Cato looked on with grim-faced satisfaction before he turned to the centurion in command of the battery and called out, ‘Shoot at will!’
The crews worked as swiftly as possible and the air was filled with the clatter of ratchets and the sharp thwack of the throwing arms striking the buffers. A near-constant hail of bolts slashed down into the tightly packed mass of enemy warriors halted on the slope, while around them the snow was spattered with crimson, bright as poppies, thought Cato. Already, little heaps of bodies, some still writhing, lined the enemy’s front, and more fell all the time, torn down by the Roman artillery. A Druid ran forward a few paces and turned to cajole his followers, waving his arms frantically and thrusting a spear in the direction of the Roman line. An instant later he was caught squarely in the back and hurled several feet before collapsing in front of the tribesmen. A groan rose from their lips and spread through the throng, and then Cato saw men peeling away, falling back up the slope. Uncertainly at first, but then breaking into a run as they got further from their comrades still trying to move forward in the teeth of the Roman barrage. More turned to flee, and then their resolve broke completely and the entire force was streaming back up the slope, leaving hundreds of their stricken comrades in the bloodied snow.
‘Cease shooting!’ Cato yelled. ‘Cease shooting!’
One by one the bolt-throwers fell silent and still, and then Cato turned to his cohort. ‘Blood Crows, to the front! Form line and prepare to advance!’
The Thracians surged through the gaps between the weapons and jostled into place. As soon as they were ready, Cato drew his sword and pointed the tip at the fleeing enemy. ‘Advance!’
The line edged forward, tackle chinking as the horses’ hooves plunged into the soft snow. More snow fluttered in the cold air, mingling with the breath of men and their mounts. Cato gave the order to increase the pace to a trot, and the line grew slightly more ragged as the Thracians struggled to keep their horses moving at an even speed. Ahead lay the bodies of the enemy, scattered on the ground amid the shafts of the bolts that stuck up at every angle. The Blood Crows slowed as they picked their way through, the riders using their spears to strike down those natives who yet lived. Then they had passed beyond on to open ground and spurred their mounts on. In the last fifty yards, Cato drew a sharp breath and cried out the order to charge, and the Blood Crows galloped after their prey. They caught up with the first of the enemy and the bloodletting began with almost savage abandon as the cavalry stabbed about them with their spears, impaling one man after another.
Cato did his best to stay at the head of his men, hacking with his sword and sharing their wild exhilaration as they shattered the enemy’s will to fight and routed the natives. They had reached the top of the slope before he was aware of it, and at the ridge he looked up and reined in, aghast. On the far side of the hill, no more than a mile away, marched the rest of the enemy’s army. There was no organised column such as the Romans used, but scores of large groups of men, the vast majority on foot. Most carried bulging slings, no doubt filled with their marching rations, Cato thought bitterly, his stomach aching with hunger. The rest of the Blood Crows halted along the ridge, while the surviving natives streamed down the far side of the hill. It was the first time Cato had seen the Druid-led army in its entirety, and he estimated that there were at least fifteen thousand of them in clear view, with more emerging through the distant loom of falling snow. More than enough to chase down and destroy Quintatus and his exhausted and starving men.
Thraxis edged his mount alongside his commander and let out a low whistle as he saw the native horde. ‘Fuck me . . . We’re in deep trouble, sir.’
‘Thank you for your strategic assessment, Trooper,’ Cato remarked. He took a last look and tugged on his reins to turn his horse away. ‘We’ve done all we can here. Let’s go . . . Blood Crows! Fall back!’
The Thracians swung about and formed up in a column of fours. Cato led them back down the slope, around the fallen enemy, to where the legionaries were waiting. Macro greeted him with an expression of warm delight, rubbing his hands together briskly.
‘Fine work! The lads on the bolt-throwers gave them a real drubbing. Pricked their confidence very nicely indeed.’
‘Indeed.’ Cato turned in his saddle and pointed towards the centurion commanding the battery. ‘Set them alight. Make sure they burn properly and leave nothing for the enemy, then get your men back to the main column. Macro, same for you. We’re done here. Get moving.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied with terse formality and strode back towards his colour party, bellowing for the Fourth Cohort to form line of march. The crews of the bolt-throwers scurried over to the braziers to light brands, and returned to their weapons to set the small piles of kindling alight, before feeding more combustibles to the small flames licking up. The pitch smoked before catching, and soon the first of the weapons was blazing, dark acrid smoke curling into the air. Once the last of them was on fire, the centurion gave the order for the men to withdraw, and they marched off with Macro’s cohort in the direction of the main column.
Cato lingered for a short while to make sure that none of the bolt-throwers would escape destruction from the flames and then turned to Decurion Miro.
‘Start sowing the caltrops. No need to concentrate them, just a wide band across the tracks we’ll be leaving.’
As the rest of the Blood Crows pulled back a hundred paces, their comrades began to scatter the iron spikes. Cato looked up at the falling snow. It would soon cover any indents left by the caltrops, though it was not settling fast enough to obscure the route taken by the Romans. Some of the enemy were bound to suffer crippling injuries when they trod on the vicious little spikes. Enough to slow their comrades down and make them proceed very warily. All of which would buy the Romans badly needed time to keep ahead of their pursuers.
Once the final caltrops had been laid, Cato turned the cohort to the east and gave the order to advance. Behind them the hungry flames roared as they eagerly devoured the wooden frames and sinewed springs of the bolt-throwers. Cato glanced at the spectacle with a sense of foreboding. There would be no repeating the ambush when the enemy closed up on them again. Next time it would be down to hand-to-hand fighting, blade against blade, man against man. And for all the fine training and discipline of the Roman army, the men still needed rest and food. Both of which were going to be in increasingly short supply in the days to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘Poor bastards,’ said Macro as he looked along the long strip of shingle. To his right were the stragglers from the column, the walking wounded, the hungry and the exhausted, plodding along through the snow and ice. A handful of centurions and optios were moving along with them, shouting at them to get moving, and beating those who needed it to stir them into making an effort to pick up the pace. Some, however, had given up and sat where they had slumped to the ground, staring vacantly, too weary to care any more about the authority and threats of their superiors.
But they were not the men to whom Macro was extending his pity. He was looking at the line of corpses stretching along the shingle, amid the flotsam of the wrecked ships that had been carrying the injured to safety. The shattered hull of a warship lay on its side on some rocks a short distance out across the rough grey sea, while sections of other ships rocked in the shallows as they were buffeted by crashing waves.