Cato advanced his shield, looking over the splintered ruin at the top, and raised his sword to chin height, aiming the point directly at the man’s face. It was as much a gesture of defiance as a threat, and the veteran warrior’s lip curled in disdain as he raised his longsword and gave the shield a hard poke. At once Cato pressed forward, battering at the sword with his shield and trying to get inside the man’s reach to stab him with his shorter weapon. But the tribesman was more agile than he appeared and kept his distance, even opening it enough after three paces to turn the attack back on Cato, hacking viciously at the splintered top of the shield so that Cato had little chance to strike back as he struggled to block the attacks. Each blow carved a fresh chunk out of the oval shield, and opened a split that weakened it further. At the same time, the prefect concentrated on working his opponent round so that his back was towards the cliff and he would have nowhere to retreat when Cato made his next rush forward.
The warrior paused to breathe, his chest heaving with exertion as he kept his eyes fixed on Cato and his sword moving slowly from side to side. A sudden break in the clouds bathed the valley in bright sunshine, and the man blinked at the glare. Cato rushed forward, this time alternating between shield and sword as he smashed aside each attempt to block his attacks. His opponent’s concentration was so fixed on fending off the blows that he did not realise until the last moment that he had been driven back to the edge of the crags. One of his men shouted a warning and the leader snatched a backward glance, then Cato struck, thrusting forward behind his shield, driving it into the warrior’s body and knocking him off balance. As his heel slipped over the edge, the tribesman dropped his sword, snatched at the sides of Cato’s shield and pulled with all his might. Cato, caught off guard, felt himself lurch forward, but released his hold on the shield’s handle and pushed himself back just in time. The shield fell away and the man toppled back with a desperate cry that was snatched away as he bounced off a protruding rock and cartwheeled to the foot of the cliff in silence, like a child’s corn doll.
His followers froze in shock. Before they could recover their resolve, Cato called out to his men. ‘Disengage! Now!’
The Blood Crows drew back cautiously, and Cato turned to the enemy and addressed them with authority. ‘Drop your weapons! Do it!’ He pointed to his own sword and stabbed a finger at the ground. ‘Now.’
There were at least ten still standing, and at first none of them moved, although Cato could see that they were unsure and afraid. He sheathed his blade and approached the nearest of them, a youth holding a wavering spear in both hands. He slowly walked round the point and took the shaft away from the boy.
‘Sit.’
The native nodded and dropped to the ground swiftly. There was a brief pause before the others did the same, setting their weapons down in front of them. Cato turned to Corvinus. ‘Leave five of your men to gather up their weapons and throw them over the cliff before they stand guard on the prisoners. If there’s any trouble, they’re to send ’em the same way as their leader.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Leaving Corvinus to assign the guards, Cato led the others across to the edge of the cliff overlooking the gorge. As they picked their way over the uneven surface, a cry of alarm sounded from the crags opposite, and Cato saw that Harpex and his men had reached the top and were fanning out to form a skirmish line to take on the other party of enemy warriors. There was nothing he could do to help, so he made his way to the edge, where small piles of unused rocks remained. He peered over and saw that the first testudo was breaking up as it reached the barricade, the men starting to climb it to get at the defenders. Several more legionaries had been struck down before Cato’s intervention had stopped the bombardment of his men. The second testudo was passing just beneath him, as yet unaware that the crags had been seized by the Blood Crows.
Cato had a clear view of the defenders behind the barricade and saw that there were more of them than he had thought: as many as four hundred warriors, closed up and ready to defend the gorge. In amongst them he picked out some figures in dark robes and cloaks, waving their arms, shouting encouragement at their men and hurling curses at the Romans. Druids, he realised. The enemy would be sure to put up a good fight and hold the line for a while yet.
Then he smiled to himself and turned quickly to the men who had followed him to the cliff’s edge. ‘Sheathe your swords and down shields!’ Once they had done as he had ordered, he pointed to the rocks. ‘Let’s pay those bastards back in kind. Help yourselves, lads.’
He picked up a rock half the size of a melon and carried it along the crag until he was past the barricade, then heaved it over the edge. He watched it tumble through the air, shrinking to a dot, then saw it glance off a shield and strike the ground. He growled with frustration and turned back to fetch another rock as the Thracians began to throw their missiles down on the enemy, letting out shouts of glee or disappointment as they struck down the natives or missed. Cato’s next rock was aimed, as best he could, at the place where the enemy ranks were most tightly packed, and this time he was rewarded with a strike squarely on the top of a warrior’s head. The man went down as though he had been hammered into the ground. Some of those around him looked up, their faces white specks surrounded by dark hair. As soon as they saw the auxiliaries far above, they began to point and shout warnings to their comrades. More were crushed under falling rocks, and soon the tribesmen were swirling around as they tried to dodge the bombardment, their attention drawn away from the struggle along the barricade.
Cato saw one of the Druids rush forward, thrusting his fighters towards the attacking legionaries. He had rallied several of the men before he too was struck down, his skull crushed and his body laid out, arms and legs splayed below the bloody ruin that had been his head. The sight of the dead Druid badly unnerved the tribesmen, who began to break ranks and retreat down the gorge to the open ground beyond, where they would be safe from the falling rocks. The panic was infectious, and soon only a handful of defenders remained, desperately fighting an uneven battle along the length of the barricade. Outnumbered and outfought by soldiers who had been trained and equipped to fight as effectively as any man in the known world, the tribesmen began to give ground, forced away from the barricade as the first of the Romans climbed over and pressed forward.
Turning to his men, Cato called out, ‘That’s enough, lads! Put those rocks down before you do any mischief to the legionaries.’
Having been delighted at the chance to turn the tables on their enemy, the Thracians reluctantly set the rocks aside and watched as the men of the First Century created a gap in the barricade wide enough for men to stream through and join the fight. The result was no longer in doubt, and a short time later, a native horn blasted three times. At once the remaining fighters broke away from the legionaries and ran back to join their comrades beyond the gorge. One of the surviving Druids pointed towards the side of the valley, and the Deceanglians began to stream up the slope. Seeing their retreat, Cato hurried back to the crags overlooking the Roman column and cupped his hands to his mouth.
‘Miro! Decurion Miro!’
The men of the rearguard looked up towards him, and a cheer rose from their throats at the sight of the prefect who had taken the enemy’s position. Cato spotted the legate and his staff, and then picked out Miro close to the leading squadron of Thracian horsemen.