Cato dismounted and handed his reins to Thraxis. ‘Tether Hannibal and then bring me my shield.’
His servant shot him a surprised look, the rain running in rivulets down his dark features. But he knew better than to query his superior. ‘Yes, sir. Shall I take your cloak?’
Cato nodded, and reached up to unfasten the enamelled pin at his shoulder. It had been a gift from Julia, and he carefully reattached it to his neckcloth where it would be safe. Handing his cloak to Thraxis, he joined Crispus, a few paces ahead of the column. His awareness of the wet and cold faded as his mind focused on the task at hand. The mouth of the gorge was no more than forty paces across, and the enemy’s barricade was higher than a man. They would have to scale that to get at the defenders, no easy feat in heavy armour, weighed down by the water that had soaked into the men’s clothing.
‘It’s going to be a messy business,’ he said quietly.
Crispus shrugged. ‘When isn’t it? And this fucking rain isn’t going to make matters easy.’
A moment later they were joined by another figure. Livonius eased back the hood of his goatskin cape. It had been well treated with fat to render it waterproof, Cato noted with a touch of envy.
‘You’re supposed to be at the back of the vanguard, Tribune.’
‘I just wanted to see what’s holding us up, sir. I heard Miro’s man say it was the enemy. First time I’ve ever had the chance to see any of the mountain tribes up close. Is that them, over there behind the rocks?’
‘That’s them.’
Livonius squinted at the distant tribesmen before he turned to the other officers. ‘What is your plan for dealing with the enemy, sir? A flanking movement?’
‘Not today, Tribune. Those crags on either side look pretty sheer to me. It would take us hours to get men up and over. We’d lose the rest of the day. So it’s a frontal attack. Crispus and his cohort will soon brush them aside, and then I’ll follow up with my lads and make the pursuit. With luck, we’ll take a few prisoners.’
‘I see.’ The tribune was silent for a moment, his hand resting on the ivory handle of his sword. ‘I don’t suppose I might-’
‘You’re staying right here,’ Cato interrupted him. ‘You’ll get your chance in due course,’ he added gently.
‘Sir, with respect, I have already proved myself in the field, and I was sent here to learn how to become a soldier.’
‘All in good time. For now, your orders are to draw maps for the army. It’s an important job, so we can’t afford to let anything happen to you. How is that going, by the way?’
‘Not as easily as I had hoped, sir. With this rain, it’s been very difficult to investigate the terrain either side of the line of advance. And it’s been hard to record accurately the distance marched. There’s no way of taking a standard pace in these conditions, so we’ve marked it up as best as we can calculate it.’
‘Can’t be helped, Tribune. Consider this an important lesson of soldiering. The first casualty of war is the plan.’
‘Ain’t that the truth?’ Crispus added.
The first century of legionaries came struggling up the track, and Crispus ordered them to deploy a hundred paces forward of the column. The five remaining units followed suit, until the cohort was drawn up in two lines of three centuries. Their officers gave the order to remove their leather shield covers, and the large, decorated curves of the legionary shields gave the mud-streaked soldiers a more uniform appearance. The Thracians formed up behind them in a single line, oval shields and spears at the ready. Cato turned to Thraxis to take his shield and advanced to join the waiting men with Crispus at his side.
‘Good luck!’ Livonius called after them.
‘Pftt!’ Crispus sneered. ‘Luck has nothing to do with it. It’s down to steel, grit and years of back-breaking training. Not that he’ll ever have to understand that. Once he’s served out his year, he’ll be off back to Rome and some cushy number looking after the drains or the markets or some such bollocks.’
Cato was well used to the begrudging tone of centurions towards the young men serving out the military phase of their career ladder, and adopted a mocking tone as he asked, ‘Would you want to exchange all the pleasures of soldiering for inspecting the drains of Rome, Centurion?’
‘Not fucking likely, sir.’
‘Then let’s get this over with.’
They parted company as they reached the waiting soldiers, and Crispus went forward to the right of the front line, where the first century of the cohort stood ready. Hoisting his shield and swinging it round towards the enemy, he drew his sword and punched it up towards the lowering clouds. Rain ran down the blade, gleaming dully.
‘Fourth Cohort! At the walk! Advance!’
The centuries were drawn up with a frontage of ten men, narrow enough to fit into the mouth of the gorge, with eight files giving plenty of weight to the assault. If all went to form, the second line should not be required to fight, Cato reasoned. The centurion commanding the three remaining centuries waited until the regulation gap had opened up between the two lines before ordering his men to follow on. Cato waited a bit longer, then called out to his Thracians to advance. The grass beneath his boots was drenched, and the soil below soft and yielding, and as the auxiliaries began to follow in the footsteps of the heavy infantry, the ground became churned and slick with mud.
As they approached the enemy, who had been standing still and silent all the while, a great roar tore from the tribesmen’s throats, and they raised their weapons and shook them at the oncoming shield wall. The rain provided one blessing at least, thought Cato. It was too wet for archers, and the confined space in which the skirmish would be fought would make it difficult for slingers. A straight fight, then, between the iron discipline of the legions and the fanatical courage of the native warriors. And there was no question who would prevail.
The air filled with the squelching of boots in the mud and the laboured grunts of the tired men struggling to hold their line as they approached the barricade. Over the heads in front of him, Cato could make out some of the faces of the warriors behind the barricade, mouths open as they roared their challenge. There was a sudden blur of motion amid the leaden streaks of rain, and Crispus shouted a warning.
‘Shields up!’
The leading ranks of the cohort raised their shields and angled them back to deflect the incoming missiles. Javelins. Cato could see them now, arcing down towards the legionaries. They struck home in an uneven chorus of clatters and thuds. After the din of the first volley died away, one of Crispus’s men bellowed, ‘You’ll get yours, you British cunts!’
‘Shut your mouth!’ Crispus raged. ‘Silence in the bloody ranks!’
The men trudged on, heeding the warning of their centurion, and Cato felt a thrill ripple through his body at being part of the spectacle. There was nothing quite as impressive and terrifying as the sight of these well-trained soldiers advancing in ordered lines beneath their drenched standards without a word escaping their lips. And it seemed that the enemy sensed it too, as their shouts and cries began to die away and their features set in grim expressions, mirroring the faces of their Roman opponents. Another ragged volley of javelins was unleashed, mixed with rocks small enough to hurl from the top of the barricade. On either side the crags loomed up, dark and daunting, and the sound of rain and the shouts of the defenders echoed loudly off the rocks.