Cato shook his head in despair. The attack had failed, just as he had feared it would, and it seemed that Horatius had placed himself in danger and been knocked off his horse into the bargain. The Seventh Cohort had suffered heavy losses and would be very wary of making another such attack, as would the rest of the column who had witnessed their battering.
‘Well, what now?’ a voice sounded from the men at Cato’s back. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Thraxis shaking his head. ‘Bloody waste that was.’
Cato stared at him a moment, tempted to share his own doubts. Then he determined not to undermine the authority of another officer in front of his men. Instead he growled, ‘Silence in the ranks!’
He turned back and wondered what would happen next. Once Horatius had reached the safety of the settlement he would have to rethink his plan as he had any injuries seen to. Cato hoped that he would try something different. The bastion had to be the priority. Until it was reduced, the Romans would never even reach the fort’s gate, let alone breach it with the ram, without suffering appalling losses.
Cato was still considering the situation when he saw a rider gallop out of the settlement and turn his mount towards the squadron from the Blood Crows. A moment later the headquarters orderly reined in and saluted.
‘Centurion Macro sends his compliments, sir,’ he breathed deeply. ‘Prefect Horatius is dead.’
‘Dead?’
The orderly nodded. ‘Killed outright by a slingshot, sir. Struck him in the face. His body was brought down a short time ago. Centurion Macro sent me to tell you.’
‘I see.’
‘There’s more, sir. . Centurion Macro begs to inform you that you are in command now.’
Cato froze. Of course. His friend was right. He was the next in the chain of command. To him passed the responsibility. He turned in his saddle to face Thraxis. ‘Ride to Decurion Miro and tell him to take over. Tell him what’s happened, and tell him I’ll be in the settlement.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Thraxis flashed a salute and spurred his mount out of the formation and galloped off around the hill.
Cato turned back to the orderly. ‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘Stupid fool,’ Macro grumbled as they looked down on the body of Prefect Horatius which had been placed on a bier in one of the huts. He and Cato were alone with the corpse and the surgeon who had attempted to treat Horatius’s wound. The prefect was still in his armour but his helmet had been removed, but even without the helmet it would have been difficult for his closest friend to recognise him. The slingshot had struck slightly to the right of the bridge of his nose, pulverising the cartilage and shattering his brow before plunging through his eye into his brain. In its wake the shot had left a crater of bone, torn flesh and blood that utterly disfigured the face of Horatius. Beside him, on the ground, lay Centurion Statillus. Also dead. Killed when an arrow had severed an artery inside his thigh. He had bled out on the track before the men carrying him had reached the settlement.
‘What was Horatius doing up on the hill anyway?’
Macro thought back. ‘He could see that the cohort was stalling and lost his temper. I tried to talk him out of it. But he took his horse and galloped up there. Stood out like a sore thumb. Every native worth his salt took aim at him. It’s a miracle he got as far as he did before someone hit him.’ Macro cracked his knuckles. ‘Still, it’s an ill wind and all that. .’
‘Meaning?’
‘Now we’ve got someone in charge who knows how to do his job.’ Macro raised his chin. ‘What are your orders, sir?’
Cato had had little time to think through the situation as he rode over from the Blood Crows. He hurriedly collected his thoughts. ‘Firstly, the casualties. I want the walking wounded to make their own way to the camp. The rest can be collected in carts. Bring forward the ballistas at the same time.’
‘What are we going to need them for? Horatius was right about one thing. The angle’s too great to use them.’
‘From down here it is,’ Cato conceded. ‘Have the ballistas broken down into their components and brought forward. They’ll serve us well yet.’
Macro frowned, but Cato continued before he could speak. ‘Then I want axes and picks, enough for ten men, and rope, from stores. And as many slings and shot as we have. I’ll choose a new commander of the Eighth Cohort. Acer can look after the Seventh until this is over. They’ll need a little time to get over their rough handling. Your cohort is the next one to go up the hill.’
‘We’re under strength. Even now we’ve got less men than the Seventh. Mind you, they’re tough lads.’ He fixed Cato with a steady gaze. ‘We’re up for it, sir. Just give the order.’
Cato smiled. ‘All in good time, Macro. We’ve a few preparations to make first.’ He turned to the surgeon. ‘Have Statillus and Horatius taken back to the camp, then see to the wounded.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The surgeon saluted.
Cato and Macro left him in the hut and emerged into the sunlight. It was not yet mid-morning and the day was bright and warm. On either side the street was filled with wounded men, many lying on the ground, while others sat or stood with strained expressions as they waited to be seen to.
‘Macro, I want you to return to camp and gather together what I’ve asked for. Get back here with the equipment as soon as you can.’
Macro saluted and turned away to carry out his orders. Cato picked his way through the injured and emerged on the edge of the village facing the fort. Macro’s cohort, and the Eighth, were resting on the open ground, waiting for orders. They looked round expectantly as their new commander came into view but when he simply stood and concentrated his attention on the bastion, they returned to their quiet conversation.
Cato scrutinised the bastion from end to end and noted that the timber posts of the palisade were lower on the side furthest from the corner where the track approached the gate. Either the Brigantians who had built the fort had used uneven lengths of timber, or the ground had shifted beneath the end of the fort, Cato mused. If that was the case, then it would help his plan. At least the first step of it. There would still be a savage contest for the bastion, but if it could be taken then the rest of the fort would soon fall. Everything depended on taking the outwork, he knew. It would be dangerous, and the men would need to be led by officers who would set an example of the courage needed to see it through. He smiled grimly. A job for himself and Macro then.
It was noon before the equipment was ready and the men had been briefed. The auxiliary infantry had been paired up. One man carried a legionary shield to cover himself and his companion, while the other was armed with a sling and a bag of shot. They were already advancing directly up the slope to get into position to cover the small force led by Cato. Two sections of Macro’s cohort were carrying the tools and rope while the rest of the First Century would form a testudo to provide protection.
Cato gave a last look over the men gathered around him. ‘Remember, when we reach the bastion we have to work fast. They’ll be throwing everything they have at us. I don’t want to lose one man more than absolutely necessary to get this done.’
He turned to the senior centurion he had chosen to lead the Eighth Cohort. Lebauscus was a big man. He towered over the others and was just as broad. His Germanic roots were obvious to all. Fair-haired and square-jawed, with piercing blue eyes.
‘When I give the signal, you get the men up the slope at the double. You don’t stop for anything. You don’t stop until we’ve cut down every one of those bastards in the bastion.’
Lebauscus grinned. ‘You can rely on me, sir. And the lads. We’ll not let you down.’