‘They must have been caught in a storm and driven on to the shore,’ Cato concluded. ‘As you say, poor bastards. The wounded stood no chance. Nor the crews, in all likelihood. But I doubt they’d have been much safer if they had been with the column.’
Two days had passed since they had ambushed their overeager pursuers. The snow had fallen intermittently ever since, creating more drifts that slowed the pace of the march. Fortunately the same snow had hampered the enemy, who had been content to merely keep up with the Romans and made no further attempt to attack, other than the odd harassing sortie carried out by cavalry against individual soldiers or small groups who had ventured too far from the main column as they attempted to forage for food in the villages and farmsteads that the army marched past. There was seldom anything to be had. The inhabitants had disappeared entirely, taking with them their valuables, and their winter provisions. Cato guessed that they had been ordered or coerced to leave nothing for the Romans and their food supplies had either been hidden – easy enough given the snowfall – or simply destroyed. No rations remained and many of the mules had already been slaughtered, and the path of the army was littered with abandoned carts and wagons, discarded kit and those who were too tired to go on and had accepted whatever grim fate the enemy might visit upon them. Of the ten thousand men who had set out on the campaign, Cato doubted that even half remained, thanks to losses in combat and straggling.
The men of the rearguard detachment had held together well during the past two days, mostly down to the iron will of their commander. More than two hundred of Macro’s legionaries were still marching behind the cohort’s standard, while the Blood Crows numbered nearly a hundred still on their mounts and as many marching on foot. Cato had not let them string out along the way, but had kept Macro’s legionaries in column while the Blood Crows led their horses along the flanks to rest the beasts as much as possible and prevent them from developing saddle sores. There was little feed to be had for the horses either, just what could be gleaned from the bottom of the emptied grain pits and barns they passed. Some of them were weakening badly, and two had already been slaughtered after being unable to continue, their flesh shared out amongst the men.
For his part Cato felt the hunger badly enough, but it did not bother him as it did those he commanded, as he was constantly distracted by the need to drive them on. There were times, plenty of them, when he thought again of Julia, and what it was to live in a world without her. It was tempting to let such thoughts deaden his soul and banish any last trace of hope. But instead he fixed his mind on the welfare of his troops. It had been impossible for him to save Julia, but he could save these men: Macro’s bearded, gaunt-faced legionaries, who still carried their marching yokes, much lightened by the discarding of unnecessary kit, and stood stiffly to attention at roll call at dawn and dusk; and the Blood Crows, who looked after their mounts before themselves as far as they could, and chased off enemy raiders who came too close to the tail of Quintatus’s army. But now they were flagging, and Cato feared that soon he would no longer be able to count on their innate pride in their units and their willingness to defend the standards that had led them into so many battles under his command. All men could reach a point where authority mattered no more and simple, raw self-survival reigned supreme in their hearts. Looking at the two units now, drawn up in a line reaching from the shingle to a steep crag-topped slope facing the enemy, Cato wondered how much longer he would be able to hold them together.
The Druids had halted their force half a mile behind the rearguard some while ago and had remained there since. Just as they had the last two times Cato had been forced to turn and make a stand to allow the stragglers and some of the slower vehicles to catch up with the rest of the column. Their refusal to attack was perplexing him. In their place he would have harried the Roman troops every step of the way and given them no respite. Eventually, hunger and exhaustion would have broken them and all that would remain was to mop up the survivors. So why were the Druids seemingly content merely to follow Quintatus and his force?
‘I’m getting a little tired of this,’ said Macro, as if reading Cato’s thoughts. ‘Why aren’t those bastards getting stuck in? They know we have no bolt-throwers left. They could sweep us aside just like that.’ He snapped his fingers to emphasise the point and then cupped his hands together and breathed hard into them a few times. ‘It’s getting colder still, isn’t it?’
Cato nodded. ‘Much colder.’
The night before had been the worst so far. A blizzard had closed in round the army, the wind howling over the tents and stretching and straining the guy ropes. Several of the Blood Crows’ tents had been blown down and it had been impossible to erect them again, forcing the men to crowd in with their comrades to see out the night. The dawn had revealed the army almost snowed in, the long tent lines weighted down by snow that had also drifted up against the sides. It had taken hours for the men to dig themselves free, and get the column on the move. Any water that had been left out overnight had frozen solid, and even the water in buckets inside the tents was iced over. Nor had the temperature lifted much during the day, the sun remaining invisible behind a dull overcast.
Macro cracked his knuckles and stared towards the enemy. ‘This has got to be as difficult for them as it is for us, surely?’ he hissed.
Cato thought a moment. ‘Maybe. But they have food, and they are used to the mountains and know how to shelter in them. They’re hardier, too. Most of our lads come from Italia, Gaul and the provinces around the Mediterranean. They won’t be as used to this as the enemy. I’d say the natives are coping with it better than us. They are defending their homeland. That always lends heart to a cause.’
‘Not to mention that they’ve got us on the run and can scent blood. That also helps.’
‘Very true.’
Both were silent for a while before Macro began to punch his fist into the other hand. ‘Now they’re taking the piss . . . Speaking of which.’
He strode out in front of the line, his gait still a little stiff from the wound. He continued for a hundred paces across the well-trodden snow and then stopped and planted his vine cane in the ground. Reaching under his tunic, he fumbled for his cock and waited a moment before unleashing a stream of urine in the direction of the enemy.
‘Useless shower of piss!’ he bellowed across the open ground. ‘That’s all you lot are! Fucking Druids! I eat ’em for breakfast and shit out the remains!’ The men of the rearguard roared with laughter at his crude challenge and joined in with their own mockery and jeering.
At first there was no response from the enemy. Then one of the Druids stepped forward a short distance in front of his men and reached into a bag at his side. A moment later he raised something in his hand and held it out for all to see. Cato did not have to squint hard to realise what it was. A severed head. To remind the Romans what fate awaited them.
Macro, having emptied the last drops from his bladder, tucked his cock away and turned and strode casually back towards his men. They chanted his name in a rising tone, ending in a rousing final cheer and then some laughter, which gradually faded away. Macro reached down to cup snow to rub between his hands, then grinned at Cato.
Cato smiled. ‘Nice try, Macro. But I doubt they’re going to take the bait. Whatever it is they are planning, they’ll do it when they are good and ready. I just wish I knew what it was.’