Cato watched the fall of the shot from the ballista batteries and noted with satisfaction that they were tearing numerous gaps in the centre of the palisade. His attention passed along the enemy’s defences to the small redoubt at the end, directly opposite the Blood Crows. That fortification was as yet untouched, but the first of the biremes was already dropping anchor within range of it, and a second anchor was dropped from the stern in order to provide a secure platform, side on to the action. Cato could see the crews of the deck-mounted bolt-throwers loading their weapons and turning them to bear on the redoubt. This was the objective assigned to the Blood Crows. If it was taken, then the cohort would be able to charge on the enemy’s flank and roll up their line. The bireme was late in reaching its station and adding its weight to the bombardment, and Cato let out a long, frustrated breath.
As the last clanks of the loading windlasses died away, the trierarch in command of the warship raised his arm to call his ballista crews to attention, then thrust it forward. The dark shafts of the heavy bolts arced across the water and smashed into the defences, unleashing a shower of splinters. The crews fired a few more volleys before the headquarters trumpets sounded and the batteries ceased shooting. As if to try and make amends for their tardiness, the sailors released a few extra shots before standing down.
A hush fell across the snowy battlefield as the Romans stood waiting for the order to attack. Along the defences, the first faces appeared as the enemy warily returned to their positions and prepared to make their stand.
‘Fourteenth Legion!’ A voice bellowed from the heavily armoured ranks to the left of the Blood Crows. ‘Prepare to advance!’
The men raised their shields and held them at an angle across their bodies.
‘Advance!’
The front ranks of each cohort moved forward, and those following rippled after their comrades, pacing out across the virginal white snow in front of the natives’ fortifications. The order to advance was repeated in the flanking missile cohorts, and the archers and slingers surged ahead of the legionaries, ready to harass any of the enemy who made easy targets of themselves. Cato steadied himself and drew a deep breath before he too called out into the crisp air.
‘Blood Crows, make ready . . . Advance!’
He stepped out, and his men followed suit on either side as the black standard with its red crow stirred above the formation. The snow crunched softly under his boots as he descended the gentle slope towards the outer ditch and the round earthwork of the redoubt. Two hundred paces ahead he saw the enemy warriors waiting to receive them. The usual mix of tribesmen with armour and those without, waving spears, swords and axes. The few bowmen amongst them were hurriedly stringing their weapons, plucking arrows from their quivers and notching them as they waited for the Romans to march into range.
A century from the cohort of archers trotted ahead of the Blood Crows, pausing to loose arrows as they approached the ditch. The defenders began to shoot back, and the slender shafts arced to and fro against the grey sky. The advantage lay with the enemy, who were able to duck into cover, while their Roman opponents were in the open and had to rely on quick reactions and deft footwork to avoid being struck down. Some were not so lucky, and Cato saw one of the auxiliaries lurch as an arrow caught him in the shoulder. Slinging his bow, the man tried to work the arrow free as he fell back, passing the Blood Crows and making for the field dressing station.
A faint phut reached Cato’s ears, and he saw a shaft quiver momentarily in the snow not ten feet ahead of him. He raised his shield to cover his chin and continued forward without breaking his pace. Another arrow whirred close by and he had to force himself not to flinch in case the men on either side of him noticed. The archers had stopped a short distance ahead and now began to move aside to fall back between the squadrons of the Blood Crows as they marched towards the outer slope of the ditch. The shafts and feathered flights of the enemy’s arrows sprouted from the snow like slender flowers. Cato was briefly struck by the comparison and smiled, until he caught sight of an archer on the palisade directly ahead, lining up his shot. As their eyes met, the man drew back his right arm and cocked his head. Cato just had time to lift his shield before the man released his arrow, and then he felt the impact as the iron head smashed through the leather and strips of glued wood, splintering just a few inches from his face. More arrows and slingshot zipped through the air as the defenders desperately tried to shoot down as many attackers as they could before the Romans closed the gap and engaged them hand to hand.
A cry close by caused Cato to glance round. He saw one of his men stagger to a halt and lower his shield as he reached up to grasp the shaft that protruded from his shattered cheekbone. A moment later he was struck again, this time by a slingshot that caught him squarely on the front of his helmet, jerking his head back violently and knocking him senseless. He collapsed into the snow and lay still as his comrades advanced relentlessly around and over him.
Cato risked a quick glimpse over the rim of his shield and saw that they were almost on top of the ditch. He slowed his pace as he began to descend the outer slope. The ditch was no more than ten feet deep and the bottom was strewn with sharpened stakes set into the ground at an angle. The obstacles would have presented a danger to a headlong attack, but the measured advance of well-trained Roman soldiers meant that the attackers had time to push the stakes aside and continue to the inner slope before clambering up the far side. Cato led the way, making for a point where the navy’s ballista had smashed several timbers to splintered remnants. As he began to scramble up the inner slope, having to thrust his hands into the snow to gain purchase on the frozen ground beneath, he saw the enemy lining the palisade above. Many had hair stiff with limewash and bore swirling tattoos on their faces. Their lips curled back and their mouths were wide agape as they screamed insults and curses at the Romans. Some were hurling rocks down from the palisade, crashing on to the oval shields of the Blood Crows, or glancing off helmets and armour. A few unlucky men were struck on exposed limbs or dazed by sudden blows to the head. They fell back and slid down into the ditch, stunned.
On hands and knees Cato crawled up the slope, keeping his shield raised and wincing each time it was struck by a rock. At the foot of the palisade he crouched by the timber posts and quickly took stock of the situation. On both sides his men were swarming around the defences of the redoubt, crowding those points where the bireme’s brief barrage had battered the timbers. He saw that the palisade was fastened with intertwined lengths of rope that helped to hold the posts in place. At once he drew his sword, thrust it into a gap between two of the posts and began sawing. As the strands parted, he was joined by the standard-bearer and Thraxis, who took out his own blade and, following his prefect’s example, began to cut at the rope higher up. Other men did the same around the redoubt, while the enemy continued to hurl missiles down at them, desperate to drive them away.
The rope parted and Cato sheathed his blade so that he could work the strands free of the posts on either side. Then he called forward two of his men, big, burly soldiers who reached up to where the ballista bolts had shattered the timbers. Groping for handholds, they strained and pulled at the posts while Cato thrust his sword back through the gap and tried to help work them loose. Soil began to trickle out, and then one of the posts gave a little lurch and shifted at an angle to the others.