It never landed. Macro had rammed his blade in under the Briton's armpit almost up to the hilt and the man died instantly. Biting back the pain from his burns, Cato could only nod his thanks to the centurion.
Macro flashed a quick smile. 'On your feet!'
The front rank of the century had passed them and for a moment Cato was safe from the enemy.
'You all right, lad?'
'I'll live, sir,' Cato hissed through gritted teeth as a river of pain raged down the side of his body. He could hardly focus his mind through the agony. Macro was not fooled by the bravado, he had seen it enough times in the fourteen years he had served in the army. But he had also come to respect an individual's right to deal with it as he chose. He helped the optio back to his feet, and without thinking gave Cato an encouraging slap on the back. The youngster stiffened, but after only a moment's trembling he recovered enough to take a firm grasp of his sword and shield, and pushed his way towards the front rank. Tightening his grip on his own sword handle, Macro waded back into the fight.
For Cato the rest of the battle for the Britons' camp was a blur in his mind, so much effort was required to keep the terrible pain of his burns at bay. He might have killed any number of men but later he could not recall a single incident; he stabbed with his sword and countered blows with his shield oblivious to any sense of danger, aware only of the need to control the agony.
The battle flowed remorselessly against the Britons, crushed between the relentless pressure of the two legions. Desperately they looked for the point of least resistance and began to rush for the gaps between the closing lines of legionaries. First dozens then scores of Britons broke away from their comrades and ran for their lives, scrambling up the reverse slopes of the ramparts and running off into the gathering dusk. Many thousands escaped before the two lines of legionaries met and encircled a doomed band of warriors determined to fight to the last.
These were no ordinary levies, Macro realised as he exchanged blows with an older warrior whose sweat glistened on the skin of his well muscled body. A heavy gold tore hung round the Briton's neck, similar to the trophy taken from the corpse of Togodumnus, which Macro now wore. The Briton saw it; recognition flashed across his features and he hacked at Macro with renewed frenzy in his desire for revenge. His wrath did for him in the end; the cooler-headed Roman let the man's fading energy use itself up on his shield before a swift strike settled the matter. A legionary, one of the previous autumn's recruits, knelt down and laid a hand on the dead Briton's torc.
'Take that and you're dead,' warned Macro. 'You know the rules on looting.'
The legionary nodded quickly and threw himself at the dwindling knot of Britons, only to impale himself on a broad-bladed war spear.
Macro swore. Then he pushed on, and found Cato at his side once more, teeth clamped together in a snarl as he fought on with vicious efficiency. As the setting sun's afterglow of orange and red stained the sky, a Roman trumpet blasted out the signal to disengage and a small space opened up around the surviving Britons. Cato was the last one to give way; he had to be physically hauled back from the fight by his centurion and shaken into a more stable frame of mind.
In the dusk, a small ring of no more than fifty of the Britons glared silently at the legionaries. Bleeding from numerous wounds, blood smeared bodies heaving with spent breath, they leaned on their weapons and waited for the end. From the ranks of the legions a voice called out to them in a Celtic tongue. A call for surrender, Macro guessed. The call was repeated and this time the surrounded Britons gave vent to a chorus of shouts and defiant gestures. Macro shook his head, suddenly very weary of killing. What more had these men to prove by their deaths? Who would ever know of their last stand? It was axiomatic that history was written by the victors in war. He had learned that much from the history books Cato had used to teach him to read. These brave men condemned themselves to die for nothing.
Gradually the defiant words and gestures petered out and the Britons faced their foes with fatalistic calm. There was a moment's silence, then without need of any word of command the legionaries surged forward and wiped them out.
By torchlight the Romans took stock of their victory. The gates were guarded against counterattack and the work of searching the bodies strewn across the British encampment for Roman injured commenced in earnest. With torches held aloft, the patrols of legionaries located their wounded comrades and carried them to the forward casualty station hurriedly erected on the bank of the river. The wounded Britons were mercifully despatched with quick sword and spear thrusts and heaped into piles for later burial.
Macro sent a forage party out to find provisions for the Sixth Century and dismissed Cato. Only one thing was on the optio's mind. The desperate need for some kind of relief from the pain of his burns. Leaving the century by the rampart, he climbed over the remains of the palisade and scrambled down the far side. He made his way across the ditch and up onto the river bank, eerily lit by the flickering torches and braziers of the casualty clearing station. Rows of injured, dying and dead had been arranged all along the river bank and Cato had to pick his way through them to reach the river. At the water's edge he laid down his shield and carefully unfastened the straps of his helmet, mail corselet, and weapons belt. He felt a palpable sense of lightness seep into his exhausted body as he gingerly stripped off his equipment and felt himself for injuries. There were some cuts, now crusted over with dried blood, and the burns were starting to blister. They were agony to the lightest touch. Naked, and shivering more from tiredness than the cool evening air, Cato waded out into the gentle current. As soon as he was deep enough, he slumped down and gasped as the cold water enclosed his body. A moment later he was smiling in pure bliss at the numbing relief it brought to his burns.
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Fourteen
'Bet that hurts!' Macro grinned as the surgeon spread salve over the blistered skin that ran up Cato's right side from his hip to his shoulder. The blazing look the optio shot back at him was eloquence itself.
'Keep still,' the surgeon tutted. 'It's hard enough working by this light without you twitching all over the place.. Here, Centurion, hold that torch steady.'
'Sorry.' Macro raised the pitch torch higher, and by its flickering orange glare the surgeon dipped his hand in the small jar of salve between his knees and gently smeared it over Cato's shoulder. Cato flinched, and had to clench his teeth as the surgeon continued the application. The cool air of the hour before evening made him shiver, but it provided some small relief from the intensely painful injury that was sending waves of nerve-searing agony up and down his side.
'Is he going to be able to rejoin the unit?' asked Macro.
'Do me a favour, Centurion!' The surgeon shook his head. 'When will you officers learn that you can't expect wounded men to jump up and dash right back into a fight? If the optio here goes off and opens up the blisters, and they get infected, he'll be far worse off than he is now.'
'How long then?'
The surgeon examined the mass of angry blisters and cocked his head on one side. 'A few days for the blisters to come and go. He'll have to keep his side open to the air, and rest as much as possible. So he's excused duties. '
'Excused duties!' Macro scoffed. 'You might not have noticed but there's a bloody battle on the go. He has to return to the unit. I need every man I've got'
The surgeon rose to his full height and confronted the centurion. For the first time Macro realised what a giant of a man the surgeon was, nearly a foot taller than he was, and built like a bull. He was in his mid twenties, with dark features and tightly curled black hair that suggested African origins. Big as he was, there didn't appear to be any fat on his muscled body.