‘Get out of here!’ Mancinus shouted to Cato and then ran to meet the enemy, knocking one man down with his shield and stabbing another in the stomach. He wrenched the blade free and struck again before he was borne back by three more men and thrown to the ground. He called out one last time. ‘Go!’
Cato kicked in his heels. ‘Blood Crows! Follow me!’
He charged down towards the melee, intending to cut his way free and make for the shelter of the trees now that the enemy blocking force had abandoned its position to join in with the destruction of the Roman column. The horsemen held together and those on the ground before them hurried out of their way and turned to slash and stab at them as they pounded by. The sounds of battle filled the air, while around them a raging sea of weapons flickered and blood spurted. A wild-eyed youth sprang at Cato, hands clawing for the shaft of the standard, and he lashed out with his boot, the nailed sole striking the tribesman in the face and sending him flying. They passed through what was left of the Roman line and plunged on through the ranks of the Silurians.
Ahead, a shrewder warrior stepped to the side of the oncoming horses and thrust his hunting spear out. Cato swerved aside but the rider following him did not see the danger and the spear got caught between the horse’s legs and it pitched forward, hurling its rider from his saddle. He landed in a group of warriors, knocking them over, and then they fell on him like wild dogs. Another Thracian was struck by an axe that nearly severed him at the knee, but he let out a defiant roar and then clenched his jaw shut, pressed his thigh tightly against the saddle and rode on. The enemy were thinning out and Cato saw that they were almost free of the melee. Ahead there was open ground at the end of the line of obstacles where the pine trees met the rock-strewn side of the pass. His heels nudged Hannibal’s flanks and the horse turned in that direction. The Thracians raced after him, knocking aside the last of the enemy, and then they were on open ground, hoofs thudding on the peaty soil as they desperately made their bid to save the standards and salvage some honour from the massacre taking place behind them.
They reached the end of the line of stakes and slowed down as they entered the trees. Cato reined in and looked back towards the knoll. The fight was almost over. Silurians were swarming over the wagons, hacking at the helpless injured who lay within. Only a few pockets of resistance still held out. Cato urged Hannibal in amongst the trees and out of sight before the enemy turned their attention towards the small party of horseman who had broken out. The thick pine branches overhead filtered the light into a dull green, pierced here and there by shafts of a golden hue. The sound of the fighting was muffled and birdsong chirruped above. The ground was covered with many years of fallen needles and twigs and the horses padded through the straight tree trunks, weaving their way into the forest. Cato knew that they had to regain the track as soon as possible and stay ahead of the enemy. If they remained in the trees, Caratacus would soon be able to throw a screen of his warriors round them and close in for the kill.
‘Sir.’ One of the men broke into his thoughts and Cato looked up.
The Thracian gestured to the man who had been wounded in the knee. ‘We have to see to Eumenes. He can’t go far with his leg in that shape.’
Cato saw that the injured trooper was in terrible agony, and his leg hung uselessly from the tissue that still held the shattered joint together. Blood dripped from his boot on to the forest floor. He shook his head. ‘We can’t stop. He’ll have to cope until we put some distance between us and the enemy.’
‘Sir, he can’t ride much further in his condition.’
Cato knew that was true. Just as he knew that they would be taking a great risk if they halted to attend to the wounded man. It was too bad. They had to save the standards and reach Glevum. It was vital that Governor Ostorius was made aware of the location of Caratacus and his army as soon as possible. He hardened his heart as he replied to the trooper.
‘Bind it up and then catch up with us. He has to ride on. If he can’t then he must be left behind.’
The Thracian saluted bitterly and turned to help his comrade. The order given, Cato flicked his reins and waved the other men on and headed in the direction of the road to Gobannium.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
By late afternoon the sky had cleared of clouds and the sun shone over the fort at Bruccium. Macro had given orders for the signal beacon to be kept burning and the grey plume of smoke rose high above the valley now that the breeze had dropped. In the hours that had passed since Cato had led the two squadrons out of the side gate Macro had remained in the tower above the main gate, the highest viewpoint in the fort. He had watched the riders climb up to the ledge and along the side of the mountain until they were out of sight. The last of the war bands had disappeared over the crest at the head of the pass and after that the rest of the enemy camp had settled down to continue their vigil. Scouts watched the fort from a safe distance while their comrades set about the daily business of foraging for food, firewood and timber for the construction of shelters. They were also busy constructing a number of screens to protect them from the defenders’ javelins when the order was given to attack the fort again.
‘It seems that these barbarian lads can be taught,’ Macro muttered wryly to himself. Then his expression resumed its stern fixedness as he turned his gaze back towards the pass. He was tormented by not knowing how his friend’s desperate act was playing out. The garrison badly needed the men of the reinforcement column, together with their escort. Bruccium could easily withstand any number of assaults by the enemy once the two cohorts were brought up to strength, together with whatever forces had been sent to ensure the reinforcements arrived safely. Looking round the line of the wall Macro was painfully aware of how thinly the remaining men were stretched. He had less than two hundred effectives. If Caratacus ordered an attack before Cato returned, there was a good chance that the Silurians would overrun the defenders. Straining his eyes towards the pass, he admitted to himself that it was possible that Cato might not return. It seemed like a long time since his friend had left the fort and Macro could not help fearing the worst.
He clenched his fist and smacked it against his thigh in frustration. Anything could have happened. Caratacus might have been driven off. The reinforcement column might have been forced to retreat. The battle might still be raging in the confines of the pass. There was still no indication of which of those three possibilities was most likely. He leaned against the wooden rail and closed his aching eyes to rest them for a moment, aware that he felt light- headed due to the lack of sleep over recent days. His limbs felt stiff and heavy and for the first time he began to wonder how many more years of soldiering he had in him. Macro had known many veterans who had served far longer than the twenty-five years they had signed on for. Longer than was good for them, frankly. But the army was inclined to overlook the handicap of their advanced years due to the invaluable experience they had accrued while serving in the legions.
As for himself, Macro, like many old sweats, had dreamed of retiring to a small Etruscan farm, with a handful of slaves to work it for him, and spending the evenings in a local tavern reliving experiences with other veterans. Now that prospect was growing ever more imminent, he realised that he regarded the idea with disdain. . quiet despair even. Soldiering was all he knew. All he cared about. All he really loved. What was life without the routine, camaraderie and excitement that encased him like a second skin?
His mind wandered for a moment, losing itself in the warm fug of pleasing memories, and then he was jolted into wakefulness by a sharp pressure on his chin and he stirred quickly, eyes blinking open. His head had drooped so that the flesh under his chin had caught on a splinter on the rail. He bolted upright, horrified at the idea that he had allowed himself to fall asleep, even for a moment. The penalty for doing so while on sentry duty could be death. That he was not on duty was no excuse, Macro chided himself bitterly. It was unforgivable and he glanced round the tower to see if either of the two men keeping watch had noticed. Fortunately their attention was on the enemy camp and he allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. Nothing he could do would affect the outcome of the action in the pass. It would be better to allow himself a rest and get something to eat while the situation was calm around the fort. He would surely need his strength later in the day.
Casually stretching his shoulders, Macro crossed to the ladder. ‘I’ll be at headquarters. If there’s any sign of the prefect, or our column, or anything else, send for me at once.’
‘Yes, sir.’ One of the sentries bowed his head.
Macro climbed down the ladder and reached up to untie the chinstrap of his helmet as he left the gatehouse. He tucked the helmet under one arm and removed the padded liner, giving the matted hair plastering
