The night air was freezing, and Cato felt it chill his throat as he inhaled. Apart from the soft, crunching footfalls of those ahead and behind, the night was quiet and still, and Fortuna continued to favour them with an obscured moon. When the Blood Crows reached the treeline, however, and worked their way round towards the narrow gap between the rocky slopes and crags that divided the two mountains, the moon began to edge into a clear sky, silvering the feathery outline of the nearest clouds. The increase in the illumination was startling, and Cato felt horribly exposed before he realised that any observer would find it nearly impossible to distinguish the cohort from the background of the trees. They continued on, making good progress over the compressed snow that had been packed down and provided firm footing.
As the trees gave way to open ground littered with small boulders, Cato saw Macro’s legionaries seemingly disappearing into the cliffs. Drawing closer, he realised that there was a gap wide enough for five men to march into. On either side, moss- and snow-covered rocks rose up and engulfed the sky, and the air was damp and musty-smelling. The passage soon began to narrow and the ground became uneven, and Cato reflected that Livonius had been right. There was no way that any wheeled vehicle could negotiate this route. Looking up, he saw that the sky overhead was a shade brighter. He turned and saw more light through the mouth of the defile and knew that dawn was fast approaching.
He drew his mount aside and let his cohort pass one by one. At the rear of the unit came a small string of mules carrying what little feed Cato had been able to glean from the camp. Miro led the animals by without daring to look round and meet the prefect’s eye.
Cato watched for a short while longer as the sky continued to lighten and a pink bloom rose across the eastern horizon. That was when the distant note of a Celtic war horn brayed thinly. The signal was taken up by others as a swelling roar rose like the sound of surf breaking on a far-off beach. It seemed the enemy’s patience had been exhausted and they were not prepared to starve the Romans into surrender. The Druids and their warriors wanted blood instead, and the honour of telling their grandchildren of the part they had played in annihilating a Roman army.
Cato tugged the reins of his horse and strode quickly to catch up with the tail of the column.
‘Make way!’ he ordered Miro curtly, and the former decurion hurried to get his mules off the path as the prefect hurried by. As he reached the rearmost squadron, Cato called ahead. ‘Pass the word to the legate: the enemy are attacking the camp . . .’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Once the remains of the Roman army had cleared the defile, the units re-formed and began marching along a narrow valley that meandered east and south for several miles. As Valens had anticipated, the snow was lying more deeply here, and the men at the front of the column had to wade knee-high before a path was broken for those that followed. On everyone’s mind was the fight being waged for the camp. Once the enemy had forced their way in, it would all be over very quickly. When that happened, the Druids would know they had been deceived and would be sniffing for the trail of their prey at once. It would not take them long to find what was left of the path through the defile and come after the Roman column again.
The enemy was not the only matter plaguing the minds of the soldiers trudging through the snow. Some had not eaten for nearly two days and had to endure a constant twisting ache in their stomachs. At least their thirst was easily slaked by handfuls of snow. But the hunger ate away at their strength and endurance, and the men, already weary, had to force themselves to keep going, one step after another.
It did not take long for the first of them to fall out of the line of march. Their officers bawled at them to get back on their feet, and if shouting did not work, they resorted to punches and blows from their vine canes. It did the trick for some, but others just curled into a ball and took the beating, no longer caring for the authority of their superiors or even the pain inflicted on them. Those men were eventually left to their own devices and remained where they sat. There were others who remained in the line of march, but only at the cost of abandoning their kit, and soon the route was littered with mess tins, spare clothing, entrenching tools and even full marching yokes, so that their former owners had nothing left but their weapons and whatever food and drink remained in their haversacks.
It broke Macro’s heart to see soldiers, particularly his beloved legionaries, so dispirited that they willingly tossed their belongings aside against the blandishments of their officers. He watched his own men carefully, ensuring that his officers kept them moving and that they did not dispose of any kit. It was easier for the Blood Crows, who had horses to carry their belongings and who therefore had only hunger and tiredness as their constant burdens. Cato found his thoughts turning repeatedly to food, even at the occasional expense of his grief over Julia’s death. Each time he had to force himself to put such thoughts aside and keep his mind on his men, watching to make sure they stayed closed up, offering words of encouragement to those who needed it, and forever looking back down the trail for the first sign of the enemy.
At noon, as close as Cato could estimate the time in the overcast, the legate halted the column to allow the men to rest and the stragglers to catch up. It was too cold to sit, and the men stood shuffling their feet and rubbing their hands, and trying to stay as warm as they could.
Macro came striding up.
‘Bracing weather, eh?’
Cato, who had a lithe build, tended to feel the cold more acutely than his friend, and he struggled to stop his teeth chattering as he replied. ‘Does nothing ever bother you?’
‘Oh yes! Tarts with the clap, honest politicians, and anyone who cheats at dice. Cold you can get used to. Even in Britannia. But hunger? That’s different. I could murder a haunch of venison right now, soused in garum and served with a thick onion gravy.’ Macro stared into the middle distance as he continued his reverie, until a rumbling from his belly drew his attention back to his present situation. ‘Sorry about that. Not very helpful.’
‘Not helpful at all,’ Cato agreed. ‘I’d eat anything right now.’
He looked down the line to where Miro was tending to the animals. ‘I think we’ll slaughter the mules tonight. Half to the Thracians and half to your boys. Won’t be much meat to go round, but maybe we’ll have time to boil it to make it tender enough to eat without breaking our jaws. At least the men will have something to warm their insides and put a smile back on their faces. And we’ll see what we can save for tomorrow night.’
Macro shot him a quick look. ‘You’re thinking too far ahead, sir. We’ve got to get through this one day at a time. That’s what you need to fix your mind on, if you want to live.’
Cato thought a moment and gently rocked his head from side to side. ‘Wise words, I suppose. I’ll let you know if I live until tomorrow night.’ His tone became serious. ‘How are your men doing?’
‘The lads are fine. Only a handful have dropped out so far, but you’ll have seen that for yourself. Of course they’d eat their own mothers given half a chance. But for now they’ll do as they are told, if that’s what you mean.’
Cato looked round guardedly. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. From the amount of kit I have passed already, I’d say that only a handful of units are still in good enough shape to put up a decent fight. If it comes to it, the rest of the column will be depending on us. And we will be able to cover the retreat only for as long as we can retain discipline over the men and give them the heart to fight. It’s on our shoulders, Macro.’
‘I know, sir. Nothing much changes in this world. We seem to find ourselves up to our necks in trouble wherever we go. I’d swear someone had cursed us both good and proper.’