Cato drew a breath and shouted to be heard above the rain. ‘There’s no time to explain. We must move and move fast. You’ll know exactly what is expected of you when we are in position. All I ask is that you fight like demons when the time comes. Second Thracian! Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth, advance!’
Cato turned his horse and urged it into a quick walk as he led the men away from the camp. Ahead and to the right stood the knoll on which a handful of civilians still stood watching the struggle on the other side of the river, in despairing silence. Cato led his men, cavalry first and the two understrength centuries of legionaries under Macro, at a brisk pace round the back of the knoll and behind a thin belt of trees that ran along the edge of the river. Through the trunks he could make out the slow flow, pockmarked with ripples from the rain. The river was much deeper here. Too deep to ford. Yet he recalled from Ostorius’s briefing before the battle that there were a handful of crossing places unsuitable for a large-scale crossing further down. His plan depended on them not being guarded. If the enemy had not been recalled to the main body to help overwhelm the second attack, then Cato’s plan would surely fail. Even if he could fight his way across the river he might lose too many men to see his desperate scheme through. On the far bank, a short distance ahead, loomed the crags, grey and foreboding.
The small column hurried on, passing by the crags until there, just beyond, the trees opened on to the riverbank and a narrow track led down to the river where the water raced over shallows, foaming around the scattered rocks on the river bed. Cato threw up his arm to halt his men, swung his leg over the saddle horns and dropped to the ground. Macro came trotting up, panting hard.
‘What is it?’
‘I need to see if the way is clear. Stay here. Soon as I give the command, get the men across as quickly as you can.’
Macro saluted and Cato turned towards the river. He followed the track down to the water’s edge and paused, looking across the narrow ford to the far bank. There was no sign of movement. Glancing upriver he realised he could no longer see any sign of the battlefield, or the camp, and nodded with satisfaction. Then, steeling his nerve, he began to wade across, eyes constantly scouring the crags and the slope to the left where a steep track wound up towards the top of the mass of dark rocks. There was no sign of the enemy. Even though the water gushed around his calves he found that his footing was good and he was able to wade across with ease. At the midpoint the water reached no higher than his thighs and Cato breathed a deep sigh of relief as he splashed on, reached the shallows and emerged dripping on to the far bank. At once he turned and cupped a hand.
‘Macro! Bring ’em over!’ He beckoned with his arm in case his voice was lost in the sound of the rushing water. A moment later the first of the Blood Crows appeared, slipped off their saddles and led their mounts into the river, not risking any injury to themselves or their horses from slipping on the stones carpeting the river bed. Behind the cavalry came the legionaries, instinctively holding their shields high, even though it was raining. Cato gestured to his senior decurion, Miro, and pointed to the track.
‘Up there. Stop before you get to the top of the crags.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Miro saluted and ordered his men to follow him as he tugged on the reins and led his mount up from the river. Macro had Cato’s horse and handed the reins over as the first legionaries reached the bank.
‘Reminds me of the first real battle against Caratacus. Back in the early days of the invasion. Remember?’
Cato nodded. ‘Hope our luck holds just as well this time.’
He turned towards the path and followed the rear of the Thracian cohort. The rest were picking their way up towards the crest and Cato set off, pushing himself and his mount to work his way back to the head of the column. By the time he caught up with Miro the decurion was a short distance from the top of the crag where the rain was being blown at an angle by the rising wind. Cato was relieved to hear the sounds of battle more clearly, the clash of blades and faint cheers and cries. It was proof that the Fourteenth were in action and holding their own, for now.
‘Form the men up here,’ Cato ordered. ‘Hold my horse. I’ll be back directly.’
Leaving the decurion with the reins, Cato jogged forward up the final rise and along the top of the crags. He slowed down as he saw the ground begin to fall away and continued in a crouch as he fumbled with the ties under his helmet and took it off in case the red plume and gleaming metal drew the enemy’s attention. There was a stunted bush ahead, growing at an angle determined by the prevailing wind that swept across the mountains. He used that for cover as he gazed down on the battle raging along the side of the hill. The top of the crags were nearly a hundred feet above Caratacus’s second line of defence and Cato could see clearly along the length of the battle line.
The legionaries had reached the barricade made of rocks and stone with roughly cut and sharpened branches embedded, the points angled down the slope. As Cato watched he saw parties of men sheltering beneath their broad shields while their comrades used their hands and swords to pull down sections of the barricade. The more courageous of the legionaries had clambered up to engage the enemy. It was an unequal struggle as the Romans were heavily encumbered and could never get enough numbers forward before the enemy responded in overwhelming numbers, hacking the attackers down and driving the survivors back into the massed ranks below. A hundred paces further down, the men of the Ninth crouched down behind their shields. Tribune Otho, with his ostentatious red plume, had dismounted and was striding up and down in front of the colour party where the square drop of the vexillation standard hung limply in the rain. More bodies littered the slope behind the Ninth. Turning his gaze back to the fight, Cato saw that the native warriors were densely packed behind the cover of the barricade. Above them the ground evened out and there was a lumpy plateau stretching across the top of the hill where hundreds of crude shelters had been constructed in a haphazard fashion. A cluster of simple tents occupied the centre of the camp. Caratacus’s headquarters, Cato guessed. Hundreds of wounded warriors sat or lay out of the rain and wind. Their injuries were tended by native women in cloaks, binding up cuts and broken limbs.
Cato had seen enough to grasp the lay of the land and crept back down out of sight before running back to join his column. The Blood Crows were standing by their horses in each of the three squadrons. Beside them stood Macro’s two centuries of legionaries, one under his personal command, the other in the charge of the towering figure of Centurion Crispus, a man who had been promoted from optio after the siege at Bruccium.
‘Officers! On me!’ Cato called out as loudly as he dared. They hurried over to him and the cold rain and biting wind caused Cato to tremble as he waited for them. He cursed his weak body and forced it to be still, in case the other officers mistook his feeling cold for fear. They needed to have every confidence in him if they were to survive their part in the battle.
Cato gestured towards the top of the crags. ‘The battle line is just the other side of the high ground. The general’s second attack has reached the barricade, and there it will stall. Unless we intervene.’ He looked round the small group of junior officers to make sure they understood. ‘This is the plan. Centurion Macro and the infantry will go round the crags, staying out of sight as far as possible, before they launch an attack on the enemy’s flank. Make as much noise as you can and go in hard. Drive ’em back. You won’t have the element of surprise for long, nor be able to maintain the impetus of the charge. But you must drive them back far enough so that the lads of the Fourteenth can break through the flank and back you up. If we move quickly enough we can roll up their line from this end. Are you clear about that? Centurion Macro? Are your men up for it?’