and when I give the word, run like the wind.’
The horse snorted and jerked its head fractionally and Cato smiled quickly before he took the reins and vaulted into the saddle, trying not to wince at the sharp pain his leg rewarded him with. Taking a firm grasp of the reins, he took the large oval shield that the handler offered up to him and slipped the strap over his shoulder. Despite the custom for senior officers to carry a sword, Cato had chosen to be armed with a long, heavy spear like the rest of his men and he shifted his grip on the weapon to find its balance point. He settled the butt into the small leather holster hanging from the saddle and wheeled Hannibal round to face his men. The squadrons were formed up two deep behind their officers, Centurion Stellanus and a Thracian, Decurion Kastos, stern-faced as they regarded their prefect, waiting for the traditional short speech of encouragement before they were led into battle.
Short it would be, Cato thought; there was little time to spare. He would have preferred to dispense with formalities altogether and simply give the order to quit the fort, but he knew that the men would need to be addressed following on so closely from the death of Quertus.
‘Blood Crows!’ he began. ‘Our comrades are in the gravest of danger. Caratacus means to cut them down and take their heads as trophies to offer to his Druid allies. That is no fit fate for any soldier. The enemy means to humiliate them, before our eyes, and therefore humiliate us for being powerless to intervene. But we shall not be humbled, and nor shall our comrades. That is all that matters to us this day. Our task is simple. We shall ride to their rescue and clear a path through the enemy so that our comrades can gain the fort. . What has gone before cannot be changed. We have in our grasp the chance to win undying glory for the Blood Crows. Those who live to remember this day will never forget the honour they have shared with their brothers, nor the honour in which they will be held by the rest of the army.’ He paused, vaguely frustrated by his failure to deliver the kind of stirring speech he had read of in the history books of his youth. But there was no time for that kind of carefully rehearsed rhetoric. He grasped his spear and raised it aloft.
‘For the glory of Rome! For the honour of the Blood Crows!’
Centurion Stellanus took his cue and thrust his spear overhead. ‘For the honour of the Blood Crows!’
The rest of the men took up the cheer and their horses stamped and scraped their hoofs eagerly, caught up in the excitement of their riders. Cato turned to Macro and nodded.
‘Open the gates!’ Macro bellowed and the two legionaries waiting beside the locking bar instantly heaved it out of the sturdy iron brackets and set it down to one side before drawing the gates apart.
Cato steered his mount round and urged Hannibal towards the arch under the gatehouse with the cry, ‘Advance!’
Stellanus gave the order to his men and they followed their prefect, walking their horses forward two abreast. As Cato passed Macro, they exchanged a brief bow of heads. The other squadron followed, passing through the gate, across the bridge over the narrow ditch and on to the track that led diagonally down the slope at the side of the fort. Cato knew that they would not be seen until they rounded the corner of the small hill upon which the fort stood and was content to let the column walk that far before increasing the pace. He felt his heartbeat quicken and had to force himself not to look back towards the gatehouse and the safety of the fort. In the distance, a mile away, he could see the rear of the enemy force heading to intercept the reinforcement column. As he rode at a steady pace, determined to give the impression of being calm and in control, Cato’s mind was filled with anxiety over the danger that lay before him.
With luck, the officer leading the column would have a few men screening the main body and the moment they became aware of the enemy, the reinforcements would close up and trust to their heavy shields and iron discipline to carve their way through to the fort. On the other hand, Cato reflected, the officer might well be one of the freshly minted tribunes who had reached the frontier with his confidence in Roman supremacy and contempt for the barbarian undented. The kind of man who blundered forward until tripped up by experience. Some struggled back on to their feet, others paid the price of their arrogance in full.
The rough track leading down across the slope began to level out and now Cato could see the edge of the parade ground and the enemy camp beyond. They would be spotted at any moment, if they had not already been. He tapped his heels to get his horse’s attention. ‘On, Hannibal. On!’
The beast stirred and increased his pace to a gentle trot. Behind, Stellanus and then Kastos repeated the order and a faint rumble took the place of the gentle clop and scrape of walking horses. Cato had scrutinised the ground in the valley before leaving the fort and had chosen to head for a bare ledge overlooking the head of the pass. The ground up to it offered little cover and seemed open enough to be usable by cavalry. He gently pulled on the reins to steer Hannibal in its direction and then looked towards the enemy. The horsemen had been seen by those still in the camp who were gesticulating and pointing at the two squadrons setting out from the fort. A moment later the first of the horns sounded the alarm to alert their comrades further up the valley. It took only a moment for the rearmost of the war bands, just over half a mile ahead, to stop and turn about. For a moment they hesitated and then Cato watched them fan out into a line facing his men. Most of the enemy carried shields and spears, but some carried more basic weapons and had no armour.
Cato led the Thracians towards the enemy line at a steady trot. More had stopped to turn and look back, uncertain how to react to the unexpected response from the garrison at Bruccium. Cato felt a moment’s satisfaction at the sight. Any seeds of confusion that he could sow would serve to hinder the enemy’s attack on the reinforcement column. Caratacus’s warriors would arrive piecemeal and there would be a chance for the reinforcements to deploy for battle rather than be caught strung out along the line of march. With luck, they might already have seen the smoke from the signal fire and paid heed to the warning.
Three more of the war bands had turned back to confront the Thracians and were hurrying across the open ground to take up position on the flanks of the line. The sight did not unsettle Cato as he had no intention of engaging with them. It would be suicide for such a small force of cavalry, well mounted and armed as they were, to charge headlong into an overwhelming mass of infantry. That was not Cato’s plan. The real danger was presented by the enemy horsemen. They heavily outnumbered the two squadrons and, more worryingly, would be able to outpace them. If they managed to attack and pin down the Thracians long enough for the infantry to intervene then it would all be over very swiftly and the destruction of the two squadrons would simply be the first Roman casualties of the day.
The enemy line was no more than a quarter of a mile distant and Cato quickly estimated their number at five hundred. He lifted his spear and pointed to the right of the line, towards the ledge on the side of the mountain overlooking the pass. ‘Wheel right!’
He struck out in the new direction and his men turned their mounts to follow him. The enemy, fearing an attempt to outflank their line, were thrown into confusion before their leaders pushed and cajoled them into forming a crude ellipse, bristling with spears and other weapons. The Roman cavalrymen continued along their line of advance and passed close enough to the Silurian warriors to clearly hear their war cries and insults. A number of the Thracians returned the shouts in kind until Centurion Stellanus rounded on them furiously.
‘Keep your bloody mouths shut or I’ll have you on a charge the moment we get back to the fort!’
They trotted on and reached the rising ground below the ledge. To their left was the track leading up the valley, passing through a thin belt of fir trees before it climbed to the saddle between the two mountains. Cato could see parties of enemy warriors picking their way up either side of the track to take up position to attack the reinforcement column. Ahead of them rode Caratacus’s cavalry. At their head was a small group of brightly cloaked riders, clustered about the long rippling standard of their commander. The enemy horsemen were far enough away to present no immediate danger to the Thracians, Cato calculated. Glancing back he saw that the warriors they had passed shortly before were once again spreading out, marching across the route the Thracians had taken from the fort in order to cut off their line of retreat. They were committed now, Cato thought sombrely.
Hannibal’s flanks were heaving with the effort of climbing the slope but Cato urged him on, keeping up the pace, until at length they reached the ledge and the ground levelled out into a narrow strip of grass tussocks and patches of peat. He turned and looked down into the valley. The enemy infantry who were intent on cutting the Romans off from the fort were steadily picking their way up the slope towards them. Beyond the fir trees Cato could see over the saddle and his heartbeat quickened as he caught sight of the reinforcement column — a slender ribbon of scarlet shimmering with reflections from highly polished helmets. A small force of cavalry marched at the rear, protecting the carts and waggons of the baggage train. Seven or eight hundred men in all, Cato estimated with a sinking heart. He had anticipated that Legate Quintatus would send at least twice as many legionaries or
