‘Hold the line! Damn you, hold the line!’
He understood the urge to get into the fight, but as an officer he had long since learned the need to keep his men together to strike as one, rather than fritter away the impact of a good charge piecemeal. At his command, Pandarus and the others obediently slowed their pace to let the rest catch up, and they continued in a line abreast. Macro’s shout had also alerted the enemy, however, and the nearest had already called a warning to their comrades. Most were still closely engaged with the men of the escort and fought on heedlessly, but a handful, perhaps twenty in all, turned towards the riders and clustered around the end of the rearmost wagon, shields raised and spears and swords readied. Macro saw the driver splayed back across his bench, arms outstretched, while a smaller figure, a boy, lay slumped at his side. Beads of rain sprayed into Macro’s face, and he had to blink them away as he approached the enemy warriors. In the last fifty paces the tribesmen braced themselves, and the Romans raised their swords and held their shields close to cover as much of their left side as possible.
‘Blood Crows! Charge!’ bellowed Macro, and pressed his snorting mount into a final dash, steering the horse to pass to the right of the wagon. He fixed his attention on a trio of natives by the rear wheel. None of them had armour, two carried wicker shields and there was only one sword between them, the others hefting axes. Poorly equipped as they were, Macro could see the fearless gleam in their eyes as they held their ground and snarled their defiance at him. At the last moment, he twitched his reins and his horse swerved abruptly towards the wagon, crushing the men against the wheel. Smashing his shield out, he caught one man square in the face with the iron boss, cracking his jaw and splitting his lips. Then he swivelled as far as his saddle allowed and plunged his sword down, driving the point into the native’s shoulder. The horse instinctively lurched away, driving on past the wheel and leaving the men behind. Macro knew that there was no time to come about and finish them off. What mattered was the impact of the wild charge.
Keep going. Knock them down. Strike hard and keep striking. Break their will!
The Blood Crows were getting stuck in on either side of the wagon, hacking and thrusting with their spears and punching out with their shields as they roared their savage battle cry over and over.
Another opponent stepped out in front of Macro. A tall, broad man with a solid kite shield and a heavy spear, the kind used to hunt boar. His long hair was plastered to his scalp and glistened with rain, and he shook a strand from his eye and braced his feet wide as the Roman officer bore down on him. Macro moved to repeat the manoeuvre that had knocked the first three natives aside, but this foe was far more skilled than his companions and quickly dodged round to keep himself on Macro’s sword-arm side. He pounced forward and raised his shield to block the Roman’s desperate blow, and then made to strike with his spear. Snatching his blade back, Macro swept it out at an angle, just catching the tip of the spear and parrying it aside. He spurred his horse forward, pulling sharply on the reins and turning in to the warrior. The blow was only glancing and the man was able to back away and recover his balance as Macro came on, thrusting his shield into his foe’s with a series of clatters and striking out with his sword. But the warrior was too quick on his feet and knocked the blade aside, or shifted easily from his opponent’s path, and Macro gritted his teeth in angry frustration.
Abruptly the warrior leapt back, creating a gap between himself and Macro’s horse, and then thrust his spear at the beast, tearing a gash in its matted flank. A shrill whinny cut through the air, and the horse reared up and lashed out with its hooves, knocking the warrior’s shield aside before sending the native flying violently backwards into the mud and puddles with a great splash. He had the presence of mind to grasp the shaft of his hunting spear tightly, and as Macro loomed over him and leaned forward to strike him on the ground, he thrust the weapon up with both hands to block the blows.
‘Just die, you bastard!’ Macro snarled in frustration. He struck again, and at the last moment changed the angle of the blow so that the edge of the blade cut diagonally across the knuckles of the man’s right hand, biting through flesh and crushing and shattering bones. Two severed fingers leapt from the spear shaft, and the others hung nervelessly from the mangled hand before the tip of the spear dropped into the mud. With only his left hand in action, the warrior roared with rage and tried to adjust his grip so he could still strike back. But Macro had already won the contest and now leaned forward as far as he could to drive the point of his sword into his opponent’s neck, tearing open the blood vessels so that the warrior slumped back, blood gushing from the wound.
Sitting back in his saddle, Macro raised his sword and quickly looked round. Most of the enemy around the wagon had been cut down. A handful were fleeing across the open ground towards the nearest trees. A short distance ahead of the wagon, Lomus had ridden straight into another party of tribesmen and was sweeping his cavalry sword in vicious arcs that scattered the enemy and laid open those who were too slow to escape his reach. The fight was still in the balance further along the supply convoy, with the lead vehicle already in the hands of the Deceanglian warriors, who were too busy looting the contents to pay much attention to the arrival of the Roman horsemen.
Macro’s attention was drawn to the melee around the small cart in the middle of the column. Ten or so of the escort had gathered about their optio, who held the standard in one hand while fighting off the enemy with his sword in the other. Standing at his side was a slender figure in a gleaming black cuirass decorated with swirling silver motifs. The ribbon tied over the cuirass signified his rank – a senior tribune – and Macro briefly wondered how he had become attached to a small supply convoy. The tribune and his men were hemmed in and fought shoulder to shoulder in a tight formation about the cart as their foes hacked at their oval shields with axes and swords.
Macro’s mouth was dry, and he had to clear his throat before he called out to the rest of his men, ‘Follow me! Follow me!’
He waited just long enough to see that the others were responding to the order before slapping the flat of his blade against his horse’s rump and steering the beast towards the struggle around the cart. The rest of the surviving auxiliaries were fighting back to back or individually as the Blood Crows dashed by, slashing at any foe who came within reach of their swords. Then they were in amongst the men surrounding the cart, horses pushing into the throng as blades clashed with shrill rings and sparks flew brightly in the gloom. Macro held his shield close to his side, covering his leg as much as possible while cutting and thrusting at any target that presented itself. The sudden appearance of the reinforcements had unnerved the tribesmen, and they tried to back away from the ferocious men looming over them on horseback.
‘That’s it, lads!’ the tribune cried. ‘The bastards are breaking! Kill ’em!’
The men from the escort surged forward, slamming their shields into the enemy and punching their short swords out with fresh vigour now that the tables had been turned. A handful of the enemy backed away and ran, and their example quickly spread to their comrades, who retreated after them. Macro saw Lomus urge his horse forward to pursue the warriors streaming away, and shouted after him.