It might have been a trick of the moonlight but Cato thought he detected movement on the dark grey landscape stretching out towards Isurium. A moment later he was certain of it. A figure was running towards the Roman camp. He felt tempted to raise the alarm and call the entire column to readiness. But there was only one man as yet, and it would be better for his soldiers to be left to rest and save their strength for the morrow.
He cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Macro?’
‘Sir!’ The reply sounded from below and behind the gate.
‘Are your men ready?’
‘Any moment, sir.’
‘Good. Stand by the gate.’
The runner was no more than a quarter of a mile away, racing through the long grass in the stifling heat of the hot summer night. Then, above the clink of armour and shuffling of the boots of Macro’s men, Cato heard another unmistakable sound. The pounding of horses’ hoofs. They came from the settlement and he saw them at once, several riders, fanning out slightly as they galloped after their prey, determined to run him to ground before he could reach the Roman camp.
Cato hurried to the rear of the tower and leaned over as he spotted Macro’s foreshortened figure.
‘Open the gate! There’s someone approaching from the fort. With horsemen not far behind. Get out there and bring the man in.’
Macro’s dimly visible face stared up. ‘Yes, sir!’
He glanced round to the front rank of the First Century of his cohort. ‘You heard the prefect! Get that locking bar out!’
Dark shapes rushed forward and Cato heard the men gasp as they lifted the heavy timber beam from its brackets. A moment later the hinges groaned as the gates were hauled aside. Then Macro issued a curt command.
‘First Century! At the double. . Advance!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Their boots pounded across the packed earth of the narrow causeway as they poured out of the gate, across the ditch and into the night. Macro instinctively held his shield tightly to his side to keep his balance as best he could. His right hand hung loose as there was no need for his sword just yet. He scanned the moonlit landscape ahead until he saw the figure hurrying towards him. Altering direction to meet the fugitive, he also saw the horsemen angling in towards him. It would be a close thing, Macro decided. He steadily increased his pace and ordered his men to keep up. The riders posed little threat to the legionaries. There were too few of them. Yet they came on in a frantic charge, heedless of the risk to their mounts as they plunged through the night. He could hear them now, uttering savage cries as they urged their horses on, like hunters closing in for the kill.
‘This way!’ Macro called out. ‘Over here!’
The figure plunging through the grass ran straight at Macro. Behind him galloped the horsemen, and Macro could see that they carried spears. The leading rider lowered his weapon and took aim with the point.
‘Shields to the front! Form wedge!’ Macro bellowed as he swung his round and snatched out his sword, pressing the flat of the blade against the shield trim. He slowed to allow the men of the front rank to take position either side of him, and the men following fanned out as they continued forward.
The fugitive glanced back over his shoulder and saw the nearest of the riders a short distance behind. He put on a last desperate sprint for the safety of the Roman formation, but Macro could see that he would not make it before the riders caught up with him.
‘Drop down! Down!’ Macro shouted frantically as the first horseman thundered up to the man. Whether he heard the warning or acted on instinct, the fugitive threw himself to the side and rolled on the ground. The rider stabbed and missed and then snatched at his reins as his horse plunged towards the Romans. Macro felt the blow on his shield as the chest of the horse struck. Then the animal reared above him, the rider cursing as he stabbed with his spear. The iron point glanced off the curve of the shield and Macro punched his sword up, feeling the point drive home into flesh.
Then the horse was gone, wheeling away towards the other horsemen. Macro looked for the man they had been chasing and saw a tall figure rise up from the grass. He could make out the flowing hair and the left hand clasped to the opposite shoulder. Then the man plunged forward, pushing past Macro into the safety of the Roman formation. There were still others to deal with and Macro did not spare him a glance as he closed ranks and raised his shield towards the oncoming riders.
‘First Century! Halt!’
Their boots ground to a stop and their panting breath filled the air as they faced the horsemen. At the last moment the riders veered down the sides of the wedge, stabbing their spears at the dark shapes of the legionaries. The clatter of iron on wood and the brass bosses of the shields stung the air but none of the spears struck home. Macro edged back into the formation and ordered the men on either side to close up. Then he turned and saw that the man they had rescued was on his knees gasping for breath.
‘You all right, lad?’
The man looked up at Macro, his features clear to see in the moonlight. Macro started. ‘By the gods, Vellocatus!’
The nobleman nodded and struggled to catch his breath. ‘Your tribune. . Have to speak to him. . At once.’
‘Right, then.’ Macro sheathed his blade and helped the Brigantian to his feet. There was a dark stain on the cloth on his right shoulder where he still pressed his hand to control the bleeding. Macro steered him into the heart of the formation and covered his body with his shield. Around the compact formation of the legionaries the horsemen were wheeling round, trying in vain to find a way past the large rectangular shields. Macro looked back towards the fort and estimated that it was over two hundred paces away. The blast of a trumpet announced that the general alarm had been given.
‘Fall back on my count! One. . two. .’
With the centurion calling the pace, the men tramped back in the direction of the camp, with Vellocatus safe in the middle of the formation. As they approached the camp, a squadron of cavalry disgorged from the gate and galloped towards them and Macro smiled as he recognised the shape of the Blood Crows’ banner.
‘It’s our prefect, boys! Come to escort us into camp.’
The native horsemen broke away as they became aware of the threat. Macro saw one of them turn back and raise his spear in an overhand grip. The man gave an enraged shout and hurled his weapon at Vellocatus. Macro instinctively threw himself at the intended victim and both men crashed to the ground as the spear whipped over their heads and struck one of the legionaries in the thigh, bursting through his flesh and out the other side. The Roman staggered under the impact and then looked down in a disbelieving stupor at the shaft piercing his leg.
There was a shout of command and the riders wheeled away and galloped back towards Isurium. The wounded legionary sheathed his sword and calmly lowered his shield to the ground as he inspected his wound with a trembling hand.
‘Get that out of him, and bind the wound up,’ Macro ordered.
A heartbeat later the auxiliary cavalrymen reined in either side of the formation and Cato called out, ‘All right there, Macro?’
‘Fine, sir.’
‘Did you get to our man in time?’
‘He’s here. It’s Vellocatus.’
There was a pause as Cato took in the information and felt a sickening dread at its implications. ‘Get him into camp. I’ll send for the tribune. I don’t think he’s going to like what our friend has to say.’