Simon Scarrow - Britannia

He smiled at them, then moved to the vantage point from where he had observed the tribesmen during the night. Already he could see more clearly than shortly before. Hundreds of bodies were strewn across the snow in the mouth of the gorge, and heaped up along the approaches to the crags. The enemy had suffered more grievously than he had thought, and while he took a professional pride in the performance of the rearguard, he well knew that the Druids would seek to avenge the fallen in whatever cruel way they could.

The light continued to strengthen, as did the glow along the eastern horizon. Then, just as the first rays of the sun flooded over a distant ridge, a war horn rang out, followed by others, and the enemy began to advance yet again, gradually increasing their pace until they let out a great cheer and burst into a sprint as they raced into the mouth of the gorge and up the sides of the slopes.

This time there was just a handful of rocks left to throw at the tribesmen, and only a few were put out of action before they reached the top. The Blood Crows still had the advantage of not being breathless, and of holding the high ground, but Cato could see that they would not be able to fend the enemy off this time. He drew his sword and took his place in the centre of the line as the Thracians, weary and grim-faced, lowered the points of their spears and braced themselves. There was no loud clash of shields as there was when two sides met on the level, just the steady arrival of one warrior after another, taking his place opposite a Thracian and starting a duel.

Cato was confronted by a hard-breathing cloaked figure with a kite shield and an axe. As the tribesman went to raise his weapon, the prefect plunged forward, shield smashing into shield with a loud thud that sent the man back a pace, at the same time punching his sword into his foe’s armpit, driving the point through his ribs and into his heart. A savage twist of the blade and a wrench freed the point, and bright blood gushed from the wound. Cato stepped back and readied himself for the next enemy. On either side the Blood Crows blocked blows with their shields and thrust out with their spears. As before, more of the enemy fell than the Thracians, but now there were no men to replace the gaps, and the line was forced to draw closer together to hold their position.

Then the inevitable happened. Two warriors managed to work their way further up the slope and round the flank of the Blood Crows’ line, where they fell upon a Thracian as he was fighting the man to his front. Caught between attacks on two sides, he hesitated before turning to face the men above him. The opponent he had been duelling with charged into his shield and knocked him to the ground, and the two warriors uphill fell upon him, hacking brutally with their swords. He struggled to rise, but the blows carved through his arms and neck and he fell back helplessly.

Cato had caught the incident during a quick glance and knew that his men must fall back and try to link up with the legionaries to give a better account of themselves before the end.

‘Blood Crows! Retreat! With me!’

He slashed with his sword and cut deep into a warrior’s shoulder, then turned and began to run back across the top of the crags to the route leading down to the rear of the gorge. His men raced after him, pursued by the tribesmen, who were still labouring for breath following the steep climb. They reached the slope and began to scramble and slither down, while behind them the enemy cheered as they saw that the Romans were on the run.

A short distance from the bottom, Cato looked up and saw some of the legionaries falling back from the gorge, and heard more cheers echoing off the cliffs on either side. He felt his heart lurch with anxiety as he realised that the tribesmen must have broken through the barricade. Then he saw Macro supporting the legate as he withdrew, surrounded by a small group of legionaries and the Fourth Cohort’s standard, and he knew that it was all over. As he reached the even ground at the foot of the slope, he turned to his men. ‘It’s every man for himself now. Good luck, lads!’

He ran towards Macro, intending to join his friend for the last stand. Some of the legionaries were running for the horse lines instead, desperate to escape the coming slaughter, and Cato could not blame them. Then he was aware of a figure charging in from the side, and just had time to check himself and half turn before the warrior slammed into him and knocked him over, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. He released his grip on his shield and thrust himself up, raising his sword just in time to block the blade swinging down towards him. He heard the clash and scrape of metal on metal, he saw the sparks and realised in an instant that he had only deflected the blade. Then there was a blow to his brow, as though he had been struck by a white-hot bar. Instantly blood poured from the gash and over his eyes, blinding him.

‘No, you bastard!’ Miro’s voice rang out, and there was a deep grunt and someone fell into the snow at Cato’s side. Then he felt a hand pulling him to his feet.

‘Come on, sir. This way!’

Cato was dazed and stumbled along, guided by the Thracian. He reached up and wiped the blood from his eyes, glimpsing the chaotic scene as the enemy poured out of the gorge and fell upon the surviving Romans. He was thrust inside a group of legionaries and there was Macro, looking at him anxiously. ‘Cato, my poor lad.’

‘I’m all right.’ Cato’s voice was thick with fatigue and concussion. ‘Lost my sword. Give me another.’

Then there was Quintatus, grimacing in pain from the wound in his thigh. He stared at Cato. ‘Get him out of here, Macro,’ he ordered. ‘He’s no use to us.You two have done enough. Rome will need you again.’

Macro opened his mouth to protest, but the legate thrust his arm towards the horse line and shouted, ‘Go! Get the fuck out of here now!’

Cato shook his head. ‘No . . . I will fight . . .’

Macro sheathed his sword and dropped his shield, and took Cato’s arm. ‘Sorry, my friend. You heard the legate. Miro, give me a hand here.’

‘No!’ Cato shouted, struggling to pull himself free as more blood covered his eyes. He heard Macro’s voice close to his ear.

‘Sorry about this.’

Then he felt a blow to his head, and everything went black.

‘Miro! With me.’ Macro sheathed his sword and ducked to brace his shoulder against Cato’s midriff before rising to lift his friend on to his shoulder. He stepped forward, out of the circle of legionaries, and strode quickly towards the remaining horses, while Miro kept close to his side, ready to ward off any attacks. By the time they reached the horses Cato was stirring again, mumbling incoherently as the blood oozed over his brow and covered his cheeks. Macro manhandled him into a saddle and placed his hands on the saddle horns.

‘Hold on to these, Cato.’

He was gratified as he felt his friend’s fists tense around the smooth leather-covered posts that held the riders in position. Then he looked to his own mount, pulled himself into the saddle and took his reins, as well as those of Cato’s horse, before he turned to Miro.

‘Come on! Don’t just stand there. Mount up!’

Miro took a step towards the nearest remaining horse, and then stopped. He turned back to Macro and shook his head. ‘I’m staying. You go, sir. Save the prefect.’

‘Don’t be a fool!’ Macro snapped. ‘The three of us stand a better chance.’

‘I’m sorry, sir . . . This is for Thraxis.’ Miro hefted his shield, raised his spear and paced swiftly towards the melee spilling out of the gorge, then broke into a run as he cried out: ‘Blood Crows! Blood Crows!’

Macro took a firm grip on Cato’s reins in his right hand and urged his mount forward, trotting after the other Romans who were fleeing along the valley. He increased the pace to a steady canter, making sure that Cato was steady in his saddle. He was recovering consciousness but blinded by the blood caking his eyes as he grimly held on to the saddle horns to keep him in place.