More of the enemy were moving along the slope to get at the Romans, and Cato angled his shield down as he struck at the first of them, a pockmarked man whose face was rimmed with a thick beard and straggling hair. He carried a wicker shield and a hunting spear and he lithely sidestepped Cato’s thrust before covering his cloaked body and stabbing the broad-bladed spearhead at the Roman. Cato used his shield to deflect the blow down, and gasped as he felt the edge of the blade gash his calf just above the ankle. Raising his boot, he stamped down on the head of the spear and made a cut towards the man’s exposed hand. The edge of the sword missed and struck the spear shaft instead, splitting it and rendering the weapon useless. With a cry of bitter outrage, his enemy cast the spear aside and snatched an axe from his belt. Even though it was small, the head still looked formidable as the warrior climbed closer and swung it hard at Cato’s shield. It split the wood above the lower trim, and the native wrenched it out and struck again and again, a series of savage blows, hacking away at the shield that Cato had to keep presenting in order to protect his feet and shins.
More of the enemy were advancing along the slope, and the standard-bearer was forced to step in, sword raised towards a short but broad-shouldered youth wearing a Gallic helmet and a mail vest under his embroidered cloak. Clearly one of the local nobles, Cato decided as he blocked another blow from the axe that was relentlessly hacking the bottom of his shield to pieces. As his opponent began to swing his arm back for another strike, Cato thrust his arm up and battered the jagged edge of the shield against the man’s jaw, gouging the flesh beneath his beard so that drops of blood spattered down on to the snow at his feet. Before the warrior could recover from the surprise, the Roman struck him again, knocking him back so he tumbled down the slope into the snowdrift at the bottom.
A cry to his side drew Cato’s attention, and he turned to see the standard-bearer standing with his mouth agape as he looked down to where the nobleman had stabbed him deep in the groin. The Briton’s lips split in a cruel smile of triumph as he worked the blade around and then tore it free with a rush of blood that sprayed down the standard-bearer’s breeches. The auxiliary trembled violently, his fingers losing their grip on his sword handle and the shaft of the Blood Crows’ standard. It rippled in the cold air as it fell towards the enemy nobleman, who dropped his shield and caught the staff with a cry of jubilation, then scurried back down the slope with the standard held aloft, waving it from side to side.
It had all happened before Cato could react, and now several more of the enemy had moved along the slope between him and the nobleman. With a sick feeling of shame, he cried out in anguish, ‘The standard! Save the Standard!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Thraxis glanced round, his expression aghast as he saw the standard-bearer crumple on to the rampart. ‘The bastards have taken the standard!’
For a brief moment the fighting inside the redoubt slackened as the men of both sides took in what had happened, then the natives let out shouts of triumph and defiance while the Romans looked on in bitter shame. Four more men had climbed up behind Cato, and he turned to Thraxis and the man nearest him. ‘You two, with me. The rest, hold this position.’
He edged a few paces along the rampart to allow the others to take up positions on each side of him. ‘Let’s teach that cocky bastard a lesson. No one snatches our standard and lives long enough to celebrate it. When I give the order, we go straight for it and keep going. We stop for nothing until we have it back. Then it’s your job to keep it, Thraxis. Are you ready for that?’
Thraxis rolled his head to loosen his neck and growled. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry . . . I should never have let it happen.’
‘Later. Now it’s time to redeem ourselves. Ready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Aye,’ added the other auxiliary, before spitting to the side. ‘Let’s take the fucking bastards apart, sir.’
Cato nodded, then took a deep breath as he adjusted his grip on his sword and held it firmly. ‘Let’s go!’
He started down the slope, hurrying but being careful not to slip in the snow. The others followed, just behind his shoulders, and the small wedge drove into the loose cluster of enemy warriors below. Cato increased his pace at the last moment, smashing the first man to one side, then lashed out with the guard of his sword, striking another enemy in the face and knocking him away. Thraxis, on his left, punched his shield into two more men and sent them tumbling down the slope, while the Blood Crow to his right slashed out with his blade, slicing open a warrior’s tattooed arm, cutting into the bone. The three Romans increased their pace, charging to the bottom of the slope and bursting through the last men straight at the noble, who was looking up at the standard with glee. His gaze dropped as he heard a warning cry and his eyes narrowed at the three Romans charging towards him. With a defiant snarl he punched the spike at the bottom of the staff into the ground and stepped in front of it, arms held apart in a show of contemptuous defiance for his enemies. Four more of his men, giants in chain vests and Celtic helmets, holding their ornately decorated round shields, came running across from the far side of the redoubt. These were either noblemen like their companion or his bodyguards, Cato decided.
‘Take care of them!’ he ordered. ‘This one is mine.’
Even as he spoke, he could not help a mental wince at the braggadocio of his tone, and realised that it was the sort of thing Macro might have said in such a situation. He could not help a brief laugh. Was this what it meant to be a veteran soldier, comfortable in his own skin and feeling that being on a battlefield and risking life and limb was a natural state of being? The native nobleman was frowning at him, as if irritated by Cato’s humour. He arrogantly beckoned the Roman officer closer and raised his sword as he stood tall and puffed out his chest.
‘All right then, my friend,’ Cato responded softly. ‘Let’s see what you are made of.’
A clash of blades distracted him and he glanced aside as Thraxis and the other auxiliary began their duel with the nobleman’s heavily armed companions. They were outnumbered two to one and would only be able to give Cato a limited chance of retrieving the Blood Crows’ standard. He tapped his sword against the side of his shield and strode forward to meet the warrior’s challenge.
The young nobleman’s expression intensified, his dark eyes like gleaming beads as he began to swing his blade in a circle to build up momentum. Suddenly he leapt forward and unleashed his sword, slashing it diagonally down at the crown of Cato’s helmet. Only the swiftest of reactions saved Cato as he threw up his left arm and took the blow squarely on the top of his shield. The impact jarred his arm and shoulder and drove the shield back to crash against the cross-piece on the brow of his helmet, and his jaws snapped together so that he bit into his tongue.
The pain was instant and acute and he tasted the iron tang of blood in his mouth. But there was no respite as the sword came swishing in again, battering the shield and forcing Cato to give ground. A crack opened up in the lower part of the shield and extended as the third blow landed, and Cato knew that it would not endure more than a handful of impacts before it fell apart. Without it he would be armed only with his short sword, with half the reach of his opponent, and in such a contest it was unlikely that he would survive long.
His reaction was instinctive and took him by surprise almost as much as it did his opponent. As soon as the next blow landed, he launched himself forward, throwing his full weight behind the damaged shield. He’d intended to knock the man down, but the nobleman’s reflexes were as sharp as Cato’s, and he swung aside and avoided most of the force of the impact. Cato glanced past him, and released the useless shield as he ran on a few more paces to the standard, turning beside it to face the nobleman, who came on, fully aware that the advantage had swung to him. Cato drew his sword back high behind his shoulder, as if to make a wild cut, then swung it forward and released his grip. The blade spun end over end towards his startled opponent, who took it hard on his left shoulder. It struck edge on and deflected up and over the man before falling soundlessly into the snow and ice a few feet behind him.