He looked back and saw Crispus and his men toiling away. They had removed the largest of the rocks and were working away at the earth, using their swords to shovel the muddy soil aside. Some of the legionaries from the other side, streaked in dirt, had clambered up on to the barricade to help them. But it would take a little while yet to open a gap large enough for a steady flow of men to reinforce Macro’s weak cohort.
There was nothing more he could do, other than fight, and Macro strode forward to join his men in battle. Pushing his way to the front, he saw a heavyset warrior with a bedraggled white beard and a torso covered in swirling blue tattoos. The rain gleamed on his skin as he swung an axe above his head and then slammed it down on to the edge of a legionary’s shield. The heavy blade shattered the metal trim and splintered the wood as it carved through the shield, and crushed the shoulder of the Roman behind. He let out a gasp as the air was driven from his lungs and then stumbled back, his ruined shield splashing into the mud. His foe let out a hiss of triumph and stepped forward, halting the advance of the Romans to his front and allowing his comrades to stop and gather their wits. ‘Sa!’
Macro met the mad gaze of the warrior as he began to swing his axe again. Before the man could strike, Macro feinted with his sword and his opponent instinctively flinched, lowering his axe as he retreated. Macro took another pace and followed up with a thrust of his shield, a light blow but it drove the man back against his comrades. Now Macro had the man trapped and he moved in for the kill, stabbing low, into the thigh, twisting the blade and withdrawing it before striking again, higher up, throwing his weight behind the blow which pierced the warrior’s stomach. He let out an explosive groan and dropped his axe as he staggered back.
‘Forwards!’ Macro paused to shout. ‘Come on, lads!’
Macro knew that the pace of the attack was slowing. His men were tiring, and the enemy was recovering from the shock of the sudden appearance of the small force on their flank. More men were angling up the slope to meet the Romans, and behind them Caratacus and his hastily gathered reserve were sweeping towards Macro. A quick glance back revealed Crispus and his men still toiling away and no sign yet of their comrades below coming to the support of the Fourth Cohort.
The impetus of the attack faded and Macro found himself merely standing his ground as he fought alongside his men and held the enemy at bay. A party of native spearman had got in amongst Miro and his squadron and were savagely piking the horses and riders, and driving the Thracians back, so that they threatened to uncover the flank of their legionary comrades. Macro looked further up the slope, towards the crest, for any sign of Cato and his two squadrons, but saw no movement there.
‘Come on, lad,’ he muttered. ‘While there’s still time.’
Caratacus and his men closed in, less than a hundred paces away, and their commander slowed their pace to allow the slowest to catch up so that the reinforcements would throw their full weight in when they charged down the slope and trapped Macro and his cohort against the barricade. There would be no escape if that happened.
A dull cheer caught Macro’s ear and he saw that Crispus and his men had succeeded in opening a small breach, just wide enough for a single man to pass through. The first of the men from below scrambled through and ran to join Macro’s small force holding the enemy at bay, then another, as Crispus urged his men to widen the gap. But it was too late. No more than twenty men had passed through the barricade by the time Caratacus and his party began their charge, surging at an angle down the slope towards Macro with a savage roar. The last of Miro’s squadron was swept aside and the survivors turned and spurred their mounts back towards the top of the crag.
Macro felt his heart burn with frustration. If only there had been a little more time. A hundred more men would have made all the difference to holding the position while the breach was widened for the cohorts trapped on the other side to pour through and swing the balance of the battle in the Romans’ favour. But he might as well wish for the moon, Macro realised, as he turned to face the oncoming enemy squarely, boots braced in the mud, his shield raised and his sword lowered, ready to strike. Above the trim of his shield he could see Caratacus looming high in his saddle, one hand clutching the reins, the other waving his sword. His mouth gaped and the tendons on his neck stood out as he screamed his war cry.
‘For fuck’s sake, Cato,’ Macro raged. ‘Where are you?’
As the two squadrons reached the crest of the hill Cato gave the order to form line and the sixty horsemen fanned out across the uneven ground. Glancing right and left to make sure the line kept up, Cato walked them to the edge of the plateau. He lifted his oval shield up and held it close to his side as he reached for the long-bladed sword hanging in the saddle scabbard.
‘Blood Crows! At the trot! Advance!’
The line edged into motion, towards the nearest shelters and the wounded men, and the women who tended them. The horsemen were quickly spotted and cries of alarm spread across the enemy camp as the dreaded Blood Crow banner was recognised. Those who could walk scrambled to their feet and turned to flee. The rest pressed themselves into whatever cover they could find, snatching up weapons to try and defend themselves.
Blinking away the raindrops that stung his face, Cato drew a breath and called out, ‘At the canter!’
The men held formation as they burst upon the enemy camp, long blades hacking left and right, the riders leaning from their saddles to strike those on the ground. They killed scores of the helpless enemy and those who could ran for their lives, spreading the terror through the camp. Cato indulged his men a while longer, carefully gauging the distance they had advanced, anxious not to go too far before they changed direction. A third of the way across the plateau he reined in and raised his sword to draw the attention of his men.
‘Blood Crows! Halt! Halt! Form up on me!’
Wheeling his mount to face the side of the hill where the battle was raging, Cato waited anxiously for his men to break off their butchering of the enemy wounded and take up position on either side of their commander. A quick glance round revealed only one riderless horse standing on the plateau. Cato nodded. It had gone well so far. If Macro and his men had played their part then the enemy’s attention would be drawn to the attack on their flank, and they would not be prepared for a second blow from a different direction. But if Macro had failed then Cato fully realised that he was about to lead what was left of the Blood Crows to complete annihilation. He felt a curious calm at the prospect. His only palpable regret was the thought of Julia grieving his death. He thrust all such thoughts aside and cleared his throat that he might give his order clearly and calmly.
‘At the trot!’
The troopers dug their heels in and several of the horses whinnied, ears twitching, before they moved off. As the Blood Crows adjusted their pace to maintain an even line, Cato gauged that they had fifty paces to go before reaching the edge of the plateau. An effective cavalry charge was all about good timing, he knew. They must hold the line and then surge forward while there was still time to build up speed to a full charge and deliver as shattering an impact as possible on the enemy. Whatever the ideal might be, Cato’s situation was complicated by the wet ground and the final approach down the slope. Some of the horses were bound to slip or fall, but that was a price that had to be paid.
‘At the canter!’
Cato tapped his heels in and increased the pressure of his knees against the sides of his horse, leaning forward to tighten the grip of the tall saddle horns about his hips. The air filled with the slap and splash of hoofs on the sodden earth and drips flicked from the beast’s mane into his face as Cato and his small force rapidly closed on the edge of the plateau and the ground began to dip. The sounds of battle were suddenly closer, sharper, and the ears of his horse twitched nervously. Cato did not want to give his men any chance to hesitate as they came in view of the battle and snatched a breath to give one last order.