He faced front and raised his sword.
‘Blood Crows, forward!’
They set out across the churned snow and shingle, a thin line of oval shields, glinting swords and grim faces, the standard rippling gently above them. Thraxis held it high, where it would be clearly visible to the enemy, so that they would know who it was that was bearing down on them. The party of riders Cato had seen shortly before had dispersed, with several riding along the line to warn of the flank attack. The Druid and a few others remained, trying to rally and cajole the men who had fled from the fort, as well as hurriedly ordering those on the palisade to turn and face the new challenge. But already Miro and his squadron were forcing their way steadily along the rampart, cutting down or thrusting back those who stood in their way, without losing any momentum as they kept up with the rest of the Blood Crows.
They approached the first of the boats drawn up on the shore, and Cato noticed a streak of blood on the ground beside the hull, and more blood staining the bows. As they passed by, he saw a youth, no more than fifteen years old, slumped inside the boat, his arm almost severed at the shoulder. Their eyes met briefly and then Cato marched on. A hundred paces ahead, the Druid and his companions had succeeded in gathering two or three hundred of their followers and were hurriedly jostling them into a makeshift battle line.
‘Keep going!’ Cato urged his men. Glancing to his left, he saw that a large group of warriors had turned to confront Miro’s party, enough of them to stall the Blood Crows’ progress along the line of the rampart. His original intention to keep the cohort together was not going to be possible. All that remained was to keep driving on for as long as they could.
They had halved the distance to the waiting tribesmen when Thraxis shouted a warning. ‘Incoming!’
Cato glimpsed the blur of arrows rising from the enemy ranks, and raised his shield and angled it to protect his head as he shouted the order. ‘Shields up!’
Along the line, the Blood Crows followed suit as the first volley flitted down from the grey sky. Arrowheads rattled loudly off the shields. Some struck home more directly, splintering the wood and lodging in place. There were other impacts, louder, and Cato realised that they were also being targeted with slingshot, often a greater danger than arrows due to the force of the impact. Sure enough, there was a cry from nearby, and he turned to see one of his men stumble, his shin shattered by the crushing impact. The soldier tried to cover his body with his shield as his comrades left him behind.
Cato had to steel himself to maintain a steady pace and not slow down in the face of the steady barrage of missiles, nor increase his speed in an attempt to cover the distance more quickly and make contact with the enemy, at the risk of losing the cohesion of his battle line. So they endured several more casualties before they closed on the tribesmen. At the last instant Cato risked a glance over his shield and saw the fierce expressions of most of the men facing him, and beyond them the Druid screaming encouragement to his followers and no doubt hurling curses at the Romans. Then the two lines came together in an uneven thud of shields and bodies, accompanied by the scrape and ringing clash of blades.
For a moment the opposing sides were pressed together, but then the superior equipment of the auxiliaries shifted the balance of the struggle as they began to cut down their more lightly armoured enemies, many of whom had little more than wicker shields and padded cloaks to protect them. Cato drew a deep breath and shouted, ‘Push and step! One!’
On the count, he punched his shield forward and then stepped in behind it before thrusting with his sword. The other Blood Crows had followed suit, pressing the enemy back, and with Cato calling the time, and the decurions relaying the order, the cohort gained ground, passing over the fallen, who were finished off mercilessly to prevent them from attempting to fight on where they lay.
Splashing sounded close by and Cato saw three men edging out into the water to try and get round the end of the Roman line. He called over his shoulder to the nearest men in the second rank. ‘You two. Cover the flank!’
The pair rushed past into the shallows, surging calf-deep through the icy water as they moved to counter the enemy, and Cato continued calling the advance. At the next push he felt his shield lurch to one side and glanced down to see fingers clamped round the left side, attempting to wrench it aside. As the shield moved, exposing some of Cato’s body, he saw a spear head thrusting at his midriff. Only a frantic last-moment jerk of his sword arm deflected the blow. He tried to regain control of his shield but could not break his opponent’s grip. He lunged forward and sank his teeth into the fingers just below the knuckle, biting hard. He felt the skin give way, and blood coursed over his lips and on to his tongue. The man gave a sharp cry and instantly released his grip, and Cato quickly covered his body again and slammed the shield forward, driving it hard into the face and body of the tribesman he had just bitten. A vicious, tearing stab with the point of his sword put the man out of action, and he fell clutching the rent in his guts, through which blood and intestines began to spill.
Already Cato could see men breaking from the rear of the enemy line, backing away with frightened expressions, some turning and making for the nearest boats. The Druid and the other mounted men attempted to block their path and drive them back into the fight with angry shouts and blows from the flats of their swords. But most of the tribesmen managed to dodge past and run for their lives. Then panic rippled through the ranks and suddenly the entire line was crumbling, flowing away from the Blood Crows, until the last of them broke contact, backed off and turned away to escape.
The auxiliaries, exhausted and bloodied, halted and let out a gasped victory cry, shouting insults at the backs of their fleeing enemy. The Druid and the other riders gave up their fruitless attempt to stem the tide of their followers and glared at the Blood Crows. Then Cato saw the Druid gather in his reins and raise his sword as he turned his mount towards the standard. Before he could charge, one of his companions steered his horse in front of him, blocking his path, and angrily gestured at him to turn aside. After a final bitter stare at his enemy, the Druid gritted his teeth, swung his horse around and spurred it away from the Roman line, making for the greatest concentration of warriors further along the shore.
The men who were fleeing were already running past groups of their comrades who were still formed up, and the latter at once began to waver, then follow their example, as the enemy’s left flank continued to collapse.
‘Onwards!’ Cato swung his sword after the enemy. ‘Keep at ’em!’
Tired as they were, his men had the taste of victory in their mouths and were keen to feed their appetite. They needed no further encouragement as the line resumed its advance. Up on the rampart, the example of their comrades had broken the will of the men confronting Miro, and they too retreated. While some of the tribesmen strove to escape to the safety of the far end of the defences, those with more wits about them made for the boats, dragging them into the water and piling aboard, to be joined by yet more of their comrades in a desperate bid for self-preservation. A routing enemy was only ever a briefly delighting prospect, Cato decided. Very quickly the sense of gleeful triumph gave way to a feeling of disgust at the naked selfishness of men willing to trample over their comrades to save their own skins.
The rising panic spreading down the enemy line had reached those fighting to keep the Fourteenth Legion out of the main breach, and they too began to give way, until the shore seemed alive with tribesmen hurrying to evade the closing trap. A short distance further on, the shoreline ran closer in towards the rampart, and Cato halted the Blood Crows at the narrowest point and re-formed his remaining men into three ranks in close formation. With their shields overlapping, the front line presented an impenetrable obstacle to the enemy, and all that remained was for Legate Valens and his men to seal the victory. Already those warriors still fighting in the breach were being pushed back by the weight of numbers before them, and then Cato glimpsed the dull glint of an eagle standard as the helmets of the legionaries surged into view and they began to fight their way into the open breach behind the defences.