He turned and beckoned to a legionary climbing past. ‘You, give me a hand here!’
They hurriedly worked to dig round the helmet and as they exposed the face, Cato’s eyes blinked open and he spat to clear his mouth.
‘Macro. .’ he muttered.
‘Fuck me, lad, you lead a charmed life,’ Macro laughed as he and the legionary pulled more earth away to free the prefect. Cato sat up with a small cascade of dirt. He was facing down the slope and he could see that Centurion Lebauscus and his men were streaming up towards the breach, and behind them the men of the Seventh, laden with the wooden parts of the ballistas. He turned and looked up at the bastion and saw that the enemy had recovered from the shock of the collapse of the corner and were making ready to contest the breach as the legionaries swarmed up towards them.
Macro helped him up and gestured to the legionary to get forward.
‘Anything broken?’
Cato tested his limbs and shook his head. ‘I’m fine.’
His wiped his left hand on the hem of his tunic to clear the earth from his wound and saw that the hand was trembling wildly. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fist tightly and tucked it against his chest before he drew his sword. ‘Let’s go.’
Macro retrieved his sword and side by side they joined the men struggling up over the loose soil. Ahead, the last of the enemy caught in the collapse of the corner of the bastion was cut down as he tried to rejoin his comrades and the legionaries clambered over him to get at his comrades waiting above. There was space for several men to defend the breach and they hefted their swords and axes as they raised their oval shields and prepared to fight. The first of the Romans came up, shield held over his head, and a Brigantian warrior swung his axe down viciously, the impact driving the legionary on to his knees. He struck again and as the blow split the wood, the legionary thrust with his sword, stabbing the man in the shin. His opponent bellowed a curse and reached down to wrench the shield aside and smashed his axe into the side of the legionary’s helmet. The Roman slumped on to the earth close to the top of the ramp and immediately two of the Brigantian’s companions bent over him, hacking at the body with their swords.
The next legionaries to climb into the breach were more wary, pausing to brace their boots and present their shields before advancing together. The defenders swung their swords and axes at them, trying to beat them back. More Brigantians pressed round the breach and those to the side hurled stones down on the Romans clambering up towards them.
Macro and Cato pressed forward with their men, gasping for breath with the effort of climbing the bank of soil that slid down under their boots and made their progress slow and laborious. The first group of legionaries into the breach were engaging the enemy and the clatter of blades and thuds of blows striking shields filled the air. As more men filled the breach, they added their weight to the struggle and pressed forward. The two officers stopped behind the closely packed ranks of their men and while Macro held his shield up, Cato stood and peered over the heads of the legionaries ahead of him.
‘We have to get the lads moving.’
Macro nodded. ‘I’ll see to it.’
Cato saw two of the Brigantians pointing him out, picking out the red crest of an officer. Cato recognised one. Belmatus. The other raised a bow and took aim, the head of the arrow foreshortening to a point as he took a steadying breath. His fingers released the string and Cato ducked down at the same time and the arrow deflected off his helmet with a glancing blow. Macro had pressed through the ranks until he was close to the front and then called out, ‘First Century! Push and pace! On my count. . One!’
The Romans had braced themselves, ready for the order, and let out a deep grunt as they threw their weight behind their shields.
‘Two!’
The men took a step forward and braced themselves for the next thrust.
‘One!’
Cato pushed forward with them, using his good hand to keep his balance. He had escaped death once this day and was desperate not to slip and be trampled into the ground by his own men. The tight mass of armoured men slowly gained ground, driving the natives back as they beat at the shield wall with their weapons in a wild frenzy. Risking a quick glance, Cato saw that he had passed between the posts still standing on either side. He took another step and his boot pressed on something solid. Looking down he saw the first legionary who had entered the breach, and died for the honour. There would be no award of a rampart crown for the man now.
Four more paces and then there was flattened grass under his boots as he entered the bastion. The legionaries were spreading out on either side and had won a foothold inside the defences, and all the time more men were pressing forward. Cato could see over the heads of those in front now. The interior of the bastion was an oval, eighty or so paces long and no more than thirty at the widest point. There were perhaps two hundred defenders and a brazier burned brightly a short distance from the few remaining faggots. Only a handful of the Brigantian rebels were still manning the rest of the palisade, loosing arrows at the Romans on the slope below.
Clutching his wounded hand to his breast, Cato drew his sword, dropping the point to make sure he did not accidently wound any of his comrades. He was surrounded by laboured breathing; this was tiring work for his men, having climbed the hill and the breach with the dead weight of their armour. Cato spared a moment’s gratitude for the lighter burden of the mail vest he had bought from the Syrian merchant, then he focused his mind again. They had to clear the bastion while they still had the strength to.
‘Keep going!’ he shouted above the din of the battle. ‘Forward!’
Macro took up the cry. He had found a space in the leading rank and stood shoulder to shoulder with the men facing the enemy. Advancing in a balanced crouch, he peered over the bronze trim of his shield, short sword stabbing out at any of the Brigantians who came within reach. The enemy had lost the contest to keep the Romans out and had backed off far enough to wield their weapons again. They fought with the desperate courage of their race, fearlessly lurching forward to hack at the line of Roman shields. The more cool-headed of them struck low, attempting crippling blows at the booted feet and shins of the Romans, or going high, over the top of the shields, to strike down at heads and shoulders. Either way, they risked exposing themselves to a quick thrust of a legionary sword.
Directly before Macro, a warrior in a mailed vest and carrying a heavy axe emerged from the press. His shaven head was adorned with swirling tattoos and a red moustache trailed either side of his snarling teeth. He roared at Macro and lifted his axe in both hands to strike. There was just time for Macro to punch the shield out and then the shield split as the axehead smashed through the trim and splintered down almost as far as the brass boss.
‘Shit. .’ Macro hissed, momentarily awed by the force of the blow.
The axehead shifted as the warrior tried to pull it free. But it was jammed and Macro pulled back savagely, trying to rip it from the man’s hands. But the Brigantian was strong and held on and axe and shield shifted to and fro briefly before the warrior let out a roar and hurled himself forward, knocking the shield back into Macro and causing him to loose balance, until he was saved by the shield of the legionary behind him. With a mighty effort the Brigantian ripped his axe free and swung it back to strike again. The backswing caught one of his comrades and the iron head crushed his nose. Then it swept forward in a powerful arc, smashing across the shield of the man to Macro’s right before passing narrowly in front of his own. The momentum of the swing reached its maximum force just as it struck the helmet of the legionary on the other side, right on the hinge of the cheekguard. The metal flap leaped aside as the edge of the axe smashed on through the soldier’s skull, bursting out through his eye sockets and bridge of his nose before reaching the end of its arc.