Before he could strike, there was a blur of motion and a legionary slammed into Belmatus’s side, his sword taking the warrior under the armpit and disappearing deep into his chest. He let out an explosive grunt and was lifted bodily off his feet and carried another pace before he crumpled on to the ground, spluttering blood.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ Macro howled in rage. ‘The bastard was mine!’
The legionary braced his boot on the fallen man’s chest and ripped his blade free. He shrugged at the centurion, mumbled an apology and hurried off into the fray, leaving Macro staring at Belmatus with a disappointed expression as the latter writhed feebly on the ground, blood coursing from the fatal wound.
A short distance away the native standard-bearer was also staring at the body in horror, then he looked up as Macro advanced on him, brandishing his sword.
‘You’ll have to do instead, my friend.’
‘Na!’ The man shook his head and backed off, then turned and ran with the standard towards the rear of the bastion. As the banner fluttered over the heads of the combatants, there were groans of despair from the natives and some turned away from the fight and followed the fleeing standard-bearer. Then Macro saw what the man was heading towards: a small gate on the palisade, opposite the main fort, clearly visible in the background as it was slightly more elevated than the bastion. Panic spread quickly and the Brigantians broke away, retreating a few steps before turning and running. The legionaries went after them, slowed by the weight of their equipment. But as the natives struggled to escape the bottleneck at the gate, the Romans caught up and laid into them. Pressed together, with no space to wield their weapons, the tribesmen were at the mercy of the legionaries. But there was no mercy. Only the urge to kill. And they went about it with violent abandon, thrusting again and again. Mortally wounded men slumped down, some prevented from reaching the ground by the crush around them.
Over the slaughter, Macro saw the standard pass through the gate and disappear from sight as the standard-bearer descended the steps on the far side of the earthwork. More men fought to get through, desperate to escape the crimson blades of the Romans pressing in around them. A small party of legionaries reached the palisade and began to work along it towards the gate and then closed off the only line of retreat for the Brigantians. They began to force the survivors back towards the centre of the bastion.
Macro saw that there was no escape for the fifty or so that remained, surrounded by low mounds of their fallen comrades. He suddenly felt an intolerable ache in his limbs and the full burden of his armour, as well as the stifling heat. He licked his dry lips and forced himself to stand erect as he shouted an order.
‘Enough! Stand back!’ His voice was hoarse. Too hoarse for his men to hear clearly. He quickly spat and coughed and called out again. ‘Pull back!’
It took a moment for the order to penetrate the minds of men caught up in the fiery madness of butchery, but one by one they withdrew from the knot of defenders that still lived until a small gap opened between the two sides. Macro stepped forward, sheathing his blade. He set his split shield down on the ground and pointed a finger at the nearest Brigantian’s weapon and then at the ground.
‘Drop it!’ he snarled to emphasise his demand.
The man nervously did as he was told and tossed his sword a short distance away, beyond the bodies. At once the rest followed suit. Macro glanced round and saw the century’s optio. ‘Get ’em over to the other side and sit them down. One section to guard them.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The optio bowed his head and turned to summon men to carry out the order.
Most of the interior of the bastion was devoid of any signs of the struggle. The fighting had been most fierce at the end that had been pulled down and scores of bodies lay on the ground. There were a few more scattered across the rest of the flattened ground, men who had tried to get away but had been hunted down and killed by the first legionaries of the Eighth Cohort to enter the breach. Macro was looking over the bodies when he caught sight of the shaven-headed warrior he had fought earlier. The man lay on his back, head propped up on the bloodied torso of another warrior. Macro squatted down at his side and took a fold of the mail, pursing his lips at the quality of the joints. No wonder it had kept his blade out. Macro removed the dead man’s belt, took hold of the sleeves and pulled the armour from his body. He bundled it up and deposited the mail vest with one of the men guarding the prisoners.
‘Here. Look after it. I’ll want it when this is over.’ He wagged a finger at the soldier. ‘You’d better make sure it’s still here. Understand?’
As the man saluted, Macro caught sight of Cato conferring with Centurion Lebauscus, who nodded and disappeared back down the collapsed bank of earth. Turning towards his friend, Cato came striding across.
‘I saw Belmatus back there. You got him then?’
‘I would have if some bugger hadn’t got in the way. Still, he’s dead.’
Cato looked at the heaps of bodies close to the rear gate and let out a low whistle. ‘Sweet Jupiter. What a bloodbath. .’ He crossed to the palisade and looked down in time to see the last of those who had escaped running across the narrow strip of open ground and in through the gate of the main fort. A moment later the doors shut with a dull thud and then there was the scrape of the locking bar being eased back into its brackets.
‘Let’s hope they give a good account of what happened here. Enough to persuade Venutius and his friends that they don’t want to share the same fate.’
There were warriors above them on the fort’s gatehouse and along the palisade, and some were carrying bows. Cato turned and looked at the prisoners the optio and his men were herding away from the dead. ‘Better keep them on this side of the bastion. Might discourage their friends from trying any potshots.’
Macro nodded. ‘Good idea.’
Cato looked down the track that Horatius had chosen as his route for the first attack. The ram lay abandoned inside the final bend, surrounded by bodies of the men of the Seventh Cohort. Macro saw them and shook his head in dismay.
‘They didn’t even come close. What a waste.’
‘Indeed.’ Cato sighed. ‘And we’re only halfway there.’
He gestured towards the massive defensive earthworks and the gatehouse opposite them. ‘We have the bastion. Now comes the hard part.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
By the time the Seventh Cohort had dragged the dismantled light ballistas up into the bastion, Lebauscus’s men had begun constructing protective screens along the rear wall. The legionaries used the enemy’s shields and smaller timbers taken from the front of the fortification. Hurriedly lashed together, they provided cover from missiles directed from the main fort. Then the auxiliaries, armed with slings, moved into position along the length of the palisade facing the gate.
Cato’s strategy of using the prisoners to discourage Venutius from shooting across into the bastion had worked for a while, but as soon as the first screens were set up, the enemy reluctantly accepted the risk to their captured comrades and unleashed their arrows. After an initial flurry, which claimed more native lives than Roman, the Brigantians contented themselves with occasional harassing shots to conserve their ammunition.
‘Over here!’ Cato called across to Centurion Acer, and indicated the makeshift embrasures opposite the fort’s gatehouse. ‘Set ’em up along the palisade.’
The sweating legionaries carried their burdens over the bloodstained grass and set them down behind the cover of the wooden wall. As more men came up with the baskets of three-foot-long bolts and rounded stones, their comrades set to work reassembling the weapons. The largest component was the heavy wooden frame containing the thick cords of twisted sinew that gave the ballistas their extraordinary power. These were heaved up on to the sturdy wooden stands and secured with wooden pegs and wedges, hammered home with mallets. Finally the missile beds and the throwing arms were slotted home and the loading handles fitted to the torsion ratchets.