Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘Spit mule is on the go, and the legate’s found a few wine skins to hand round. He’s already in his cups.’

‘Quintatus is still here? I thought he’d have gone ahead with the rest of the army.’

‘Think he wants a final word with you before he buggers off back to Mediolanum. Any last requests, that sort of thing, no doubt.’ Macro shrugged. ‘It’s not as if it means anything. But I’m grateful for the wine, at least.’

‘No doubt.’

Cato dismounted and handed his reins to one of the Thracians as Macro jerked a thumb back in the direction of the enemy. ‘Any sign of ’em yet?’

‘Just the scouts. But the rest of them can’t be too far away now. I just hope we have a chance to rest the men before they attack. Right now, though, I am so hungry I could eat a horse.’

Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Sorry, I just thought it would be quicker to cook a mule.’

They walked through the gorge, emerging by a large fire that lit the snow-covered rocks on either side with a warm orange glow. The torso of a mule had been pierced by a lance and was being roasted over the embers to one side. Meanwhile, soldiers sat hunched round with strips of meat stuck on the end of their javelins to hold over the flames, and several wine skins were being passed from man to man. Legate Quintatus was standing to one side with a cheery smile as he held his hands out to warm them. He looked up as Cato approached.

‘Ah, Cato! There you are. Join the happy crowd.’

‘Happy crowd?’ Cato muttered, exchanging a glance with Macro. It was an odd phrase to describe men who would shortly fight impossible odds, but he guessed it was the drink talking. As he stepped up to the legate’s side, he found a wine skin thrust into his hand.

‘Take a good swig,’ said Quintatus. ‘It’s from my estate in Campania. It may not travel well, but it has travelled far.’

Cato nodded his thanks and took a modest sip, not trusting his weariness to cope with drink. ‘No sign of the enemy army yet, sir.’

‘They’re coming . . .’ The legate pursed his lips. ‘You can count on that. But we’re ready for them.’

Cato smiled to himself at the inclusive nature of the comment, but wished that his superior would take himself off and leave the rearguard to themselves. The Blood Crows and Macro’s legionaries had fought side by side for many long months and had established a strong bond under the command of the two officers. It would be a shame for the legate to intrude too long on what might be their last night together in this world.

‘The lads will hold them back as long as possible, sir. And we’ll make ’em pay a high price for getting past us.’

‘Yes, we will,’ Quintatus said deliberately.

‘You’re staying here?’

The legate breathed in deeply and nodded. ‘What choice have I got? If I return with a defeated army, the emperor will want my head. If I stay and fight, then I may win a little glory for myself and preserve the honour of my family name. But don’t worry, I shan’t interfere with your command over these men. You have earned that. You and Macro both. It’s just a damn pity that Rome will lose the services of two such fine officers. Who knows, by some miracle maybe I will survive to enjoy the acclaim. Either way, at least the rest of the army stands a good chance of making it to safety.’

‘I hope so, sir. I hope we all share that miracle. Stranger things have happened in my experience.’

‘If it wasn’t for this damned early snowfall, we would have crushed the Druids.’

‘It wasn’t the snow, sir. It was the entire timing of the campaign. Winter is no time to venture into the mountains.’

‘But I had to do it all the same. Time was short,’ Quintatus insisted.

Cato reflected a moment. He was inclined to temper the criticism of his superior, but there was no point in worrying about it now. They were all doomed men. What did it matter what he said?

‘ Your time was short, sir. You wanted to win some glory before the new governor arrived. This was about adding lustre to your reputation, gambling with the lives of the men you took into these mountains with you. Isn’t that the case?’

‘I admit it was a risk, yes.’ Quintatus paused and stared into the flames briefly. ‘A grave risk. And I am prepared to pay a high price for it by staying here.’

‘A price you also made the rest of us pay,’ Cato said firmly. ‘I’d be surprised if a third of the army returns to Mediolanum. Even the rearguard has suffered badly. Macro’s cohort is down to two hundred effectives, and I can barely scrape together a hundred men of the Blood Crows. They deserve better.’

Quintatus turned to stare at him. ‘Yes, they do,’ he replied softly.

The men chewed their meat like ravenous wolves, tough as it was. As soon as the meat began to warm their bellies, their spirits returned. Their voices rose, and jokes and snatches of song echoed back off the walls of the gorge. Flickering flames cast giant shadows on the snow and rock, and Cato felt the warmth of their camaraderie more intensely than he ever had before. As for Macro, he enjoyed the wine more than was perhaps good for him, and looked forward to the coming battle with a glint in his eye and a cruel grin on his lips as he chewed on a tough strip of mule meat.

It did not take long for the mood to break. No more than three hours after sunset, one of the lookouts on the crags cupped his hands and called down to those around the fires, ‘They’re coming!’

‘To your posts!’ Macro bellowed, jumping to his feet. ‘Stand to! Prepare to receive the enemy!’

The men around the fires dropped their food and wine skins to snatch up their weapons and armour and rush to their assigned positions. Macro and his legionaries took their place behind the rock barricade. Legate Quintatus drew his ivory-handled sword from its silvered scabbard and shouldered his way through to the front to stand beside the centurion. The latter regarded him with a frown and the legate chuckled.

‘Take it easy, Macro. This is a centurion’s fight, not a legate’s. These men are yours to command. And I will follow your orders.’

Meanwhile, the Blood Crows divided into two parties and ran up the sides of the hills to the top of the crags. Cato went to the right and joined the men scrambling up through the snow, soon feeling his lungs and muscles burn with the effort of such violent exercise while suffering the debilitating effects of exhaustion and hunger. By the time he reached the uneven surface of the same crag he had scaled only weeks before, his heart drummed in his ears and he was gasping for breath. He crossed to the edge overlooking the approach to the gorge. The sentry who had alerted the rearguard was standing in the light of the crackling fire. The glow illuminated a nearby stack of javelins, bows and arrows.

‘Where are they?’ Cato gasped.

The Thracian pointed down the valley, and even in the starlight Cato could see a dense black tide sliding over the ridge a mile back. Ahead of the main force was a screen of cavalry, half as far away. As more of the Blood Crows gathered on the crags, some of the men muttered ominously.

‘Quiet there!’ Cato snapped. ‘Save your breath for the battle.’

He looked down the slope that gave out on to the valley floor. The steep sides reduced the effective front to the width of the gorge and the two routes up to the crags. The advantage in that respect was with the defenders, as Cato had anticipated. Furthermore, Macro’s preparations had been as thorough as time had allowed, and rocks and sharpened stakes blocked the access to the top of the crags. Boulders of a more manageable size had been stockpiled near the edge, ready to throw down on to the natives. Not that it would change the outcome of the struggle between the massively unequal forces, but Cato was confident that the enemy would suffer heavy losses before they broke through the gorge and annihilated the defenders. Even though there was no moon, the dim starlight on the snow revealed the barbarian forces clearly. They would not be able to surprise the rearguard with any discreet attempts to flank the position.