What makes you think a little bit of snow and a surly mob of Druids is going to cause us any particular trouble?’

Cato laughed. ‘That’s the Macro spirit!’

Macro grimaced. ‘What else am I supposed to say? That we just give up and die? I just hope that Quintatus has enough backbone to see us through this. Him and the rest of the senior officers. Be interesting to hear what they make of things at headquarters tonight.’

Cato silently surveyed the camp before he replied. ‘Yes, it will.’

Once both cohorts were bedded down for the night and the watches set and passwords given, the two officers made their way to headquarters. There was none of the customary sound of small talk and laughter from the tents they passed. Instead, a resigned silence hung over the camp.

‘At least it’s cleared up for a while,’ Cato commented, indicating the sky. Only a few shreds of cloud lingered against the stars, and a full moon hung low over the mountains, bathing the snowy landscape with a silvery glow. ‘The other side won’t be able to give us any nasty surprises during the night.’

Macro looked in the direction of the enemy and saw the dull orange smear along the ridge to the west of the camp. ‘Like you said, they don’t need to come and get us. Just wait around until hunger does the job for them. They don’t have the balls to stand up to us in a fair fight, the bastards.’

Cato considered pointing out that if the positions were reversed, he would adopt exactly the same strategy, now that he had worked out the enemy’s intentions, but he was in no mood to debate the issue. He was too tired. At least the legate’s bodyguard was on form, snapping neatly to attention as they approached the entrance to the largest tent. They were amongst the first officers to arrive for the briefing and stood towards the front, close to the brazier that provided the light and heat inside the tent. The rest filed in in ones and twos, the last a while after the change of watch was sounded. Cato studied their expressions and demeanour and saw the same lethargy he had observed amongst the ranks earlier.

The camp prefect had been waiting for the officers to arrive and now went to inform Quintatus. The latter pushed through the flaps that led to his private tent and his subordinates stood to attention.

‘At ease, gentlemen.’

The officers settled down again and there was a stillness as their commander gathered his thoughts. Cato thought for a moment that he saw a haunted look in the man’s face, but then Quintatus cleared his throat and addressed them calmly. ‘I’ll deal with the routine issues first. According to the day’s strength returns, over five hundred men failed to reach their units by dusk. Some may arrive at the camp during the night, but it’ll only be a handful. We lost two hundred the day before. Tomorrow I’d be surprised if we lost any fewer than a thousand men to straggling. Of those in camp, the Twentieth Legion has two thousand five hundred and four effectives, the Fourteenth one thousand one hundred and eighty. Most of the auxiliary units can scarcely muster more than half their men, and we have over six hundred wounded to convey in our wagons and carts. The only cavalry unit we have left that is ready for combat is Prefect Cato’s Second Thracian.’ He paused and pursed his lips as he watched the reaction of his officers. ‘The situation is critical, gentlemen. The army is starving and bone-weary. In another day or so it will be too exhausted to fight. We need to do something if the column is to survive. Any comments?’

There was a pause before Legate Valens spoke. He was sitting with one leg stretched out, splinted and bandaged after a fall from his horse. ‘Could we not attempt to hold out here until Glaber and the relief column turn up with supplies? Failing that, we move on a day’s march and then wait. If need be, we can cut a path through the enemy army to open the way for Glaber.’

Quintatus looked pained, then shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. There is not going to be any relief column, and no food. For the simple reason that Glaber never reached Deva.’

Around Cato the other officers stirred anxiously. Quintatus waited until they had settled again. ‘Glaber was ambushed and killed, along with most of his escort, a day’s march from here. The three men who survived rejoined the column just after dusk. It seems Glaber ran into another native army. Mostly cavalry. Which explains why the force following us has made no attempt to engage us in battle. They have been waiting for their friends to march round our flank and block our retreat. A very neatly worked trap indeed, I think you’ll agree. It seems that my choice is now to either march on another day and engage those who killed Glaber, or remain here and wait for them to come to us. Either way, we’ll be surrounded when the fighting starts.’

Valens took a quick breath. ‘I say we stay put. Let the men shelter from the cold and save their energy for battle. Besides, we’ll not lose any more to straggling that way.’