Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (49 page)

‘I want you to run back to Centurion Tullius. My compliments to him, and tell him the enemy is in sight. We’ll fall back slowly and delay Caratacus for as long as we can. Got that?’

The legionary nodded. Cato raised a hand to shade his eyes as he stared down the track. ‘Where’s the other lookout?’

The legionary turned to follow the centurion’s gaze. ‘Decimus was trying to estimate their strength before he followed on. Here he comes, sir.’

A distant figure came scurrying round the bend, head down and heavy shield bobbing as he ran. His comrades began to shout encouragement as Decimus sprinted for all he was worth. Every so often his helmet glinted as he turned to glance back. The first of the enemy horsemen appeared round the bend when Decimus was still a hundred and fifty paces from the rest of the century. Cato cupped a hand to his mouth, shouting alongside the rest of his men as the optio looked on with a frown. Cato guessed that a veteran like Septimus thoroughly disapproved of officers who refused to comport themselves with a cool detachment. Sod him, thought Cato. There was a time and a place for a stiff and unyielding demeanour, and this was not it.

‘Run, man! Run! The bastards are right on you!’

Decimus threw down his javelin, but kept hold of his shield and staggered on. Behind him the enemy warriors, more than thirty of them, urged their mounts forward, determined to ride the Roman down before he could reach the safety of the tight line of red shields that stretched across the track. The tips of their spears glittered as they dipped and were lined up on the back of the man fleeing from them.

‘He’s not going to make it,’ Septimus decided. ‘They’ll have him.’

‘No,’ Cato replied instantly. ‘Come on, Decimus! Run!’

There was not much further for the legionary to cover, but there was even less between him and his pursuers.

‘I told you . . .’ There was no mistaking the trace of smugness in the optio’s voice, and Cato burned with cold fury at the man’s callousness. The horsemen would not have Decimus if there was anything he could do about it. The centurion turned away from the desperate spectacle, towards the rest of his men.

‘Front rank! Ready javelins!’

It took a moment for the men to respond, so rapt were they in the fate of their comrade.

‘Ready your bloody javelins!’ Cato roared at them.

This time his men hefted their weapons, stepped forward two paces and swung their throwing arms back. Decimus saw the movement and faltered briefly before he hurled himself towards the line of shields. Right behind him the Britons whooped with cruel glee as they realised that there was no chance now that their prey would escape them, still thirty paces from his comrades.

‘Decimus!’ Cato shouted to him. ‘Drop down!’

Realisation of the centurion’s intention suddenly dawned in the legionary’s terrified expression and he threw himself forward on to the track, rolled a short distance to one side and covered his body with his shield as best he could as Cato shouted an order to the front rank.

‘Javelins . . . loose!’

There was a chorus of explosive grunts and ten dark shafts curved through the air, passing over Decimus and striking the horsemen immediately behind him with a series of dull thuds as the sharp points punched into the flesh of men and beasts alike. At once the air was split by the agonised whinnies of two mounts and the snorts from the others as they tried to swerve away from the stricken horses. One man was down, pierced clean through his breast, and he crashed down on top of Decimus, splintering the javelin shaft with a loud crack. He quivered for an instant, then died.

The impetus of the charge had been broken, and the enemy milled round the stricken tangle of the writhing, wounded horses. Decimus saw his chance at once, heaved the body off his shield, scrambled to his feet and threw himself towards the front rank of the century, abandoning his shield.

‘Come on!’ Cato desperately beckoned to him. ‘Make a gap!’

Two of the men shuffled aside and Decimus made for the space that had appeared between their shields. Just as he reached his comrades, Cato glimpsed something blur through the air behind Decimus and then the legionary tumbled forward into the Roman ranks with a cry of pain. Cato pushed his way over to Decimus and kneeled down. The shaft of a light javelin pierced through the back of his leg, just above the top of his boot, and blood welled up where the thin iron head had entered the flesh.

‘Shit! That hurts!’ Decimus hissed through clenched teeth.

Glancing up, Cato saw that the horsemen had withdrawn a short distance down the track and were re-forming, ready to charge again.

Septimus loomed over them, glanced at the javelin and nodded to Cato. ‘Hold him!’

Taking a firm grasp of the shaft, and ensuring that the angle was right he suddenly pulled the javelin out as Decimus howled with agony. The point came free and there was a rush of blood from the puncture. The optio examined it quickly, then wrenched the legionary’s neck cloth away and bound the wound tightly.

‘Serves you bloody well right!’ Septimus snapped.’Shouldn’t have dropped your shield. How many times have you been told that in training?’

Decimus winced. ‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Now get up. You’re useless to us with that leg. Get back to the cohort.’

The legionary looked to Cato, who nodded his assent. With gritted teeth Decimus struggled to his feet and limped through the lines of his comrades. He started down the track, leaving a trail of small splashes of blood from the sodden dressing.

A voice shouted, ‘Here they come again!’

Cato raised his shield and pushed forward into the front rank. Septimus hurriedly took up position to the extreme right of the century. Cato glanced round, saw that his men were grimly prepared for the next charge by the enemy horsemen. Just behind him the century’s standard-bearer had drawn his sword and was leaning forward expectantly.

‘Standard to the rear!’ Cato snapped at him. The bearer frowned, sheathed his sword and pushed his way to the rear of the small formation. Cato shook his head angrily. The man should know better. His first duty was to guard the standard, not to get stuck into the enemy. He’d have to have words with the bearer, if they were still alive tomorrow.

With a wild cry the horsemen surged forward, the hoofs of their mounts drumming deafeningly on the dry track. For a moment Cato was about to order another volley of javelins, but then realised that the century would need to conserve every advantage in the ordeal of arms they would have to endure.

‘Shields up!’ Cato shouted. ‘Second rank! Pass javelins forward!’

The iron heads of the javelins rippled forward to the men in the front rank. Cato snatched at one and lowered the point towards the swiftly approaching horsemen. On either side, his men thrust their points out between the shields. Cato hunched his neck down so that his face was protected by the rim of his shield, and stared into the oncoming charge. The Britons were screaming their war cries with maddened exultant expressions in the last instant before their mounts slammed into the Romans. There was a thud of bodies on shields, and the grunts of legionaries driven back. Cato felt his arm jerk as the flank of a horse thrust itself upon the iron head of his javelin. The animal reared, threatening to tear the weapon from his grasp, and Cato yanked it savagely, gouging a bloody hole in the animal’s sleek hide. Something flashed above his head and he just had time to duck down as a spear tip slashed forward, narrowly missing his head and glancing off the neck guard with a sharp clatter. Cato’s head snapped back painfully and he found himself staring up into the horseman’s face, frozen in a feral grin of stained teeth under a dark drooping moustache. Instinctively, Cato swung his javelin round and thrust at the man’s eyes. Before the thrust landed the rider yanked sharply on his reins and wheeled his horse away, knocking the tip of the javelin to one side.

For a moment Cato was not engaged, and he glanced round. A horse was down on its back, lashing the air with its hoofs as its screaming rider was crushed beneath it. Two more of the enemy were down on the track, mortally injured, one of them writhing as he clasped his hands over a terrible injury that had ripped open his stomach. But not one Roman had been cut down. After the impact, they had recovered and maintained the shield wall in good order, while above them spears and shields clattered uselessly against the large curved surfaces of the Roman shields.

The enemy horsemen kept the attack up for a while longer, then their leader bellowed an order and they abruptly disengaged and trotted back a short distance,just out of javelin range. Beyond them Cato glimpsed the head of the enemy column marching round the corner where the two Roman lookouts had been posted shortly before. It was time to start the withdrawal.

‘Fall back! Optio!’

‘Sir?’

‘Take half the men. Retire a hundred paces and form a new line. Leave a gap for us to pass through when we reach you.’

‘Yes, sir!’

Septimus gathered his men and they trotted up the track until they reached a point where the space either side of the track was again hemmed in by clumps of gorse. The optio halted the men and formed them up.

Cato nodded his satisfaction then turned back to assess his situation. The horsemen were preparing to charge again; tightening the grip on their reins and weapons. As soon as the first man urged his mount forward Cato shouted an order to ready javelins. The horsemen faltered at the sight of the dark, deadly shafts being prepared for them, and then reined in and drew up, still out of range.

‘Good,’ Cato muttered. ‘Port javelins! Sixth Century will prepare to retire . . . march!’

The legionaries started to retreat in good order, keeping their faces to the enemy, as they stepped back carefully to avoid any stumbling. The horsemen stared at the Romans for a moment and then a chorus of jeers and catcalls pursued the legionaries up the track. One of Cato’s men started to shout some abuse back.

‘Silence!’ Cato shouted.’Ignore them. We’ve got nothing to prove. It’s not our men who are lying dead on the track!’

The five sections under Cato’s command steadily withdrew towards Septimus and his men. Even so, the gap between the Romans and the head of Caratacus’ column had narrowed considerably by the time Cato passed through the gap Septimus had left for him.

‘My turn to fall back,’ said Cato. ‘Their infantry might well be on you before you reach us.’

‘Looks that way, sir.’ Septimus nodded. ‘Don’t get too far ahead of us.’

‘I won’t. Good luck.’

‘Fuck that,’ muttered Septimus.’We’re going to need bloody divine intervention to see us through this lot.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Cato smiled. ‘Stick it to them, Optio.’

Septimus saluted and turned away to make sure that his thin line was tightly closed up and ready to resist the coming onslaught. Cato led his men further up the track and as they reached a bend he halted and formed them up. In the distance, above the low-lying expanse of rushes and stunted trees and clumps of gorse he could see the distant figures of the rest of the cohort toiling away at the contruction of the rampart and palisade.

‘Not so far to go, lads!’

‘Far enough,’ someone muttered.

Cato spun round. ‘Silence there!’

He turned back to see how the optio was faring. Septimus was already on the move and the rearmost rank trudged slowly backwards. Only a short distance beyond them the horsemen had edged off the track and the main column of enemy infantry was marching swiftly forward, eager to close with the hated Romans and cut them to pieces.

Towards the front of the column was a chariot. Standing on the platform, behind the driver, was Caratacus, bare-headed and bare-chested, with the huge gold torc around his muscular neck. One hand grasped the shaft of a great war spear, nearly twice as tall as the man himself. The other rested easily on the side rail of the chariot and despite the rutted surface of the track the native commander rode his vehicle with a superb sense of balance and self-confidence.

Caratacus raised his spear and thrust it towards the retreating Romans in a savage gesture of command. At once his warriors let out a huge roar and surged forward, swords and spears raised up and ready to strike. Septimus halted his men, closed up and shouted an order for them to unleash their javelins. It was a desperate measure and Cato wondered if the optio had let desperation overcome good sense. The effect of the collective volley in the confined space of the track would be devastating, but there would be no javelins left after that, only swords.

Septimus’ shouted commands were just audible above the din of the enemy. ‘Javelins . . . loose!’

A tattered dark veil lifted up from the legionaries, arced into the air and then lashed down on the natives. Their war cries faded for a moment, then the sound of the impact carried to Cato and his men: a rattling, thudding chorus that was quickly swallowed up by cries of pain and shouted curses. Septimus yelled at his men to continue falling back.

There was a brief respite while the Britons picked their way through their dead and injured littering the ground from which the dark shafts of javelins protruded at every angle. Then the battle cries picked up once again and the enemy raced forward. But the full impact of their mass charge had been broken by the volley and they hurled themselves individually upon the broad shields and glinting blades of the legionaries. The first few were cut down without difficulty and the men did not even break step as they continued towards Cato. Then, as warriors charged home as a mass, Septimus and his men slowed to a halt and were forced to fight to stay in formation. To fight for survival.