‘Take it easy, Macro. This is a centurion’s fight, not a legate’s. These men are yours to command. And I will follow your orders.’
Meanwhile, the Blood Crows divided into two parties and ran up the sides of the hills to the top of the crags. Cato went to the right and joined the men scrambling up through the snow, soon feeling his lungs and muscles burn with the effort of such violent exercise while suffering the debilitating effects of exhaustion and hunger. By the time he reached the uneven surface of the same crag he had scaled only weeks before, his heart drummed in his ears and he was gasping for breath. He crossed to the edge overlooking the approach to the gorge. The sentry who had alerted the rearguard was standing in the light of the crackling fire. The glow illuminated a nearby stack of javelins, bows and arrows.
‘Where are they?’ Cato gasped.
The Thracian pointed down the valley, and even in the starlight Cato could see a dense black tide sliding over the ridge a mile back. Ahead of the main force was a screen of cavalry, half as far away. As more of the Blood Crows gathered on the crags, some of the men muttered ominously.
‘Quiet there!’ Cato snapped. ‘Save your breath for the battle.’
He looked down the slope that gave out on to the valley floor. The steep sides reduced the effective front to the width of the gorge and the two routes up to the crags. The advantage in that respect was with the defenders, as Cato had anticipated. Furthermore, Macro’s preparations had been as thorough as time had allowed, and rocks and sharpened stakes blocked the access to the top of the crags. Boulders of a more manageable size had been stockpiled near the edge, ready to throw down on to the natives. Not that it would change the outcome of the struggle between the massively unequal forces, but Cato was confident that the enemy would suffer heavy losses before they broke through the gorge and annihilated the defenders. Even though there was no moon, the dim starlight on the snow revealed the barbarian forces clearly. They would not be able to surprise the rearguard with any discreet attempts to flank the position.
The Thracians continued to watch in silence as the enemy army flowed slowly across the ridge and approached the gorge. For the first time Cato could fully appreciate the scale of the forces the enemy had gathered to crush the invaders who had attempted to humble the Druids. Then it hit him – there was no way that Quintatus’s ambitions could ever have been realised against such odds. The campaign had been doomed from the very start, in every way.
The enemy cavalry stopped a quarter of a mile from the gorge, at the extreme range of a bolt-thrower, and Cato smiled to himself. Clearly their experience of the weapon had left them feeling the greatest respect for it, and they were not taking any chances in case the Romans still retained a few pieces of their formidable artillery. The horsemen drew aside as the infantry followed up and halted. A moment later, a group of cavalry detached and advanced, walking their beasts forward. No doubt to determine the strength of the force that opposed them, thought Cato. He had no intention of accommodating their plans and turned to the Thracians.
‘First squadron! Out with the bows and prepare fire arrows.’
The men set down their shields and spears and took up the bows, bracing one foot on the end and grunting with the effort needed to flex the arms of the bow enough to slip the bowstring loop over the other horned end of the weapon. Then they set to work wrapping linen wadding around the arrow shafts before drenching them in oil. By the time they were ready, the enemy riders had picked their way to within fifty paces of the mouth of the gorge. From there they would be able to see the outline of the barricade and Macro’s men against the backdrop of the fire at the other end of the gorge. But they would have no idea of the strength of the Roman forces. It was time to shake them up.
Cato’s lips twisted into a cold grimace. ‘Light the arrows and prepare to shoot!’
The Thracians dipped the arrows into the fire until the wadding caught, then hurriedly notched them to the bowstrings.
‘Draw!’
The bows creaked slightly as the men pulled back the strings and the flames licked from the wadding.
‘Shoot!’
The arrows flew out in a fiery arc, brilliant in the dark night, and dipped down towards the horsemen. Most landed in the snow and were either extinguished outright or glowed like stars, casting small pools of light about them. Two struck their targets. The first pierced the rump of a horse, and the pain of the impact and the scorching of the burning wad caused the animal to buck and leap around, eventually throwing its rider before letting out a shrill whinny and running off into the night. The glow of the arrow was visible for a long way as the horse bolted along the side of the enemy host and down into the valley. The second projectile struck a man in the neck, and he flailed at the shaft, trying to extinguish the flame, even as blood coursed from his opened veins. He toppled from his saddle and squirmed weakly in the snow.
‘Pour it on!’ Cato encouraged his men, and they lit more arrows and shot them towards the enemy until they had dashed back out of range, leaving a handful of their stricken comrades behind.
‘Cease shooting!’
The last arrows were loosed, and Cato turned to his grinning men and gave them the thumbs-up. ‘Nice work, lads. That’ll have unnerved them, and they’ll be wary when they make their first attack.’
The defenders did not have to wait long. A mass of infantry detached themselves from the enemy host and advanced towards the gorge. As they came on, the force began to divide into three prongs, the two outer ones heading for the slopes leading up to the crags on each side while the main thrust made for the gorge itself. Once again the fire arrows rained down, with more from the crags opposite, and Cato could well imagine the demoralising impact the blazing missiles had on the enemy as they trudged through the snow.
A short distance from the mouth of the gorge, the enemy gave vent to a tremendous cry and charged forward. Macro turned his shield towards them and rested the flat of his sword against the trim as he called out.
‘Make ready javelins!’
Behind the barricade there was a short gap between Macro’s first line of defenders and the rest of the legionaries. Those at the front of the reserves shifted their grip on their javelins, angled their arms back and waited for the order. Macro allowed the enemy to enter the gorge and close to within twenty paces before he barked, ‘Loose!’
He was dimly aware of the veil of dark shafts that flew over his head, crashing and clattering amongst the onrushing tribesmen, skewering some of the dark shapes and knocking them down. More javelins were hurled, adding to the casualties, and then the enemy reached the hastily planted stakes and caltrops and more went down, pierced by the iron spikes, or shoved on to the points of the stakes by those pushing from behind. Despite the casualties, the attackers charged on, right up to the barricade, where they began to strike out at the Romans.
‘Keep your shields up!’
Macro saw the dimly visible shaggy features of a tribesman rear up in front of him as the man tried to clamber over the rocks. He struck out, taking the native deep in the throat, then twisted the sword violently from side to side and ripped it back. The man fell away and another took his place, stabbing at Macro’s face with a spear. He blocked it with his shield, absorbing the frenzied impact as his foe lunged again and again. Then he angled the shield up and the point glanced off overhead. The warrior was holding the shaft of his weapon tightly and lurched forward with it into Macro’s reach, and the centurion stabbed him in the chest. It was a winding rather than a deeply wounding blow, and the Briton stumbled back, gasping for air as he staunched the blood flowing from his torn flesh.