Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Once the remains of the Roman army had cleared the defile, the units re-formed and began marching along a narrow valley that meandered east and south for several miles. As Valens had anticipated, the snow was lying more deeply here, and the men at the front of the column had to wade knee-high before a path was broken for those that followed. On everyone’s mind was the fight being waged for the camp. Once the enemy had forced their way in, it would all be over very quickly. When that happened, the Druids would know they had been deceived and would be sniffing for the trail of their prey at once. It would not take them long to find what was left of the path through the defile and come after the Roman column again.

The enemy was not the only matter plaguing the minds of the soldiers trudging through the snow. Some had not eaten for nearly two days and had to endure a constant twisting ache in their stomachs. At least their thirst was easily slaked by handfuls of snow. But the hunger ate away at their strength and endurance, and the men, already weary, had to force themselves to keep going, one step after another.

It did not take long for the first of them to fall out of the line of march. Their officers bawled at them to get back on their feet, and if shouting did not work, they resorted to punches and blows from their vine canes. It did the trick for some, but others just curled into a ball and took the beating, no longer caring for the authority of their superiors or even the pain inflicted on them. Those men were eventually left to their own devices and remained where they sat. There were others who remained in the line of march, but only at the cost of abandoning their kit, and soon the route was littered with mess tins, spare clothing, entrenching tools and even full marching yokes, so that their former owners had nothing left but their weapons and whatever food and drink remained in their haversacks.

It broke Macro’s heart to see soldiers, particularly his beloved legionaries, so dispirited that they willingly tossed their belongings aside against the blandishments of their officers. He watched his own men carefully, ensuring that his officers kept them moving and that they did not dispose of any kit. It was easier for the Blood Crows, who had horses to carry their belongings and who therefore had only hunger and tiredness as their constant burdens. Cato found his thoughts turning repeatedly to food, even at the occasional expense of his grief over Julia’s death. Each time he had to force himself to put such thoughts aside and keep his mind on his men, watching to make sure they stayed closed up, offering words of encouragement to those who needed it, and forever looking back down the trail for the first sign of the enemy.

At noon, as close as Cato could estimate the time in the overcast, the legate halted the column to allow the men to rest and the stragglers to catch up. It was too cold to sit, and the men stood shuffling their feet and rubbing their hands, and trying to stay as warm as they could.

Macro came striding up.

‘Bracing weather, eh?’

Cato, who had a lithe build, tended to feel the cold more acutely than his friend, and he struggled to stop his teeth chattering as he replied. ‘Does nothing ever bother you?’

‘Oh yes! Tarts with the clap, honest politicians, and anyone who cheats at dice. Cold you can get used to. Even in Britannia. But hunger? That’s different. I could murder a haunch of venison right now, soused in garum and served with a thick onion gravy.’ Macro stared into the middle distance as he continued his reverie, until a rumbling from his belly drew his attention back to his present situation. ‘Sorry about that. Not very helpful.’

‘Not helpful at all,’ Cato agreed. ‘I’d eat anything right now.’

He looked down the line to where Miro was tending to the animals. ‘I think we’ll slaughter the mules tonight. Half to the Thracians and half to your boys. Won’t be much meat to go round, but maybe we’ll have time to boil it to make it tender enough to eat without breaking our jaws. At least the men will have something to warm their insides and put a smile back on their faces. And we’ll see what we can save for tomorrow night.’

Macro shot him a quick look. ‘You’re thinking too far ahead, sir. We’ve got to get through this one day at a time. That’s what you need to fix your mind on, if you want to live.’

Cato thought a moment and gently rocked his head from side to side. ‘Wise words, I suppose. I’ll let you know if I live until tomorrow night.’ His tone became serious. ‘How are your men doing?’

‘The lads are fine. Only a handful have dropped out so far, but you’ll have seen that for yourself. Of course they’d eat their own mothers given half a chance. But for now they’ll do as they are told, if that’s what you mean.’

Cato looked round guardedly. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. From the amount of kit I have passed already, I’d say that only a handful of units are still in good enough shape to put up a decent fight. If it comes to it, the rest of the column will be depending on us. And we will be able to cover the retreat only for as long as we can retain discipline over the men and give them the heart to fight. It’s on our shoulders, Macro.’

‘I know, sir. Nothing much changes in this world. We seem to find ourselves up to our necks in trouble wherever we go. I’d swear someone had cursed us both good and proper.’

Cato laughed and then dissolved into a coughing fit. Before he could recover enough to reply, there was a shout from the rearmost squadron of the Blood Crows.

‘Enemy in sight!’

Both men turned to look down the valley. Several figures on horseback, barely more than dots against the white backdrop, were galloping towards a mound less than a mile away. When they reached it, they paused to survey the Roman column. Then one of them turned and sped back the way they had come.

‘Didn’t take them long to find us,’ said Macro. ‘Now we’re for it.’

Cato immediately called to one of his men and sent a message to the legate to inform him that the enemy had been sighted. Then he turned back to Macro.

‘If that’s just a scouting party, it will take time for them to report back and for the enemy to come after us. We’ll have a day’s start on them.’ He paused and gritted his teeth to stop them chattering. ‘If, however, they are an advance party, riding ahead of their army, then we are in trouble.’

‘Trouble? As in we-are-completely-fucked trouble, you mean?’

Cato arched an eyebrow and glanced at him. ‘You put it so eloquently, but yes.’

Word of the sighting spread through the Roman column, and the soldiers turned to gaze back at the distant enemy. Cato watched their expressions and saw fear in many of their faces, deadpan resignation in others. Hardly a man spoke. A short time later, the muffled thump of hooves caught his ear, and he turned to see Quintatus riding down the side of the column towards him, his horse kicking up a fine spray of powdery snow. He reined in as he reached Cato and squinted for a moment.

‘I count eight. Have you seen any more of them?’

‘Just the man they sent back to report on us, sir.’

‘So very soon they’ll know exactly where we are. Damn.’ The legate lowered his head in thought. ‘We’re still two days’ march from Mediolanum. Maybe as much as three days in these conditions. We’ll have to push on as swiftly as we can. I’ll get the column moving again at once.’ He looked up at Cato. ‘No more stopping until we make camp. Anyone who falls out is to be left behind. Understand? We cannot afford to waste time and effort on stragglers.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’ll have to be ready to turn and fight if needed.’