‘A hand up, here!’
The auxiliary released his own reins and cupped his hands for Macro’s good foot. As if he was lifting a child rather than a grown man weighed down by armour, he swept Macro up and on to his mount. The centurion grunted his thanks and settled himself in place, adjusting his cloak so that it fell across his saddle roll.
‘Open the gates.’
The section of Illyrians on gatehouse duty hurried to remove the locking bar and ease the gates open, allowing the dawn light to flood in at an angle. Macro tapped his heels in and urged his horse forward. Pandarus ordered the others to mount, and they trotted out behind the centurion. A moment later the gates thudded back into place and the bar thumped into its brackets. Macro turned briefly in his saddle and saw the bulk of Fortunus on the tower. The new commander of the fort half raised a hand in farewell, and Macro nodded before facing forward and striking out for Mediolanum along a narrow trail that wound up into the hills to the north of the fort, heading for the line of march taken by Legate Quintatus and his army. Macro winced. With difficulty he had adjusted to taking the strain on his good leg and did his best to ignore any pain in the other. Soon the discomfort faded from his mind as he fixed his thoughts on finding the legate and saving his comrades, and Cato, before they fell into the trap being set by their enemy.
For two days they drove their mounts on as hard as they dared, alternating between a steady trot and walking, as the ground permitted. There was too much urgency to advance with caution, and Macro put his trust in a good sword and fierce determination should they run into any armed natives. They passed several villages nestled in valleys, skirting round them without provoking the natives into any attempt to pursue them, and his heart grew heavier as he realised that this could only be because the enemy was gathering every available warrior to hurl against the Roman column when they decided to close the trap. For all he knew, that might already have happened, and the crows and ravens were even now picking over the stiff, cold corpses of the Roman army, their sharp beaks plucking at torn flesh. If that was the case, then he and his small party were riding to their deaths, but the thought did not daunt him. If there was the slightest chance of saving Cato and the others, he was content to put his life at risk, and he drove his men on and fought back against the throbbing agony in his leg. He was gratified to see that although the scar tissue flushed red at times, there was no sign that the hard riding was holding back his recovery.
Each night they camped in whatever shelter they could find, not daring to light a fire for fear of attracting unwelcome attention. They chewed on strips of dried meat and hard bread, washed down with spring water, before doing their best to find warmth, huddled in their thick cloaks as sleep came fitfully.
The morning of the third day, the discomfort of the cold, clammy air of the mountains was made worse by the gathering of dark clouds. By noon it was raining heavily, and the gloom was such that it might have been the thin light of dawn or dusk. Macro, not wishing to run into the enemy, sent Lomus a short distance ahead, then hunched down into his saddle and stared ahead over the straggling mane of his horse as he swayed gently from side to side. As far as he could estimate, they had covered sixty miles, and should strike across the route taken by Quintatus at any moment. There would be no mistaking the passage of such a large body of men. The ground would have been churned up by nailed boots, hooves and the wheels of heavy carts, leaving a wide scar etched across the landscape. They would only have to follow that to catch up with the column, or encounter one of the outposts constructed in its wake to protect the line of communication back to the fortified supply depot at Mediolanum.
He had almost ridden into Lomus before he realised it, and reined in sharply as the auxiliary saluted and thrust an arm back the way he had come.
‘Sir, we’ve found it. The track’s just over there.’
Macro felt a surge of warm relief in his heart. ‘Let’s see.’
They rode on and stopped at the edge of the broad swathe of mud in which myriad puddles shimmered dully in the falling rain. Macro looked in both directions along the line the army had taken, but saw no sign of life. He gestured to the men to follow him, and turned his mount to the left to follow the route, keeping clear of the glutinous strip of mud that would suck down the horses’ hooves. There was no knowing how far ahead of them the army lay, but at least they would be able to find them easily enough now, he reflected contentedly. When they did, and he had reported to the legate, there would be hot food, warming fires and shelter from this pestilential rain.
Late in the afternoon, the rain eased off into a fine mizzle and they passed the outline of a vast marching camp, levelled as far as possible, in accordance with Roman practice, to deny the enemy any potential field fortifications. The ground where the remains of the camp lay was flat and close to a river winding through the valley. Beyond, the route climbed a gentle ridge, and Macro’s party urged their weary mounts to make one last effort before they stopped and made camp for the night. There was a forest of tall pine trees running off the ridge towards the steep side of a hill, and Macro decided that would be a good place to halt. He was bone weary and his leg ached abominably, and the prospect of sleeping on a mattress of pine branches, partly sheltered from the elements, seemed like luxury.
Lomus was riding out ahead once again as they reached the crest of the ridge, and Macro was about to order him to make for the treeline when the auxiliary abruptly reined in and craned his neck. An instant later he turned and waved frantically.
‘Up here, sir! Quick!’
Macro spurred his tired mount up alongside Lomus and stared down the far slope into the shallow vale below. Half a mile ahead lay a small wagon convoy, perhaps five of the large four-wheeled vehicles drawn by oxen that were used to move supplies. There was also one small covered cart halfway down the line. Around them, the remains of the convoy’s escort, a half-century of auxiliaries, Macro estimated, were fighting for their lives against a contingent of native warriors, perhaps sixty or seventy strong, hacking and slashing at the hated Roman invaders.
The rest of Macro’s men reached the ridge and fanned out on either side of the centurion.
‘What should we do, sir?’ asked Pandarus.
‘Do?’ Macro’s lips stretched into a smile as he reached up to check his helmet strap was secure. His first thought was the need to complete his mission and warn Quintatus of the trap he was marching into. And then there was the enemy in front of him and comrades in peril. Macro and his men might be enough to turn the tide, he calculated. He drew his sword and held the blade against his thigh, where there was little danger of it causing harm to his comrades. ‘What do we do? We get stuck into those bastards. But first, you there!’
He pointed to one of his men. ‘You stay here out of the fight. If it goes badly for us, you find a way to get through and warn the legate. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. The rest of you – on me!’
He kicked in his heels, and his horse snorted before it plunged down the slope towards the beleaguered supply convoy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Macro and his detachment of Blood Crows kept well clear of the quagmire marking the line of march taken by Legate Quintatus and his army. Instead they thundered down the grassy slope, swords drawn, drenched capes rippling behind them. The pain in Macro’s leg was like fire as the limb lurched against the side of his horse, but he pushed it aside as he got caught up in the excitement and exhilaration of imminent action. Pandarus and some of the others were drawing ahead, and Macro snatched a breath to call out to them.