‘Glad to hear it.’ Cato glanced towards the last officer to play his part in the coming attack. ‘Acer, your teams will follow the Eighth the moment they set off. I’ll want those ballistas ready to set up the instant we’ve taken the bastion. Together with the ammunition. We’ll clear the gatehouse of defenders before they even know what’s happening.’ He paused and addressed them all. ‘I want this to be quick and bloody. By the end of the day these natives are going to see just how swiftly the Roman army can bring them to their knees. I want word of this to go out to the rest of the Brigantes. Let ’em know what’s in store for them if they ever think of giving us any trouble again. One last thing. Caratacus. He’s to be taken alive. Wound him if you have to, but the gods help the man who fancies getting a reputation for himself by claiming the life of Caratacus. That’s one the Emperor wants all to himself. Any questions?’
The officers and the men chosen for the work party stared back silently.
‘Good.’ Cato clapped his hands. ‘Then let’s go to it, gentlemen!’
Acer and Lebauscus strode off to their units. Cato undid the clasp of his cloak and let it slip from his shoulders. He caught it before it reached the ground and folded it carefully and then paused to smile as he patted the loose folds. ‘Julia gave me this, before I left Rome.’
‘Then she’ll be glad it’s given you good service,’ Macro said gently. ‘And it’ll please her to see you wearing it on your return.’
‘Yes.’
There was a brief silence before Macro spoke again. ‘Listen, there’s no need for you to do this. I can handle it.’
Cato shook his head. ‘I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.’
‘I know you don’t.’ Macro’s expression became serious. ‘I’m more concerned about what happens to the rest of us if you get yourself killed. We’ve already lost two senior officers. If you get the chop then it’s down to me or Tribune Otho to see it through, or get the lads back across the frontier. I’m not sure either of us are up to the job.’
‘You’ll manage. Besides, I’ve given the orders. The men are expecting me to lead them. What will they think if I duck out of it now? I have to go up there.’
Macro puffed his cheeks and nodded. ‘All right. But keep your head down.’
Cato felt sweat on his palms and bent down to pick up some of the loose, dry soil beside the track. He rubbed some between his hands to get rid of the moisture and improve his grip. Then, picking up an axe and a coil of rope, he took a deep breath and loosened his shoulders. ‘Let’s get started.’
They strode out towards the men of Macro’s cohort who were waiting on the track, shields grounded. There was a gap in the centre of the formation and Cato and the work party filed into place before Macro took up his shield and moved to the front.
‘First Century, Fourth Cohort! Prepare to advance.’
The men took up their shields and stood, booted feet ready. When they were all still, Macro faced forward. ‘Advance!’
The century paced forward, one rank at a time until the whole unit was advancing up the track. Above them Cato could see faces appearing above the palisade of the bastion as the enemy were alerted to the fresh attack being made by the Romans. As soon as the legionaries started up the track, the auxiliaries also began to move forward, climbing warily up through the grass to get close enough to the defences to use their slings. They had only gone a short distance before the first of the arrows whirred down towards them. Keeping an eye out for the shafts, the auxiliaries kept climbing, occasionally darting aside or sheltering together beneath a shield. It did not take them long to get into range and soon a steady exchange of missiles zipped to and fro between the defenders and the auxiliaries.
Cato nodded with satisfaction. The slingers were intended to serve as a distraction as much as a danger to the warriors defending the bastion. It would take some of the pressure off Macro’s men as they moved into position. Glancing back he saw Lebauscus leading his cohort forward to their start position, and behind him came the men laden down by the components of the ballistas and baskets filled with the deadly iron-headed shafts that had proved so effective against the tribes that Rome had fought since landing in Britannia.
Macro led the century on, up the first length of track before swinging round the corner and beginning the next climb. The first arrows began to land close by, slender feathered lengths seeming to spring up amid the grass like tall flowers.
‘Halt!’ Macro commanded. The grinding of boots ceased. ‘Shields up!’
The heavy wooden rectangles clunked together as the legionaries raised them above their heads and took some of the weight on the crowns of their helmets.
‘Close up!’
The legionaries edged together and Cato was cut off from the sunlight and cast into the shaded world of sweating men, breathing heavily. The work party was squeezed between their comrades and bent down to give them space to let their shields meet in the middle of the column.
‘Advance!’
They moved forward again, the sounds of the men around him louder than ever in Cato’s ears. Above, arrows and stones clattered off the shields, or occasionally pierced the surfaces with a splintering crack. The urge to escape the confines of the formation was overwhelming and it took all Cato’s willpower to keep in pace with the others. At the next corner they slowed to a crawl as they turned on to the last stretch directly below the bastion.
‘This is it,’ Cato called out to Macro. ‘Get ready.’
They went on a few more paces before Cato ordered them to halt. He felt his heart pumping furiously from the exertion of the climb and the fear of what was to come. He tensed his muscles, waiting to give the command.
‘Break ranks! Go right!’
Instantly the shields were wrenched aside and bright light poured on to Cato, making him blink. Bodies swerved away, off the track, and started up the short climb to the nearest end of the bastion. Cato ran with them, axe haft clutched in his right hand as he used his left to help him climb. The legionaries around him grunted and gasped with the effort of the ascent, and arrows and stones flew down at them from the palisade. On either side the auxiliary slingers hurled their missiles back with renewed effort, doing their best to put the defenders off their aim and force them back into cover. Even so, Cato saw a man go down to his right, an arrow shaft piercing the base of the spine just below his cuirass. Another was struck on the helmet by a rock and he sprawled, senseless, into the grass before a comrade clambered over him. Cato came up to two men sheltering behind their shields, heads hunched down, waiting there for their torment to come to an end. He reached out and shook the nearest man roughly.
‘Keep going! Keep going, or you’ll die here!’
The man seemed to come out of a daze and nodded. He gave his companion a shove and they both started forward again. Cato gave him an encouraging grin and the next moment he heard rather than felt the thud of an arrow. He looked down and saw the feathers of the arrow, then the shaft and then the base of it disappearing through the back of his left hand. Instinctively he tried to pull his hand away but the point of the arrow was embedded in the soil. Dropping the axe, he grabbed the shaft just above his hand and pulled the arrow free of the ground and felt a peculiar relief that it was only a narrow bodkin, the kind designed to punch through armour rather than cause horrific flesh injuries. Gritting his teeth, Cato grasped the shaft tightly. There was no time to hesitate, to imagine the pain. He wrenched it back, feeling the bones of his hand lurch as the iron head grated back through them and came free with flare of agony and a bright spray of blood.
Cato dropped the arrow, snatched up the axe and bunched his injured hand into a fist to try and stop the bleeding and still give him support as he moved on, jaws tightly clenched. He looked up and saw that Macro and several of his men had already reached the foot of the palisade and were starting to form a roof with their shields to shelter the work party. Cato scrambled up the last stretch of slope and into cover, throwing his axe down and slipping the coiled rope over his head and dropping it. He winced as he quickly examined the wound, an ugly puckered hole bleeding freely. Macro saw him and grimaced.