‘Sir!’
Cato started, and blinked hard. Miro was alongside him, craning his neck as he pointed ahead. A mile away he could make out the end of the Roman column stretched out across the winter landscape. Wagons were interspersed with units of infantry, some of whom toiled at the wheels to budge forward vehicles that had become stuck or were struggling with a steep incline. The cavalry formed an extended picket line to the landward side of the route, while the coast guarded the other flank. More riders were just visible in the distance, scouting the way ahead. Cato strained his eyes to look beyond them, to the east, the direction that held out the prospect of the army’s salvation. And yet in his heart, he felt that he was already dead and merely looking over the thousands of men who would soon share that fate in reality.
‘Keep them going,’ he said to Miro, and steered his mount off the track then turned to look back the way they had come. The cohort had kicked up a clear trail through the snow, and until there was another fall, it would be easy to follow, like a finger pointed directly at the retreating Roman army. The enemy would find it soon enough. And then they would hurl themselves into a savage pursuit of their prey, determined to run them to ground and tear them to pieces.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
There was little sign of the enemy for the first two days, even though their scouts had established contact with the Romans as early as dusk on the first day of the retreat. The native horsemen were first seen in the distance, over two miles to the rear of the column. Having found the Roman army, they galloped forward and were only driven off when Cato and the Blood Crows turned to confront them. No attempt to engage the Romans was made, and the enemy were content to ride up into the hills on the flank and survey them as they kept pace. That was not a hard task for the native warriors due to the army’s difficulties in negotiating the snowdrifts that blocked the way. Each time the wagons had to be halted while the men took up their trenching tools and cleared a path. There was additional trouble once the passage of feet and wheels packed down the snow and compressed it into sheets of ice that made the going difficult for those following on. The only cheering thought for Cato was that the Druids and their followers would be enduring the same conditions, though they would not be burdened by carts and wagons as the Roman army were.
Legate Quintatus drove the men on as far as he could before giving the order to halt for the night. Due to the head start that the Romans had gained, he did not judge it possible for the natives to catch up for at least another day. And so no camp-in-the-face-of-the-enemy was constructed, the soldiers merely setting out a perimeter of field defences using the spiked lengths of wood that slotted together to make barricades. Come the dawn, these were easily broken down and carried on the back of carts or loaded on to mules. As soon as the tents were erected, those off duty scrambled inside to shelter from the wind and cold as best they could and chew disconsolately on their meagre rations.
The men of the rearguard were not so fortunate. Quintatus had given orders for the Blood Crows to stand watch, and Cato’s men were able to rest for only half the night. Once again, Macro’s cohort was assigned to Cato’s small command, and was to provide the backbone of any stand that had to be made in order to hold the enemy at bay. But at least the legionaries were spared the rigours of mounting a picket on a freezing winter’s night. As the watch changed, Cato rode forward with a small escort, warily picking his way back down the track for a few miles. If the enemy scouts were keeping an eye on the Roman column, they made no attempt to stand their ground and challenge the small party. And then, from the crest of a hill, Cato caught sight of the enemy’s campfires, some eight or so miles behind the Roman column. Less than a day’s march, and much closer than he had anticipated, given the earlier ruse to delay the natives.
The Romans broke camp and marched on at first light. For the first time in days, the sun rose into a clear sky. However, it shed little warmth over the winter landscape, and the mountains and hills cast long shadows across the snow. The rations had been halved the day before, and the first pangs of hunger made themselves felt by the end of the second day. Exhausted by the long hours of marching, the men had worked up a ferocious appetite, which had to be satisfied by the mean allocation of barley and dried meat.
During the afternoon, the enemy horsemen tracking the army had grown significantly in number, and as the column halted, just before dusk, Cato’s scouts reported that a large force of native infantry was no more than four miles away and closing. Just before the last light faded, they appeared along the skyline, silhouetted against the glow of the red sunset. They remained there in silence for a while before falling back out of sight. This time Quintatus had given orders to surround the camp with a ditch and rampart, and the men laboured into the night, struggling to break up the frozen ground, before their commander was satisfied.
Thin clouds were scudding across a starry sky as the tired officers shuffled into the headquarters tent at the first change of watch. Cato and Macro had made a final round of the pickets posted outside the camp and were the last to arrive. As they stood with the other officers, Legate Quintatus cleared his throat and coughed, then took a long look over the faces of his subordinates before he began the evening briefing.
‘Gentlemen, the situation has become somewhat more serious now that the enemy are upon us. We can assume that they will attempt to engage us on the morrow. Tempting as it is to turn about and give ’em some stick, that would only delay us and play into their hands. They will have guessed that we are short of rations and the longer they can keep us in these mountains, the weaker we become and so easier to defeat. We must keep moving. That in itself is going to become an increasing challenge thanks to the weather and the reduction to quarter-rations, effective tomorrow.’
Macro gave a low groan at the words, as did a number of the other officers. But the legate ignored them as he continued. ‘There is no choice in the matter. Quarter-rations will give us two more days. After that, we march on empty stomachs, until we are resupplied. Which is being arranged. I sent Tribune Glaber and a squadron of Dacian horses ahead of the column yesterday. He has orders to organise a supply convoy at Deva and bring it to us along the coastal route. At best it will take four days before we encounter them, which means our men will go hungry for two days.’
‘Hungry?’ Macro muttered. ‘They’ll starve, more like. In this cold, it will hit the men all the harder.’
‘Yes,’ Cato agreed.
‘There has to be something else we can do.’
‘There is.’ Cato stepped forward and raised a hand. ‘Sir, if I may?’
‘What is it, Prefect?’
‘We won’t last long in this weather without finding something for the men to eat. It’s time we slaughtered some of the mules. Enough to give us meat for a few days. Perhaps even enough to see us through until we reach Glaber and his convoy.’
‘And which mules did you have in mind? The gods know we have few enough of them.’
‘We slaughter the animals drawing the artillery train.’
‘To feed the men who will have to step into their traces to replace them?’
Cato shook his head. ‘Not what I was going to suggest, sir. I say we leave the artillery behind.’
Quintatus’s eyebrows rose. ‘Abandon our bolt-throwers and catapults to the enemy? Are you mad? Rome would never forgive me.’
‘With respect, sir. Rome might be even less forgiving if we attempted to save the artillery at the expense of the entire column.’
It was a bold assertion, and the other officers could not hide their surprised expressions as they glanced from Cato to their commander to see how the latter would react. Quintatus shared their consternation, but Cato continued before he could respond. ‘We don’t let the enemy capture our weapons. We burn the lot . . . but only after we give them one last taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end.’