‘Move aside there!’ a voice boomed behind Macro. ‘Make way!’
Then he felt someone push him roughly aside as Centurion Lebauscus, big and powerful, threw his weight into the contest. The Romans began to gain ground at once, inch by inch forcing the gates back and opening a gap between them to reveal the dense ranks of the Brigantian rebels beyond, desperately trying to hold their ground.
‘Hispania!’ Lebauscus bellowed the name of the Ninth Legion. ‘Hispania!’
The men of his cohort took up the cry as they added their weight to the struggle. The gates steadily parted until there was room for Lebauscus to fight the men in front of him. He let out a savage snarl and punched his shield into the first of the enemy, battering his body with the bronze boss before he stuck his sword in. The rebel grunted and tried to back away but there was nowhere to go and he was caught between the men behind and the ferocious Roman centurion in front of him, driving his short sword again and again into his vitals. Lebauscus eased back to let the body slip down, then stepped over it and engaged the next man.
At his side Macro pushed into the widening gap and pressed forward, stabbing through the gap between the edge of his borrowed shield and that of Lebauscus. The rebels were shoving their weight behind their own shields and the point of Macro’s sword could not find a way through, so he drew it back and pushed. The shouting of war cries died in their throats as Roman strained against tribesman, separated only by the thickness of their shields, and there was no clash of weapons, just the strained grunting, hissed curses and the dull scrape of shield on shield. Each step forward was bought at the cost of immense effort but slowly the Romans edged forward into the shade of the gatehouse.
Macro knew what the next danger would be and shouted an order over his shoulder. ‘Rear ranks! Shields up!’
The forward motion slowed and stopped as the legionaries gave themselves enough space to cover their heads with shields overlapping the man ahead of them. Once the men were ready, Macro gave the command to advance and they pressed on into the enemy again. As he expected, the rebels above the gate were standing ready to shoot arrows directly down at the Romans as they emerged into the fort. Some hurled down stones, but the shields kept them out. On the far side of the gatehouse the earth ramparts drew back like a funnel and the legionaries began to spill out on either side as they forced the enemy warriors back.
Macro turned to Lebauscus. ‘Take some of your men and clear the gatehouse.’
Lebauscus nodded and forced his way back into the tightly packed ranks behind Macro and edged towards the wooden steps leading up to the tower above the gate. His deep voice sounded over the struggle.
‘First Century, Eighth Cohort! Follow me!’
He strode up the steps leading to the rampart, his men running to keep up. A moment later Macro heard the clash of blades and the centurion’s voice bellowing a war cry as he threw himself on the rebels manning the tower.
Macro led the rest of the men forward, noting that the enemy were giving ground far more easily now. He slowed his pace and allowed a gap to open up between the two sides.
‘Dress the line!’
The men on either side took stock of the position of their neighbours, and the wall of shields shifted a small distance to and fro before the legionaries presented an even front to the rebels. Macro eased his sword forward so that six inches projected beyond the trim of his shield and then he gave the trim a sharp rap. The men followed suit and a sharp unsettling rhythm echoed across the interior of the fort.
‘Forward!’
The two sides closed on each other again, but this was the kind of fight the legionaries were trained for, and excelled at. Using their shields as protection and to batter their foes, they stabbed only when the enemy exposed their bodies. The Brigantians, more used to a free-flowing melee, could not easily wield their longer swords and long-hafted axes or spears and began to fall beneath the grinding advance of the heavily armoured men assaulting the fort. Lebauscus’s men were fighting their way along the ramparts either side of the gatehouse, steadily forcing their opponents back. Across in the bastion their comrades ceased their bombardment as they caught sight of the legionaries on the wall of the hill fort.
Then Macro saw a gap opening in front of him as the rebels backed away and aside, to reveal several warriors in mail armour with kite shields and gleaming helmets. He recognised their leader at once. Venutius.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Venutius had joined the fight to steady the failing nerve of his followers. He had seen Macro’s crest and made straight for him. With lips curled back from his clenched teeth, he surged forward and swung his sword in an arc at the crest of the centurion’s helmet. Macro threw his shield up and went down on one knee just before the blow landed. He allowed the shield to give as he absorbed some of the numbing impact. At once he rose and threw his weight forward in a bid to throw Venutius off balance as the latter recovered his sword. He was rewarded with an impact against the warrior’s shield and Venutius was forced back half a pace.
Then, with surprising speed, the Brigantian punched his shield forward, stopping Macro in his tracks. He slashed at the Roman shield, driving it into Macro’s shoulder. At the same time Macro curled his own sword round in a sharp arc and the point tore through the sleeve of Venutius’s tunic and struck his elbow. Ripping the sword back, Macro presented his shield and growled, ‘First blood to me. .’
Venutius paused and shifted his shield to test the joint, then came on again, slamming his shield forward and then pulling it back to counterbalance the vicious cut from his sword. This time Macro tilted the shield to deflect the blow and not block it. The blade gave a shrill clang as it glanced off the boss and slid over the curve of the shield and down towards the ground. Macro thrust the shield out to drive his opponent’s arm out wide and then hacked at the exposed flesh in a brutally unorthodox move. The edge cut deeply and the force of the blow caused Venutius’s muscles to leap and his fingers extended involuntarily and his sword dropped to the ground. His face screwed up in surprise as he snatched his wounded arm back.
Macro charged into him, hitting him again with the shield, and hooking his boot solidly behind his opponent’s leg before he thrust again and Venutius tumbled on to his back. Macro sprang forward, sword point lowered, and thrust the tip towards the warrior’s throat, stopping less than an inch from where his throat pulsed nervously. The fall of their leader stunned those close by and they fell back, aghast, leaving the immediate ground to Macro as he stood over the body of Venutius. Every instinct in his body told him to strike, kill his enemy, and move on. But then he recalled Cato’s order. Spare all who could be spared.
‘Surrender!’ he shouted at the man beneath him.
Venutius stared back but did not answer.
‘Surrender, you big barbarian bastard!’ Macro flicked his sword hand and let the point graze the side of Venutius’s neck. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
Venutius grasped the meaning of Macro’s words, and the deadly intent behind them. He licked his lips and called out to his followers. They did not seem to respond at first and Macro feared that their leader had ordered them to fight on and sell their lives dearly. But then the first of them edged back from the Roman line. Then another, more quickly, until the Brigantians were a safe distance from the Roman shield wall. The men who had accompanied Venutius into the fight stood their ground a short distance behind where he lay on the ground at the mercy of the centurion, then one threw his sword down, followed by his shield. After a tense pause, the others followed suit and then rest of the rebels began to do the same.