the trees on either side, which spread across the narrow width of the valley, right up to the crags. Behind the defences stood the enemy, weapons held ready, hurling challenges. As Cato and then a handful of Thracians joined the centurion, their jeering increased until it echoed mockingly off the mountains on either side.
For a moment, Cato was confused. He had not seen any war bands hurrying past to get ahead of the column. Then it hit him. These were the men who had been following Mancinus. Far from disappearing, they had dogged his footsteps just long enough to ensure that he walked into the trap, and then set about putting in place the last element of their commander’s plan. Cato could not help but admire the shrewd intelligence of the Catuvellaunian king. Once again he had outwitted his Roman opponents.
The moment passed and Cato’s admiration turned to cold dread. There was only the most slender chance of survival now. They must break through, or they would most certainly die where they stood.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
‘You must hold this ground until the job is done,’ Cato explained to Mancinus. ‘A third of the men are already down. I’ll need a century of the Gaulish auxiliaries to cut through the barricade. That leaves you short-handed. Stellanus will do what he can to cover the flanks but it’ll be down to the rest of the escort and the garrison replacements to hold the enemy back.’
The tribune nodded and adjusted his grip on the handle of his shield. ‘We’ll do our duty, sir.’
Back in the direction of Bruccium, the Silurians were massing across the width of the valley, building themselves up for another rush at the shields of the Romans with a rising chorus of battle cries.
Cato smiled at the tribune. ‘In this instance duty is not enough. I need you and the men to be bloody heroes.’
Mancinus smiled back. ‘Those who are about to die. .’
Cato shook his head. ‘That’s not quite what I had in mind. I’ll see you and your men on the far side of the barricade once we’re through.’
‘Yes, sir. Good luck.’
Cato nodded and strode off to join the auxiliaries of the First Century of Fernandus’s cohort. They had formed up in a blunt column, eight abreast and ten deep, in close order. Cato had left his spear and Hannibal in the hands of one of the walking wounded and drew his sword as he took his place in the front rank of the century. The commander of the cohort looked at him uncertainly.
‘Sir, I should be leading this attack. These are my men.’
‘And it is my order they are carrying out. I will not ask them to risk a danger I wouldn’t face myself.’
Fernandus shrugged. ‘As you wish.’
Cato nodded. ‘Get back to the rest of your cohort. Something tells me the enemy won’t wait much longer before they come on again.’
The centurion bowed his head and turned to trot back towards his men, lined up to the right of the legionaries who were holding the centre, while the replacements intended for the fort held the left. Beyond that there were barely ten men in each of the remaining Thracian squadrons at the end of each line. They would hold Caratacus and his horde back for the first charge, but after that it was in the lap of the gods. Cato cleared his mind and shifted his shield round in front of his left shoulder and drew his sword level.
‘Advance, at my pace!’ he ordered. The auxiliaries tensed around and behind him, faces set in determined expressions. They knew as well as he that their survival and that of their comrades depended on them breaking through the barricade and then holding the breach open long enough for the rest of the column to retreat along the track between the pine trees.
‘One! Two!’ Cato intoned repeatedly, and the tight formation tramped forward towards the line of stakes less than a hundred paces ahead. Beyond, the enemy warriors lining the makeshift defences brandished their weapons and dared their enemy to come on and do battle. Behind him Cato could hear the blast of war horns and a great roar as the rest of the Silurians rushed towards the thin Roman line covering the retreat.
Step by step the auxiliaries made their way along the track towards the enemy and then Cato saw a man clamber atop the barricade and whirl a leather thong above his head.
‘Shields up! Form tortoise!’
The inner ranks of the formation lifted their shields, rank by rank, from the front, and behind the shields the century became a crowded world of gloom, panted breath, the smell of sweat and muttered prayers to the gods. The muffled sounds from beyond were suddenly drowned out by the loud rattle of slingshot striking home, battering the leather surface of the shields. Cato lowered his head so that he was just able to see over the rim of his shield and raised his voice as he continued to intone the pace. ‘One! Two!’
There was a cry of pain as one of the auxiliaries was struck on the shin, the shot smashing the bone. He fell out of formation and covered his body with his shield as another man took his place. The bombardment intensified as they reached the line of stakes and Cato called the formation to a halt. He ordered two men to work the first of the stakes free. Another auxiliary was struck as a stone glanced off a shield and hit him in the face, breaking his cheek and blinding him in one eye. He let out a brief groan but kept his place.
‘Good lad,’ Cato called across to him.
The first stake came out and then another. And all the time slingshot, accompanied by rocks, smashed against the shields. Then there was a shout and the blare of a horn and Cato risked a look over his shield and saw enemy warriors clambering over the barricade and rushing forward to engage the auxiliaries.
‘Here they come! Brace yourselves!’
A moment later Cato felt his shield crash against him. He staggered back a pace before thrusting savagely forward and restoring the line at the front of the formation. More blows landed and hands tried to rip away the shield as the tribesmen attempted to get at their enemy. But the auxiliaries held their ground and punched their swords out, stabbing at the warriors surrounding them. The two men working the stakes continued their task, grunting as they wrenched them from the ground.
Suddenly there was a deafening crack and splinters shot through the confines behind the shields and a broad shaft of light pierced the gloom. Cato glanced round and saw that a huge Silurian warrior, stripped to a loincloth, his powerful body covered with swirling tattoos, was swinging a heavy war hammer back for another blow. His first had shattered the shield and caved in the chest of the man holding it. He now lay on the ground blinking as blood gurgled and sprayed from his lips. The hammer whirled round in a vicious arc and struck again, sending another man flying into his comrades.
‘Shit!’ Cato muttered as two warriors forced themselves into the gap. One carried a hunting spear and thrust it into the stomach of an auxiliary. The second tribesman darted in, clutching a small axe which he swung into the forearm of another of the auxiliaries. The formation was breaking up as the other men instinctively backed away.
‘Hold your positions!’ Cato bellowed. Then fingers closed round the edge of his shield and tried to wrench it from him. Cato hacked at the knuckles with his sword and was rewarded with a sharp cry of agony as two digits went flying and the warrior snatched his ruined hand back. Cato saw the giant with the war hammer smash another man down using an overhead blow that crushed the auxiliary’s helmet and the skull beneath it. Blood exploded from the face and ears of his victim. More of the enemy had thrust their way into the formation. Cato could see at once that it would not hold and it would be suicide to continue with his original plan.
With a bitter stab of frustration he sucked in a deep breath. ‘Fall back! Fall back!’
He kept his shield up as he cautiously retreated step by step. The other men closed ranks and fell into step as Cato called out the timing. The enemy stayed with them, the giant leading the attack, his weapon whirling and crushing one auxiliary after another. Cato knew that he had to be dealt with before he broke the spirit of the surviving men of the century. He halted the formation, then waited for the hammer to rise up again, ready for another overhead blow. Cato launched himself forward, slamming his shield up and into the giant’s face. His nose broke with a soft crack and Cato swung his sword in a short arc round the edge of the shield and stabbed him in the armpit. There was not enough power in the blow to break through the man’s ribs and the blade carved a shallow tear across his tattoed flesh. Cato did not wait to finish the job but fell back and continued to order the retreat of the century. He saw blood streaming down the giant’s face as the man staggered back, dazed. His
