Macro grinned and clapped his hands together. ‘Just let the bastards try and stop us, sir!’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Cato nodded, then turned to the three decurions. ‘Miro, take your squadron and cover Macro’s flank. You must stop them trying to get round our infantry. Charge any groups that look like forming up. Keep ’em on the move. Don’t give them a chance to recover.’
Miro nodded grimly.
‘I’ll lead the other two squadrons. We’ll head up to the top of the hill and ride through their camp. We’ll scatter any fighting men up there and then wheel and charge over the crest and down the slope, straight into the rear of the enemy line. If all goes well, the attack from two directions will be enough to distract them just long enough for our lads in the Fourteenth to get round and over the barricade. Then it’s all over. . Everyone clear on what part they must play?’
Centurion Crispus shook his head in wonder. ‘You don’t fucking ask for much, sir.’
Macro punched his subordinate on the shoulder. ‘You’ll get used to his funny ways, if you live long enough.’
‘That’s it then, gentlemen. Let’s do it.’
Macro and his men moved forward first, striding along the track and then branching off towards the battlefield. Cato and the horsemen followed. Where the track divided, Cato turned to Miro and nodded. ‘Fortuna ride with you.’
‘And you, sir.’
‘I’ll see you afterwards.’
They exchanged a salute and Cato waved the remaining two squadrons forward as he made for the crest of the hill and the enemy camp that lay beyond.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The ache in Macro’s limbs began to ease as he felt the blood pump through his veins. His muscles felt tense and tight and there was the familiar lightness in his heart as he anticipated the fight to come. Unlike Cato, he had no doubts that this was the reason why the gods had put him on the earth. This was what he had been born to do. He was a soldier, trained for this end, and by Mithras, he would do honour to his profession. Glancing over his shoulder he saw the line of men following him, breathing heavily and grim-faced. Although he had commanded them for less than half a year he knew them well. They fought hard and would not let him down.
They double-timed round the top of the crags as the rain lashed down from the dark clouds scudding overhead. Then the track levelled off for a short distance before dipping down towards the right flank of the enemy line. A flash of sheet lightning lit up the hillside, freezing men locked in combat. Then the light went and an instant later the air reverberated with the roar of thunder. The enemy’s attention was fixed on the men of the Fourteenth, still struggling in vain to find a way over or through the defences. The nearest of them stood where the barricade ran up against a sheer cliff, fifty paces away. Macro stopped his men and waited until the two centuries were formed into a tight column behind him. Then he wiped his hand on the side of his tunic and drew his sword. He hefted his shield, raised his sword into the rain and swept it forward.
The soft thud of nailed boots and the chink of equipment blended with the patter of the rain on helmets and shoulders and the rising din of the battle. Macro increased the pace to a trot as they descended the gentle slope. To his left he saw movement and his gaze flickered to the horsemen fanning out to cover his flank. They were no more than twenty paces from the enemy when a robed man shouting encouragement a short distance behind his comrades paused as he heard the sound of men approaching. He turned and Macro saw his eyes widen in alarm before his jaw gaped and he let out a desperate cry.
‘Fourth Cohort!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Charge!’
He increased his pace to a jog, the fastest any man could run in such heavy armour and equipment and roared the legion’s name, ‘Gemina!’
‘GEMINA!’ The cry echoed from his men’s lips and Macro made for the man who had first seen them. Others had turned towards them now, the triumphant war cries of a moment earlier dying on their lips. Too late the robed man began to turn, and slipped, and then Macro smashed him to the ground with his shield and ran on. Hundreds of enemy warriors stretched out behind the barricade in front of him, but the sight only heartened Macro as he charged in amongst the hapless defenders at the end of the line. A spearman, stripped to the waist, braced himself and thrust the point at Macro. He flicked his sword and deflected the point down into the ground and then thrust his blade into the man’s leading arm, tearing through flesh and muscle before ripping it free. He punched his shield out, feeling the heavy impact as it knocked the spearman back. Macro rushed by, feeling a limb squirm beneath his boot before he launched himself into a group of lightly armed men clustered at the end of the barricade.
A sword cracked against his shield and scraped down to the boss with a sharp clang. Macro punched the shield to one side and then recovered before stabbing his sword to the right. He felt a slight pressure as it inflicted a flesh wound, and then his men piled in on either side, punching their shields and thrusting their swords, just as they had been trained to do. Macro saw the barricade in front of him, a jumble of soil and rocks, with the body of a young warrior sprawled on top. Around him the legionaries had cleared the area at the base of the cliff and several of the enemy lay in the mud bleeding out.
‘Go left!’ Macros shouted. ‘Roll up the bastards’ flank!’
The frantic charge continued without mercy. The tribesmen were still reeling from the shock of the flank attack and Macro was determined to keep up the impetus for as long as he could before the enemy realised how few men he had. The moment the ruse was discovered Caratacus was sure to send his reserves to deal with the threat. The enemy were falling back ahead of the legionaries, running diagonally up the slope to escape their attackers, straight into the path of Miro and his squadron of Blood Crows. They slashed to the left and right, cutting down the fugitives and adding to the panic spreading through the right flank of Caratacus’s army.
Macro drew up and looked round for Crispus. The centurion was a short distance behind, looming above his men as he ordered them to follow up Macro’s century.
‘Crispus! On me! Crispus!’
The centurion glanced round, saw Macro and nodded. A moment later the two officers stood together, gasping for breath. Macro pointed his sword at the barricade.
‘Get your men to start pulling that apart. We have to let the lads on the other side through as quickly as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Crispus bowed his head curtly and called the nearest two sections of his men to him and they lowered their shields, sheathed their blades and desperately began to pull the rocks aside.
‘The rest of you follow me!’ Macro beckoned to the remaining sections of Crispus’s century and rejoined the charge. He passed more fallen warriors, and then the first of his men, lying on his back, his face smashed into a bloody pulp by an axe blow. Angling slightly up the slope for a better view, Macro could see that the enemy had been driven back over a hundred feet and were starting to bunch up. There was no escape for them, yet the dense mass of men would mean that the charge would stall as the legionaries could not press on. But for the moment there was still ground to be made and Macro roared to his men, ‘On! On! Carve ’em up!’
Beyond, some distance away, he could see a large warrior on horseback riding down the line to investigate the disturbance on the flank. The rain had soaked the man’s long hair and yet there was something about him that struck Macro as familiar and then he guessed he was looking at the commander. Caratacus himself. At once the rider gestured towards the flank and men began to pull away from the battle line and form a new line, thirty paces up the slope. As soon as he had gathered two or three hundred of his warriors, Caratacus led them along the slope at a trot. There was not much time before they reached the fighting and tipped the balance, Macro realised.