Cato laughed and then dissolved into a coughing fit. Before he could recover enough to reply, there was a shout from the rearmost squadron of the Blood Crows.
‘Enemy in sight!’
Both men turned to look down the valley. Several figures on horseback, barely more than dots against the white backdrop, were galloping towards a mound less than a mile away. When they reached it, they paused to survey the Roman column. Then one of them turned and sped back the way they had come.
‘Didn’t take them long to find us,’ said Macro. ‘Now we’re for it.’
Cato immediately called to one of his men and sent a message to the legate to inform him that the enemy had been sighted. Then he turned back to Macro.
‘If that’s just a scouting party, it will take time for them to report back and for the enemy to come after us. We’ll have a day’s start on them.’ He paused and gritted his teeth to stop them chattering. ‘If, however, they are an advance party, riding ahead of their army, then we are in trouble.’
‘Trouble? As in we-are-completely-fucked trouble, you mean?’
Cato arched an eyebrow and glanced at him. ‘You put it so eloquently, but yes.’
Word of the sighting spread through the Roman column, and the soldiers turned to gaze back at the distant enemy. Cato watched their expressions and saw fear in many of their faces, deadpan resignation in others. Hardly a man spoke. A short time later, the muffled thump of hooves caught his ear, and he turned to see Quintatus riding down the side of the column towards him, his horse kicking up a fine spray of powdery snow. He reined in as he reached Cato and squinted for a moment.
‘I count eight. Have you seen any more of them?’
‘Just the man they sent back to report on us, sir.’
‘So very soon they’ll know exactly where we are. Damn.’ The legate lowered his head in thought. ‘We’re still two days’ march from Mediolanum. Maybe as much as three days in these conditions. We’ll have to push on as swiftly as we can. I’ll get the column moving again at once.’ He looked up at Cato. ‘No more stopping until we make camp. Anyone who falls out is to be left behind. Understand? We cannot afford to waste time and effort on stragglers.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you’ll have to be ready to turn and fight if needed.’
‘I understand. The army can rely on Macro and me, sir.’
‘Good. Then may Jupiter, best and greatest, watch over us and guide us to safety. If you see any more of them send word to me at once.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Quintatus turned his horse around and spurred it into a gallop as he made for the head of the column. Macro watched him and then clicked his tongue. ‘I do love a commander who leads from the front, just not so much when we happen to be retreating.’
Cato smirked. ‘So it’s down to us to lead from the rear, then.’
The column continued its advance down the valley. A few miles later it merged with another, larger valley, and Quintatus turned east. All the time, the enemy horsemen shadowed the Romans, always keeping a cautious distance. As far as Cato could see, there were no other tribesmen in sight beyond the scouts, and he prayed that Fortuna would finally show them sufficient favour to allow them to stay ahead of the enemy.
As they turned east behind the rest of the column, Cato looked round at the landscape and frowned. ‘I recognise this. We marched through here on the way to Mona. I’m sure of it.’
‘Are you certain, sir?’ said Macro. ‘Under all this snow. Things are bound to look different.’
‘I’m sure of it,’ Cato insisted.
A short distance ahead, they came across two legionaries struggling to hold up a comrade as they staggered along. Cato stepped out of line to address them.
‘What’s the problem here?’
The men made a feeble attempt to stand to attention in front of an officer, and the soldier in the middle winced as he tried to hide his pain. One of his companions coughed to clear his throat and explained, ‘It’s Atticus here, sir. He can’t feel his feet any more. He can’t stand on his own.’
‘No?’ Cato forced himself to adopt a hard expression. ‘Let’s see. Step away from him. Do it now.’
Reluctantly the pair did as they were ordered. Once the last steadying hand had been removed, the legionary swayed for a moment before his legs gave out on him and he slumped into the snow with a sigh. Cato stood over him. ‘Atticus, you have to march on your own two feet. You cannot put your comrades at risk by making them carry you. Do you understand?’
The soldier rolled his head slowly. ‘Too . . . tired.’
‘Atticus! Atticus! Look up!’ Cato leaned over and shook his shoulder roughly. The legionary’s eyes blinked open and it took a moment for him to focus. Cato thrust his arm out towards the enemy scouts. ‘You see them? Very soon, thousands of their friends are going to appear, eager to run us to ground and cut our heads off. If you can’t march, then you are dead. And if your comrades carry you, then they’re dead as well. Rome cannot afford to lose any more men. So you’ll get up and rejoin the column, or you’ll sit there and die. Your choice.’ He turned to the two legionaries. ‘Get back to your unit. On the double!’
They looked uncertainly at their friend before Cato glared at them, defying them to disobey, then they turned away and hurried off. He gazed back down at Atticus and felt his guts twist in pity. It had been hard to make his comrades leave him, but necessary.
‘Atticus, do what you can to keep moving. If you can’t move, take your sword out and use it on the enemy or on yourself. Do not let them take you prisoner.’
The legionary nodded wearily and muttered, ‘No prisoners.’
Cato straightened up and strode across to Macro, who had been watching the scene.
‘I had to do that, Macro. So not a word on the matter.’
‘Me? I know better.’
They marched on, cold, starving and with increasingly aching feet that made each pace a private torment. As the light began to fade and the shadows started lengthening, they approached a narrow gorge in the distance, and Cato immediately realised it was the scene of the opening confrontation of the campaign. The irony hit him like the worst of jokes. From here the Romans had marched on Mona full of confidence and in the expectation of a swift victory. Now they were slinking back to their winter quarters like whipped, emaciated dogs, looking back with the haunted expressions of animals that expected nothing but another beating. He took another long, hard stare at the gorge and then turned to Macro.
‘Take command. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘What?’ Macro looked round. ‘What’s up?’
‘Just keep the men going,’ Cato said, climbing on to his horse and feeling the bones of its shrunken flanks as he urged it forward.
By the time he had closed up on Quintatus, the head of the column was already passing through the gorge, and the legate and his staff officers had stopped to watch the men trudge by. At the sight of Cato, a brief look of alarm crossed Quintatus’s face, and he called out, ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing, sir. There’s still no sign of the enemy.’
‘Then why, by the gods, did you come tearing up like that?’
Cato realised that his commander was on the edge of exhaustion, his nerves clearly almost as badly worn as those of the rest of the men. He took a calming breath before he responded. ‘You remember this place, sir?’
‘Of course I do. This is where we were delayed by the enemy at the start of the campaign. Thanks to your dilatory progress in ousting a handful of natives.’
Cato could not resist a slight frown at the accusation. ‘Precisely, sir. And now we have a chance to pay them back in the same coin.’
Quintatus thought briefly, and then looked into the gorge, where a cohort from the Twentieth was passing between the sheer walls of rock that let up to the crags on either side. ‘You think we could hold them here?’