‘You first.’
Thraxis pressed his lips together, then reached in and quickly picked a coin out. He could not help a relieved expression as he held it up.
‘Bronze!’
Miro looked at him in horror, then, as all eyes turned to him, placed his trembling hand into the bag and pulled out the last coin as if it were a poisonous serpent. ‘Silver . . .’
He lowered the coin back into the bag and dropped it at his feet before looking helplessly at Cato, who forced himself to keep his expression impassive as he turned to the men who had picked the silver coins. ‘That’s the way it goes, lads. But remember, you have served with the Blood Crows. Do the cohort proud and you will be remembered. Hold the enemy off for as long as you can, and take down as many of the bastards as possible.’ He clasped hands with each man in turn, and lastly with Miro. ‘Goodbye, Decurion. It’s been an honour to serve with you.’
Miro opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. He swallowed and tried again, in a low, pleading tone. ‘Sir, you need me. Who will command the squadron?’
‘I will take care of them for you.’
‘But they need me, sir. They’re used to me. We’re comrades. Lose me and they’ll not fight nearly so well as they did.’
‘I am sure they will fight to honour you, Decurion. As will I.’
Miro leaned forward and lowered his voice further. ‘Sir, I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to stay here and die. Please don’t order me to. Tell Valens you’re a man short . . . Please, sir. Please.’
Cato tried to pull his hand free, but the decurion held on desperately. Cato felt sickened by the man’s open display of his loss of nerve. He hissed furiously, ‘Pull yourself together. Right now. The odds were the same for you as for everyone else, but Fortuna chose you. Accept it and get those men up to headquarters. Go . . .’
Miro’s grip weakened for a moment and Cato took his hand back swiftly. ‘Carry on, Decurion Miro. Do your duty.’
Miro hesitated and looked round, his jaw trembling. There was a terrible silence before Thraxis stepped forward. ‘Permission to change places with Decurion Miro, sir!’
‘What?’ Cato was nonplussed. ‘What did you say?’
‘I’ll swap places with Miro, sir. Like he said, the cohort needs him. Let me have a crack at those Druid bastards instead. I fancy teaching them a lesson.’
Cato was about to deny the request when he saw the desperate glint in Miro’s eye and realised that the only way he would fight was if someone dragged him kicking and crying to the enemy. It would be unsettling for those that remained and set a terrible example. He swallowed his reluctance and turned to face Thraxis instead. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘I am, sir. It’ll be a chance to take down some of those Celt bastards before I starve to death. Be worth it.’
‘If that’s what you want, Thraxis.’
‘Yes, sir. It is.’
Cato nodded, full of admiration for the man. ‘Very well. But there’s one last thing before we part.’ He stabbed a finger at Miro. ‘Give Thraxis your helmet and your medal harness. Now, unless you want to stay and fight at his side.’
Miro did not need to be asked twice and hurriedly handed over the most visible signs of his office to the standard-bearer. Thraxis made to give him the standard, but Cato intercepted it. ‘I’ll take charge of that. Miro, I am demoting you to the ranks and placing you on the mule team. Even that is more than you deserve. Get out of my sight.’
Miro recoiled as if he had been slapped in the face, then backed away sheepishly and turned to walk off into the night. Cato turned his attention back to Thraxis.
‘For what it’s worth, I am giving you a field promotion to decurion. You will be in command of the contingent of Blood Crows that remains in the fort. I know that you, and the others, will uphold the name of the cohort. And it’s been my personal honour and privilege to serve with you. You might have been a bloody moody servant at times, but you’re a fine soldier.’
Thraxis grinned in the moonlight. ‘And you’re a good officer, sir, but a fucking pain in the arse to look after.’
They shared a brief silence before Thraxis turned to the others who were remaining to fight and die with him. ‘Blood Crows contingent! Attention!’
The small party stiffened, as freshly as if they had just arrived on parade. Thraxis marched to the front, took his place and paused before giving the order. ‘On the word, quick march! One!’
As they headed towards the centre of the camp, one of the other men raised his arm in salute and called out, ‘Thraxis!Thraxis!’ The chant was instantly taken up by the rest of the cohort, and then Cato joined in too, shouting as loudly as he could until the ten men had passed out of sight.
When the cheering had diminished, he turned to his command and looked them over with pride and a certain fondness. Barely a handful of the men remained from the unit he had first encountered on his return to Britannia.
‘There’s not much to be said,’ he told them quietly. ‘Let’s just make sure that their sacrifice is worthwhile. We’ll return to the province, rest over the winter, and then come back in the spring to avenge Thraxis and teach those Druid bastards a lesson. That’s all. Now form squadrons and prepare to march.’
Tribune Livonius and his servant had marked the route to the defile with javelins to which small strips of dark cloth had been attached. They had taken advantage of the terrain to ensure that as far as possible Quintatus and what was left of his column would not be observed. The chosen path started from the lowest corner of the camp facing the mountains, and followed a shallow vale down which ran a stream. Then it skirted a belt of trees, which screened the opening to the defile. The legate waited until a band of clouds obscured the moon before giving the order to move out. The rearguard stood aside while the rest of the army crept out of the camp and moved in single file along the line of markers. If the enemy happened upon the trail the following day, it might be mistaken for the passage of a small contingent, rather than the broad swathe of footprints created by a large force. The men moved in silence, black shadows against the dull loom of the snowscape, watched over by the officers to make sure that no one uttered a word or made any unnecessary sound. The horses and mules were muzzled and led gently by their riders and handlers, who kept a comforting hand to the beasts’ flanks as they paced through the snow.
When the last of the column had passed out of the camp, Cato took a final look at the sentries on the palisade, and the other men who had gathered to quietly watch their comrades depart. Macro sensed his uneasy mood.
‘Despite what I said earlier, you were right. This is the best of a bad situation.’
‘I know. I just wish it was not such a waste of fine men. They deserve better.’
‘At least this way they get to die as they lived, fighting with a sword in their hand. Save your pity for those who are going to freeze to death, or perish from their wounds, or sickness, or an accident. There are many ways death comes to a soldier, sir. This is one of the better ends. Trust me.’
Cato knew his friend was right, but it did not make the leave-taking of their comrades any easier. He drew a deep breath and gave the order as loudly as he dared. ‘Rearguard . . . advance.’
Macro’s legionaries led the way, leaving the fort in single file, followed by Cato at the head of the Blood Crows, each man on foot as he guided his horse along the narrow path carved through the snow by the men and beasts who had gone ahead of them. As the last men left the camp, the gate closed behind them, shutting the defenders in and giving them a few hours’ respite before the coming of dawn and the fate that awaited them. The men at the rear began to collect the javelins marking the route as they reached each in turn. Snow began to fall in flurries, just enough to begin settling over the path the Romans had taken, but not enough to conceal it.