‘Yes, sir. I am certain that the rearguard could manage that. For a day, maybe two. Certainly long enough for the rest of the army to reach Mediolanum safely. Provided we have every spare javelin and every bow and stock of slingshot left. Give me that and I will give you a day’s grace.’
The legate chewed his lip. ‘A day’s grace may just save thousands of lives. Not mine, though. When word of all this gets back to Rome . . . Never mind.’ He wearily shook off the train of thought and nodded. ‘Very well, Prefect Cato. You will have all that you need.’
Cato halted the Blood Crows on a rise that obscured the enemy’s view of the gorge while Macro and his men hastened forward to help make preparations for its defence. Loose boulders were piled into place to block the route and then built up into a makeshift parapet, leaving a gap just wide enough for a man to lead his horse through. Javelins, arrows and bows were stacked inside the gorge along with the remaining caltrops. One century was assigned to fortifying the approaches to the top of the crags, blocking any goat trails and easy routes with sharpened stakes and other obstacles, while another group heaved more boulders into position close to the edge of vantage points overlooking the entrance to the gorge that would have to be taken by the enemy when they came in pursuit of the Roman column.
The light was fading when Macro sent word to Cato that the defences were complete, and the Blood Crows were ordered to the rear. Cato remained alone for a short while, watching the enemy, who had closed to within half a mile. They regarded him in turn, then cautiously began to edge forward when they realised that one Roman hardly constituted a danger. Cato let them come within two hundred paces before turning his mount and trotting towards the gorge. By the time he reached the defences – the last man to pass through before the gap was filled – fires had been lit within the gorge and on the far side, and up on the crags. A rich aroma of roasting meat filled the air, and he felt his stomach lurch with ferocious appetite as Macro came up to greet him, brushing past the men posted to keep watch.
‘Spit mule is on the go, and the legate’s found a few wine skins to hand round. He’s already in his cups.’
‘Quintatus is still here? I thought he’d have gone ahead with the rest of the army.’
‘Think he wants a final word with you before he buggers off back to Mediolanum. Any last requests, that sort of thing, no doubt.’ Macro shrugged. ‘It’s not as if it means anything. But I’m grateful for the wine, at least.’
‘No doubt.’
Cato dismounted and handed his reins to one of the Thracians as Macro jerked a thumb back in the direction of the enemy. ‘Any sign of ’em yet?’
‘Just the scouts. But the rest of them can’t be too far away now. I just hope we have a chance to rest the men before they attack. Right now, though, I am so hungry I could eat a horse.’
Macro clicked his tongue. ‘Sorry, I just thought it would be quicker to cook a mule.’
They walked through the gorge, emerging by a large fire that lit the snow-covered rocks on either side with a warm orange glow. The torso of a mule had been pierced by a lance and was being roasted over the embers to one side. Meanwhile, soldiers sat hunched round with strips of meat stuck on the end of their javelins to hold over the flames, and several wine skins were being passed from man to man. Legate Quintatus was standing to one side with a cheery smile as he held his hands out to warm them. He looked up as Cato approached.
‘Ah, Cato! There you are. Join the happy crowd.’
‘Happy crowd?’ Cato muttered, exchanging a glance with Macro. It was an odd phrase to describe men who would shortly fight impossible odds, but he guessed it was the drink talking. As he stepped up to the legate’s side, he found a wine skin thrust into his hand.
‘Take a good swig,’ said Quintatus. ‘It’s from my estate in Campania. It may not travel well, but it has travelled far.’
Cato nodded his thanks and took a modest sip, not trusting his weariness to cope with drink. ‘No sign of the enemy army yet, sir.’
‘They’re coming . . .’ The legate pursed his lips. ‘You can count on that. But we’re ready for them.’
Cato smiled to himself at the inclusive nature of the comment, but wished that his superior would take himself off and leave the rearguard to themselves. The Blood Crows and Macro’s legionaries had fought side by side for many long months and had established a strong bond under the command of the two officers. It would be a shame for the legate to intrude too long on what might be their last night together in this world.
‘The lads will hold them back as long as possible, sir. And we’ll make ’em pay a high price for getting past us.’
‘Yes, we will,’ Quintatus said deliberately.
‘You’re staying here?’
The legate breathed in deeply and nodded. ‘What choice have I got? If I return with a defeated army, the emperor will want my head. If I stay and fight, then I may win a little glory for myself and preserve the honour of my family name. But don’t worry, I shan’t interfere with your command over these men. You have earned that. You and Macro both. It’s just a damn pity that Rome will lose the services of two such fine officers. Who knows, by some miracle maybe I will survive to enjoy the acclaim. Either way, at least the rest of the army stands a good chance of making it to safety.’
‘I hope so, sir. I hope we all share that miracle. Stranger things have happened in my experience.’
‘If it wasn’t for this damned early snowfall, we would have crushed the Druids.’
‘It wasn’t the snow, sir. It was the entire timing of the campaign. Winter is no time to venture into the mountains.’
‘But I had to do it all the same. Time was short,’ Quintatus insisted.
Cato reflected a moment. He was inclined to temper the criticism of his superior, but there was no point in worrying about it now. They were all doomed men. What did it matter what he said?
‘Your time was short, sir. You wanted to win some glory before the new governor arrived. This was about adding lustre to your reputation, gambling with the lives of the men you took into these mountains with you. Isn’t that the case?’
‘I admit it was a risk, yes.’ Quintatus paused and stared into the flames briefly. ‘A grave risk. And I am prepared to pay a high price for it by staying here.’
‘A price you also made the rest of us pay,’ Cato said firmly. ‘I’d be surprised if a third of the army returns to Mediolanum. Even the rearguard has suffered badly. Macro’s cohort is down to two hundred effectives, and I can barely scrape together a hundred men of the Blood Crows. They deserve better.’
Quintatus turned to stare at him. ‘Yes, they do,’ he replied softly.
The men chewed their meat like ravenous wolves, tough as it was. As soon as the meat began to warm their bellies, their spirits returned. Their voices rose, and jokes and snatches of song echoed back off the walls of the gorge. Flickering flames cast giant shadows on the snow and rock, and Cato felt the warmth of their camaraderie more intensely than he ever had before. As for Macro, he enjoyed the wine more than was perhaps good for him, and looked forward to the coming battle with a glint in his eye and a cruel grin on his lips as he chewed on a tough strip of mule meat.
It did not take long for the mood to break. No more than three hours after sunset, one of the lookouts on the crags cupped his hands and called down to those around the fires, ‘They’re coming!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
‘To your posts!’ Macro bellowed, jumping to his feet. ‘Stand to! Prepare to receive the enemy!’
The men around the fires dropped their food and wine skins to snatch up their weapons and armour and rush to their assigned positions. Macro and his legionaries took their place behind the rock barricade. Legate Quintatus drew his ivory-handled sword from its silvered scabbard and shouldered his way through to the front to stand beside the centurion. The latter regarded him with a frown and the legate chuckled.