Cato swung quickly towards the other spearman and tried to advance his shield, but the blow to his shoulder had weakened his arm, and his head remained exposed. The man thrust at his eyes, and he tilted his head to one side and flicked the spear tip aside with the point of his sword. At once the weapon was snatched back ready for another thrust. The initial impact of the blow to his shoulder was fading, but Cato lowered his shield a little further to tempt the warrior to aim high again. The tribesman steadied his grip on the spear shaft and punched forward. Cato was ready for him. Dropping the shield, he snatched at the spear, just behind the leaf-shaped blade, and viciously wrenched the wooden shaft towards him. His opponent held on tightly and lurched forward, losing his balance as he stumbled towards Cato. The prefect’s short sword swung up, catching the warrior in the side and penetrating deeply into his vitals. Cato twisted his wrist from side to side and ripped the blade free, then thrust the shaft of the spear back towards its owner, who fell into a sitting position and hunched over his wound with a loud groan.
Cato saw that the remaining spearman was a youth, despite his matted hair and straggling beard. He glanced from the unconscious swordsman to his wounded friend, then lowered his spear and took a cautious step towards the Roman. Brandishing his sword, Cato filled his lungs and bellowed with all the rage he could muster, ‘If you don’t want to join ’em, then fuck off!’
The vehemence of the words carried ample meaning, and the tribesman recoiled a step, torn between pride and the prospect of fighting the man who had struck down two of his comrades in less time than it took to draw a handful of breaths. He carefully retreated another pace, keeping his spear up and staring hard at Cato.
‘That’s better,’ Cato nodded. ‘Now piss off like a good boy, eh?’
The youth retreated further, and Cato kept a keen eye on him as he bent down to retrieve his shield and cautiously edge back towards his own men. When he was sure he was no longer in immediate danger, he turned and trotted after the two legionaries dragging Crispus to safety. The men who had fallen back from the first assault were already re-forming about their standards at the rear of the cohort, while the injured were laid out to one side to wait for the surgeon and his medics to come forward to treat them. As the centurion passed through the ranks of the legionaries, they looked on in shock and anger at their stricken commander.
The two men released their grip on Crispus’s arms, and the centurion lay on his back, eyes fluttering as he moaned. Cato set his shield aside and knelt beside him. He saw the blood trickling from the centurion’s nose and mingling with the rainwater running over his cheeks.
‘Crispus . . . Crispus! Can you hear me?’
The centurion blinked and opened his eyes, staring straight up at Cato. He frowned and then licked his lips as he made to speak. ‘Lu . . . luck has nothing . . . to do with it.’
He grimaced, and his eyes rolled up as his body trembled. Cato looked up. ‘Surgeon! Over here!’
Pausinus and his bandage dressers were already examining the first victims of the boulders and those who had been wounded on the barricade. The surgeon swiftly tied off a strip of linen and hurried over. He hunkered down opposite Cato and laid his fingers gently on the crushed shoulder.
‘His days of soldiering are over, if he lives.’ He sensed the trembling and then noticed the dent in the centurion’s helmet. ‘Help me get this off.’
While Pausinus steadied the helmet in his hands, Cato undid the chin strap and eased the cheek flaps aside. Then the surgeon eased the helmet free, together with the felt skullcap. The latter snagged on something, and Crispus gasped as blood seeped out from under its rim. Before the surgeon could react, the wounded man jerked violently and the cap came free with a large flap of bloodied scalp and a jagged piece of bone to reveal the terrible damage done by the rock that had struck the side of Crispus’s head. Blood and brains slooshed out of the cavity opened up by the removal of the skullcap as the centurion writhed and shuddered and then went limp.
Cato looked down at him in horror.
The surgeon packed the felt cap against the wound and eased himself back. ‘He’s done for. Nothing I can do to save him, sir.’
‘Nothing?’
Pausinus picked up Crispus’s wrist and felt for a pulse, then let it drop. ‘He’s dead.’
Cato placed a hand on the centurion’s forearm but sensed nothing. No movement at all. He swallowed. ‘All right . . . Then see to the others.’
As Pausinus moved away, Cato gave the centurion’s forearm a last squeeze. ‘Rest easy in the shades, Centurion Crispus,’ he muttered. ‘You have earned it. Rest well with our fallen comrades.’
He took a calming breath, then rose to his feet and turned back towards the gorge. The enemy warriors were still cheering defiantly. All around Cato, the legionaries glared back. He sensed their bitter, angry mood and their thirst for revenge. The fire of battle burned in their veins, and they were keen to avenge their fallen comrades. That was all very well, he thought, but what could be done? The Deceanglians had chosen a fine position to mount their delaying action. Until the crags were cleared, there could be no further assault on the barricade blocking the gorge. And to reach the men who had broken up the attack would mean a steep climb, all the while exposed to yet more rocks tumbling down on the heads of the Roman soldiers. It would be murderous work.
He reluctantly concluded that there was no alternative but to find another route around the gorge. He went in search of Tribune Livonius and found him watching from the rise, with the mounted contingent of the Blood Crows.
‘Good to see you’re safe, sir,’ Livonius greeted him. ‘That was quite a trap the natives set us.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Cato said. ‘You’ve got your campaign map with you?’
‘Yes, sir. Over there.’ He gestured to where his servant Hieropates stood by their two mules laden with the mapping tools and the tribune’s campaign supplies.
‘I want to see it, now.’
Livonius glanced up into the rain. ‘But, sir, the ink will run.’
‘Not if it’s kept out of the wet. Get some of my men to use their shields as a shelter. Do it now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the tribune hurried away, Cato turned to Miro. ‘Decurion, get down to the Fourth Cohort and find out the number of casualties. Tell Centurion Festinus that he’s in command. The optio of the First Century can take charge of the unit for the present.’
‘Yes, sir . . . Centurion Crispus?’
‘He’s dead,’ Cato responded bluntly. ‘Now get on with it.’
Miro saluted and trotted down the gentle slope as Cato made his way to where Livonius was ordering two of the Blood Crows to hold their shields steady overhead. Hieropates, leather tube tucked under his arm, moved into the makeshift shelter and removed a roll of vellum, holding it open for the tribune and Cato as they ducked under the shields. The route of the army had been clearly marked, with estimated distances between camps and notations concerning the lie of the land on either side of the route. Livonius tapped a blank area just beyond the previous night’s camp.
‘We’re roughly here. Of course, we won’t have a chance to update it until we make camp.’
Cato shot him an irritated glance. ‘Very helpful.’
He closed his eyes a moment as he recalled the day’s march. They had spent all of it struggling along the track that passed through the meandering valley. The slopes rose steeply on either side, broken by rocky outcrops. There had been no other obvious routes to take. He thought back to the site of the night before. There had been two further valleys that had led away from the spot where the army had halted. He pointed to the mark and the notes relating to the camp.