Some smiled at the prospect but most merely nodded dutifully, too cold and tired to make much effort to please their commander. Quintatus turned back to Cato. ‘Let’s go, then.’
For many days now, the most that the men of the Blood Crows had seen of the enemy was the distant clusters of horsemen who had tracked the Roman advance, never coming close enough to engage Cato’s outriders, always slipping away the moment the auxiliary cavalry drew uncomfortably close. Wary of having his men fall into a trap, Cato had issued standing orders that there would be no attempt to pursue, and so the two sides had kept watch on each other from afar as the column penetrated ever deeper into the mountains.
Now, as they crested the ridge that overlooked the channel separating Mona from the mainland, they caught sight of the enemy army for the first time since the campaign had begun. In the fading light no more than half a mile away, ranged along the shore of the channel, lay hundreds of shelters, and the smoke from fires swirled over the roofs of thatch and moss. The camp was protected on its landward side by a crude turf rampart and a shallow ditch that would not have passed muster in the poorest of auxiliary cohorts. Scores of wide-beamed boats were beached on the shore and three more were ferrying men across the channel, quarter of a mile wide at the narrowest point, Cato calculated. The tide was coming in, but had not yet submerged rows of sharpened stakes extending from a point on the far shore, revealing the presence of a possible route across to Mona at low tide. On the far side he could make out a further line of defences running along the shore and many more huts clustered on the sloping ground beyond. On both sides of the channel thousands of figures were visible.
‘We’ve got them!’ Quintatus made a fist. ‘We’ve finally got the bastards where we want them. Once we force them back on to the island, there’ll be no escape. They’ll be caught in a trap like the rats they are.’
The flat blast of a horn sounded from below, and a moment later the alarm was taken up by others and the noise swelled like a defiant challenge. At once the enemy warriors streamed through their shelters to line the ramparts, while those who had been foraging for firewood outside raced back to the gateways. Cato was impressed by the speed at which the Deceanglians had reacted. Moreover, they were well organised. Small parties of men formed up a short distance to the rear of the rampart to act as reserves, while mounted men raced out in front of the defences to form a picket line to investigate the intruders.
‘Sloppy watch-keeping,’ Quintatus mused. ‘We were almost on them before the alarm was raised. It is astonishing how long these savages have been able to defy us, given their dismal attempts at soldiering. Well, now they’re going to be taught a lesson they’ll not live to profit from.’
Cato made a quick estimate of the enemy’s strength, on both shores. ‘Several thousand, but no more than ten thousand, at the most, I’d say, sir. And many of them will be tribal levies.We have the edge in quality of men and equipment.’
‘Indeed. Nothing can keep victory from us now.’
‘I hope not, sir.’ Cato replied as he scrutinised the enemy positions. A boat was setting out from the island, with several figures in dark robes clustered in the bow observing the Romans in turn.
‘I say!’ One of the junior tribunes pointed. ‘Are those fellows in black Druids? I had dearly wished to see some in the flesh.’
The more experienced officers gave him pitying glances before turning their attention back to the scene below. As the Druids reached the shore, they dispersed along the length of the rampart, save one, who mounted a black horse and galloped out of the nearest gate towards a small cluster of horsemen beneath a long-tailed standard that writhed, serpent-like, in the strengthening breeze. Another signal blared out, and hundreds of riders began to concentrate around the standard.
‘I think it’s time we returned to the camp, sir,’ Cato suggested. ‘It looks like the locals are starting to resent our intrusion.’
The horsemen immediately around the serpent standard surged forward, and the rest followed, coming on at a fast pace directly towards the legate, his officers and the Blood Crows who were escorting them.
‘Fair point, Prefect. Let’s go.’
Quintatus took a last look at the enemy army and then pulled on his reins and turned his horse back down the narrow track leading along the coast towards the Roman marching camp. It was not long before a rider came up from the rear of the cavalry cohort to announce that the enemy were pursuing them. Cato looked back and saw that they had reached the ridge and were already streaming down the near side, half a mile behind the Blood Crows. He gave the order to increase the pace to a canter to keep some distance between them and the natives. There was no need to go any faster. Their pursuers had already ridden at full pelt up to the ridge and their mounts would soon be blown.
As they pounded along over the hard ground, he felt a brief sting on his face and blinked as something caught in his eye. Then he realised that snow was falling; small scattered flakes swirling through the wind that was blowing from the sea to their left. The leaden swell rolled in and spray exploded over the rocky shoreline, and it occurred to Cato that what was left of the fleet would be struggling to gain the safety of the bay where the first ships to arrive were anchored. The flurry did not last long, and as the clouds began to part, angled rays of golden sunlight spilled across the sea, illuminating the western faces of the hills and mountains and casting long shadows behind them. But it would not last, Cato realised, as he looked over his shoulder and saw a thick band of cloud swelling up. Beneath, the sea was blotted out by a grey veil of more snow as it swept in over Mona, heading for the mainland. The blizzard would strike soon.
The track crested a low rise, close to the sea. Cato looked back and was relieved to see that the enemy had called off the pursuit and reined in some distance behind the Blood Crows, sitting in their saddles as they shook their spears defiantly. Pausing to detach one squadron to keep an eye on the tribesmen, Cato ordered the column to slow to a walk as the legate and his staff led the way back to the camp, just beyond the headland.
Decurion Miro abruptly halted his mount and looked out to sea, then thrust out his hand. ‘Sir! Look there!’
Cato edged his horse over to the side of the track and stopped beside the decurion. Miro’s cry had been picked up by the legate and his staff, and they too halted, their gaze following the direction indicated.
‘What is it?’ Cato demanded.
‘A warship, sir. There!’
The heaving grey of the winter sea, flecked with whitecaps and brief sheets of spray, made it hard to pick out much detail. Then, two miles or so out at sea, Cato discerned the outline of an oared vessel as its sharp prow rose on the crest of a swell before plunging into a trough.
‘There’s more of them!’ one of the tribunes called. Straining his eyes Cato saw that there were indeed other vessels out there, running before the wind towards the coast. As they drew closer, he counted six warships, biremes, and several of the smaller, unwieldy, wide-beamed transports. Some had closely reefed sails while others were proceeding under jury rigs and oars as they strove to reach the safety of the bay before darkness fell. It would be a close thing, Cato decided. And the coming of night was not the only danger. Some miles behind the ships, the sky was almost black beneath the heavy pall of storm clouds racing across the grey swell of the sea. The Romans watched from their saddles a moment longer before Quintatus voiced what most of the others were already fearing.
‘They’re not going to make it.’
One of the junior tribunes turned towards him. ‘They’re not so far away, sir.’
‘Quiet, you fool. Can’t you see? The storm will be on them before they reach the bay. They haven’t got a chance.’