‘Sa!’ the Brigantian shouted in triumph. He retrieved his weapon and kicked at the shield of the stricken man as he collapsed, spraying blood across the armour of his neighbours.
Macro leaped forward, punching his ruined shield up into his opponent’s face, and was rewarded with a solid impact and a pained grunt as the splintered surface gouged into the warrior’s face. He punched forward again, driving the man back before he withdrew his shield and braced his sword to strike. He saw the man’s face, streaked with blood where a long splinter had torn open his cheek. Then he thrust his sword, the point catching the warrior in the stomach. He folded over the blade but, to Macro’s astonishment, the finely made mail vest kept the point of the sword out. The blow winded the Brigantian, however, and he staggered back into the press of warriors and out of sight.
Macro found himself in space and uttered a savage roar as he swept his sword out in a wide arc. It was sufficient to discourage his enemies just long enough for a quick glance around to assess the situation. Half the survivors of the First Century had climbed through the breach and were pushing further into the bastion. A short distance behind him he glimpsed the crest of Cato’s helmet. Then he turned back, boots braced, his ruined shield raised, sword poised, and let the ragged line of legionaries edge up beside him. Several of the defenders had been struck and lay writhing on the ground and were finished off as the Romans passed over them.
There was a shout and the enemy hurriedly pulled back. Macro paused, and saw a tall warrior standing defiantly ten paces away, Belmatus, in front of a line of archers, arrows notched. The warrior stepped back amid them and raised his sword.
‘Front rank down!’ Macro yelled. ‘Second rank, shields up!’
He went down on one knee, letting his shield drop to the ground. The man behind raised his shield and rested it at an angle on top of Macro’s. Those on either side were following suit when the warrior barked a command and the first volley of arrows struck the Roman line with a shattering chorus of rattles and cracking as many of the iron heads pierced the shields, while others deflected overhead, some shafts shattering on impact. A more ragged volley followed, then a third before it became a steady series of impacts as the less skilled archers began to lag behind.
‘Macro!’
He turned and saw that Cato had crept forward and was squatting to one side, just behind him. He had tucked his wounded hand inside the soiled strip of ribbon that passed round his waist. His other stabbed his sword into the ground to help him balance as he settled on his haunches.
‘Hot work!’ Macro grinned, blinking as a bead of sweat dripped from his brow and made his cheek itch as it rolled down to his stubbled jaw. ‘In every way. How are we doing, sir?’
‘We hold the breach. The Eighth Cohort have started up the ramp. It’s about time to unleash the men. The rate the enemy’s been going through their arrows they’ll be out of them any moment.’
‘Let ’em shoot. The lads could use the chance to catch their breath before we get stuck in.’
Cato nodded. ‘All right. But be ready when I give the word. And go in hard. I want the bastion cleared as swiftly as we can. Did you see the man giving the order to the archers?’
‘The tall bastard? Yes.’
‘That’s Venutius’s brother, Belmatus. If you get the chance, take him down. I reckon he’s the commander of the bastion. If he goes. .’
‘I’ll see to it.’
Already the barrage of arrows was beginning to slacken and Cato edged back to the rear of the century and looked down the earth ramp. Centurion Lebauscus was powering up the loose surface, barely out of breath. He paused at the top to nod a greeting to Cato and then turned to bellow at his men.
‘What the fuck’s keeping you, you ’orrible lot? Up here on the double! Last man is on a charge!’
The fittest of his men struggled up, then the standard-bearer, leaning on his staff as his chest heaved.
‘What happened to you, sir?’ Lebauscus asked as he looked Cato, still covered in loose soil, over. ‘You look like a bloody mole. When there’s trouble, you’re supposed to go to ground, not in it.’
‘Very funny, Centurion. You’ll back up Macro the moment he gets moving again. Like I said to him, go in hard. We’ll worry about taking prisoners later.’
Lebauscus grinned cruelly. ‘Yes, sir.’
The new arrivals rested behind their shields as occasional arrows whipped overhead. Cato waited until they had filled the space behind the First Century of Macro’s cohort, then he took a deep breath and called out, ‘Macro! Now!’
Macro half rose and squinted warily through the split in his shield. Most of the archers had exhausted their arrows and fallen back to join the men massing around Belmatus, tossing their bows aside and drawing their swords. Macro drew a breath.
‘First Century! Prepare to charge, and make it loud!’
The men on either side made ready, limbs tense as they awaited the order.
Macro filled his lungs and roared, ‘CHARGE!’
A great cry tore from the lips of his men as they powered forward behind their shields, swords levelled and ready to strike. The sudden eruption of battle rage momentarily stunned their opponents and the first of the legionaries plunged in amongst them before they could react. Macro slammed into one of the archers who had begun to back away and was knocked flying by the impact, crashing into two of his companions a short distance beyond. Macro followed through, striking with his shield again before delivering a vicious series of stabs at each of the men. One, armed with a short axe, leaped back after he took a wound to his side, and hurled the axe at Macro’s head. He jerked aside and felt the rush of air on his ear as the weapon spun by end over end and cracked against the shield of a legionary behind him. Macro made sure that the other two were out of the fight before he moved on. He was aware of the surge of red tunics and shields on either side of him as his men shouted the name of their legion.
‘Gemina!’
The legionaries surged forward, striking their opponents down efficiently and mercilessly. But the Brigantians quickly recovered their wits and rushed forward to meet the Romans, sword and axe against shield and armour. Only a handful had mail vests worn over padded tunics. The rest fought without armour, or even bare-chested, putting their faith in raw courage and disdain for the heavily protected enemy. It was an uneven contest and they fell one by one, inflicting only a few casualties as the men of Rome ploughed through them.
Macro paused to search for Belmatus. Then he saw him, standing beside a tattooed warrior waving a standard steadily from side to side so that all would see the golden bull on a green background in the breathless air of the baking summer’s day. A different standard flew over the Brigantian capital today, Macro mused, but he resolved that it would fall before the day was out.
He advanced on Belmatus, only lifting his shield or sword to those directly in his path. Steering a path through the wild melee, exchanging blows when necessary, he confronted the enemy leader. Belmatus had seen the crest of the centurion weaving towards him and moved to intercept him, keen to have the honour of killing an officer. Another warrior rushed in at an angle until Belmatus turned to him and bellowed angrily and the man backed off and turned to find another enemy to fight.
‘You want me all for yourself, do you?’ Macro growled as he inscribed a small ellipse with the point of his sword. ‘Then come and get me.’
For a heartbeat the two men sized each other up as Belmatus raised his longer sword and buckler and lowered himself into a crouch. The Brigantian muttered something. A curse perhaps, Macro thought, or a challenge like his own, as if they were meeting as paired fighters in the arena, and not amid the frenzy of the battle taking place for the possession of the bastion. He decided to make the first move, a feint to test the reactions of his opponent. Macro drew back his sword to make a thrust at the centre of the warrior’s chest.