The men of the Sixth Century lay their shields down and started dragging the Britons out of the river. The prisoners were thrown face first on to the ground, their arms pinned to their backs as the legionaries bound them securely. When the last of them had been dealt with, Maximius stood over them with a look of bitter satisfaction. Cato stood to one side, relieved that they had been spared.
'That's them sorted, sir. Won't be giving us any more problems today.'
'No.'
'And we can come back for them later, sir.'
'Yes.'
'I suppose they might try to escape, but they won't get far.'
'No, they won't. Not after we've dealt with them.'
'Sir?' Cato felt a chill ripple up through the hairs on the back of his neck.
Maximius ignored him, and turned to the men of the Sixth Century. 'Blind them.'
Figulus frowned, not sure that he had heard right.
'I said blind them. Put their eyes out. Use your daggers.'
Cato opened his mouth to protest, but was too horrified to find the right words. While he paused the cohort commander sprang towards Figulus, snatched the optio's dagger from its scabbard and leaned over the nearest prisoner.
'Here, like this…'
There was a piercing shriek of the purest terror and agony that Cato had ever heard and he felt his stomach knot, as if he would throw up. The cohort commander worked his sword arm about, and then slowly stood up, a bitter look etched on his face as he turned round. At his side his arm hung loose, blood dripping from the dagger that was tightly clenched in his fist. Behind him the Briton writhed on the ground, still screaming as blood gushed from his eye sockets and spattered the grass around his head.
'There!' Maximius handed the dagger back to Figulus. 'That's how it's done. Now get on with it.'
Figulus regarded him with horror, then looked to Cato pleadingly.
Maximius glared at the optio. 'Why, you-'
'Optio!' Cato shouted. 'You have your orders. Carry them out!'
'Yes…' Figulus nodded. 'Yes, sir.' He turned to the nearest men. 'Get the blades out. You heard the centurion!'
As the men started on their bloody work and the hot afternoon was pierced by terrible screams, Maximius nodded his satisfaction.
'We're done here then. Soon as your lot have finished the cohort moves on to the ford.'
'Yes, sir,' Cato replied. 'Best move quickly then.'
'Yes. We had.' Maximius suddenly looked worried, and spun round and strode off towards his men. The last of the prisoners was quickly dealt with and the men of the Sixth Century cleaned their blades and retrieved their shields and javelins before forming up at the end of the small Roman column. The cohort had suffered only seven dead, and a handful of men had been injured. Their wounds were bound and they headed back towards the shelter of the fort. The rest of the cohort waited for Maximius to give the order to march, and then they tramped forward, along the bank towards the ford.
Behind them the pitiful cries and screams of the prisoners faded slowly, accompanied by the shrill calls of the crows who were already wheeling above the battleground as they sought out fresh pickings amongst the dead and dying that littered the bright green grass below.
05 The Eagles Prey
CHAPTER TEN
The ford was situated at a point where the Tamesis narrowed to less than half its usual width. In the middle of the river was a small island with a handful of willows growing either side of the track. The end of their long branches dipped down into the current and provided a green glimmering shade. Centurion Macro looked longingly at the shade as he mopped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hairy forearm. In a fleeting moment of fancy Macro imagined himself resting on his back under the willow, boots off and feet trailing in the cool water of the Tamesis. It was tempting… too tempting. He frowned and strode across the tiny island towards the north bank of the river. There was a shallow stretch of shingle over which the current swept, its disturbed surface glittering in the sunlight.
As soon as the Third Century had reached the ford, Macro had waded across to test the depth. The water came up to his waist when he reached the deepest part between the small island and each bank. Although his footing was firm enough the current was strong and might easily sweep away anyone who was careless as they crossed. Macro posted one section on the far bank to keep watch for the enemy and immediately set about preparing his defences. It was, perhaps, a hundred paces to the far bank and the width of the ford was no more than ten paces. Either side of the shingle bar the depth increased quickly and the riverbed was soft and covered with long reeds that slowly waved like hair beneath the surface of the river.
Macro had ordered half of his century to seed the ford with small sharpened stakes, and the men had hacked lengths of wood from the trees growing on the river banks and were busy driving them into the shingle, struggling against the pull of the current as they thrust the stakes in, angled towards the enemy shore. If the Britons were forced to use this ford the stakes would not stop them crossing, but might at least injure a few and slow down the rest.
Macro's next line of defence was the small island, on which twenty men toiled to construct a rough barricade at the water's edge. A dense tangle of branches and gorse had been dragged across from the south bank and piled up across the track in a line that extended either side of the shallows. Stout timbers had been pounded into the earth to brace the tangle, and other branches had been trimmed and sharpened and thrust in amongst the gorse to deter any attackers. It wasn't much to look at, Macro decided, but it was the best they could do with the time and materials available.
He had not discovered many trenching tools back in the sacked auxiliary fort. The Britons had been almost as thorough in their destruction of material as they had been of the garrison. A smouldering pyre of shields, slings, javelins and other equipment had been discovered inside the headquarters courtyard. Some of the tools at the periphery of the fire were salvageable, and a quick search through the timber barrack blocks had revealed some more picks and shovels, but Macro had come away with barely enough to equip half his century, let alone the rest of the cohort. Macro hoped that the cohort commander's thirst for revenge had been quickly satisfied. The Third Century would not be able to defend the crossing alone should the enemy appear in force.
Besides, Macro thought angrily, Maximius had no bloody business chasing the small raiding party down in the first place. It was not in his orders. The protection of the ford should have been his priority. The cohort needed to be in position shortly after noon, yet three hours later still only Macro and his century were preparing to defend the crossing. The enemy might appear at any moment, and if they did then the crossing must fall into their hands.
Macro glanced back over his shoulder, scanning the southern bank for any sign of Maximius and the rest of the cohort.
'Come on… come on, you bastard.' Macro slapped his hand against his thigh. 'Where the fuck are you?'
A faint shout from the northern bank drew his attention and Macro turned round. One of the men carrying a bundle of freshly cut stakes was waving to attract his attention.
'What is it?'
'There, sir. Up there!' The man pointed behind him. On the far side of the river the track rose up from the edge of the ford and disappeared over the hill. Standing on the crest was a small figure, waving his javelin to and fro – the signal that the enemy had been sighted.
At once Macro brushed through the gap that had been left in the barricade and splashed down into the ford. He kept to the right, still unseeded with stakes to allow the defenders access to the crossing. The water closed around him, dragging at his legs as Macro thrust his way across to the far bank, throwing up sparkling cascades of spray as he emerged. A number of his men paused in their labours, distracted by the alarm.