Simon Scarrow - Britannia

The Thracians continued to watch in silence as the enemy army flowed slowly across the ridge and approached the gorge. For the first time Cato could fully appreciate the scale of the forces the enemy had gathered to crush the invaders who had attempted to humble the Druids. Then it hit him – there was no way that Quintatus’s ambitions could ever have been realised against such odds. The campaign had been doomed from the very start, in every way.

The enemy cavalry stopped a quarter of a mile from the gorge, at the extreme range of a bolt-thrower, and Cato smiled to himself. Clearly their experience of the weapon had left them feeling the greatest respect for it, and they were not taking any chances in case the Romans still retained a few pieces of their formidable artillery. The horsemen drew aside as the infantry followed up and halted. A moment later, a group of cavalry detached and advanced, walking their beasts forward. No doubt to determine the strength of the force that opposed them, thought Cato. He had no intention of accommodating their plans and turned to the Thracians.

‘First squadron! Out with the bows and prepare fire arrows.’

The men set down their shields and spears and took up the bows, bracing one foot on the end and grunting with the effort needed to flex the arms of the bow enough to slip the bowstring loop over the other horned end of the weapon. Then they set to work wrapping linen wadding around the arrow shafts before drenching them in oil. By the time they were ready, the enemy riders had picked their way to within fifty paces of the mouth of the gorge. From there they would be able to see the outline of the barricade and Macro’s men against the backdrop of the fire at the other end of the gorge. But they would have no idea of the strength of the Roman forces. It was time to shake them up.

Cato’s lips twisted into a cold grimace. ‘Light the arrows and prepare to shoot!’

The Thracians dipped the arrows into the fire until the wadding caught, then hurriedly notched them to the bowstrings.

‘Draw!’

The bows creaked slightly as the men pulled back the strings and the flames licked from the wadding.

‘Shoot!’

The arrows flew out in a fiery arc, brilliant in the dark night, and dipped down towards the horsemen. Most landed in the snow and were either extinguished outright or glowed like stars, casting small pools of light about them. Two struck their targets. The first pierced the rump of a horse, and the pain of the impact and the scorching of the burning wad caused the animal to buck and leap around, eventually throwing its rider before letting out a shrill whinny and running off into the night. The glow of the arrow was visible for a long way as the horse bolted along the side of the enemy host and down into the valley. The second projectile struck a man in the neck, and he flailed at the shaft, trying to extinguish the flame, even as blood coursed from his opened veins. He toppled from his saddle and squirmed weakly in the snow.

‘Pour it on!’ Cato encouraged his men, and they lit more arrows and shot them towards the enemy until they had dashed back out of range, leaving a handful of their stricken comrades behind.

‘Cease shooting!’

The last arrows were loosed, and Cato turned to his grinning men and gave them the thumbs-up. ‘Nice work, lads. That’ll have unnerved them, and they’ll be wary when they make their first attack.’

The defenders did not have to wait long. A mass of infantry detached themselves from the enemy host and advanced towards the gorge. As they came on, the force began to divide into three prongs, the two outer ones heading for the slopes leading up to the crags on each side while the main thrust made for the gorge itself. Once again the fire arrows rained down, with more from the crags opposite, and Cato could well imagine the demoralising impact the blazing missiles had on the enemy as they trudged through the snow.

A short distance from the mouth of the gorge, the enemy gave vent to a tremendous cry and charged forward. Macro turned his shield towards them and rested the flat of his sword against the trim as he called out.

‘Make ready javelins!’

Behind the barricade there was a short gap between Macro’s first line of defenders and the rest of the legionaries. Those at the front of the reserves shifted their grip on their javelins, angled their arms back and waited for the order. Macro allowed the enemy to enter the gorge and close to within twenty paces before he barked, ‘Loose!’

He was dimly aware of the veil of dark shafts that flew over his head, crashing and clattering amongst the onrushing tribesmen, skewering some of the dark shapes and knocking them down. More javelins were hurled, adding to the casualties, and then the enemy reached the hastily planted stakes and caltrops and more went down, pierced by the iron spikes, or shoved on to the points of the stakes by those pushing from behind. Despite the casualties, the attackers charged on, right up to the barricade, where they began to strike out at the Romans.

‘Keep your shields up!’

Macro saw the dimly visible shaggy features of a tribesman rear up in front of him as the man tried to clamber over the rocks. He struck out, taking the native deep in the throat, then twisted the sword violently from side to side and ripped it back. The man fell away and another took his place, stabbing at Macro’s face with a spear. He blocked it with his shield, absorbing the frenzied impact as his foe lunged again and again. Then he angled the shield up and the point glanced off overhead. The warrior was holding the shaft of his weapon tightly and lurched forward with it into Macro’s reach, and the centurion stabbed him in the chest. It was a winding rather than a deeply wounding blow, and the Briton stumbled back, gasping for air as he staunched the blood flowing from his torn flesh.

For a brief moment no one opposed Macro, and he risked a glance to either side. To the left, Legate Quintatus let out a triumphant cry as he split a native’s skull with his finely sharpened sword. Beyond him, Macro saw one of his men thrown backwards off the barricade as a javelin, snatched up from those unleashed on the enemy, was hurled back and caught him squarely in the face, smashing his cheekbone and plunging on into his skull. As his body fell, another legionary climbed up to replace him.

A swift movement drew Macro’s attention back to his front as another warrior made for him. This one wore a Gallic helmet, chain mail and a shield, marking him out as a nobleman. Like all of his caste, he knew his business when it came to fighting. He blocked Macro’s first strike with ease, and countered with a series of blows that drove the Roman back from the barricade. Taking advantage of that, he climbed up and thrust his shield against the centurion’s. Unbalanced, Macro wavered as he struggled to stay on his feet, and for an instant he pushed his shield to the side to stop himself falling, and exposed his body to his opponent.

The nobleman hissed and drew his sword back to make the fatal thrust. Then the point of the legate’s sword clattered into his helmet, jerking his head violently to the side and dazing him. Before he could recover, Macro threw his weight behind his shield and slammed into the man, sending him flying back from the barricade to crash on to the tightly packed mass of enemy warriors desperate to get their chance to fight the hated Romans and take their heads as trophies. There were several bodies slumped before the barricade now, and a handful of legionaries had fallen too. The fight raged on in the darkness, illuminated by the glow of the fire behind the Romans and the pallid gloom of the snow.

The enemy’s progress up the slope towards the top of the crags was just as much of an effort as it had been for the Blood Crows climbing from the other side. At the same time, they had to endure the steady barrage of fire arrows and rocks hurled down from above, and Cato noted with satisfaction the number of bodies littering the snow as the natives struggled to close on their tormentors. They reached the first of the obstacles set up in their path and had to pause and uproot the stakes and move aside the boulders, all the time being pelted with arrows and rocks. Several more were struck down before the way was clear, and then they threw themselves up the final stretch of slope to the top of the crags.