‘Blood Crows! Charge!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The men let out a cheer and spurred their mounts on, surging over the trampled grass, up to the crest, from where the bloody struggle below was revealed in all its detail. In an instant, Cato took in the broad sweep of the spectacle. The enemy was holding their ground for full three-quarters of their defences, but the critical section of the battlefield was directly ahead and to the right where Macro’s force was fighting for survival while the flank of the Fourteenth Legion was only just starting to feed into the battle. The hillside between Cato’s men and their comrades was thick with enemy warriors charging down on the legionaries, yelling their war cries.
Cato’s vision narrowed to the way directly ahead of him. The time to command was over. He was a fighting man now, just like the rest of the Blood Crows, who became no more than fleeting shapes on either side. Cato raised his cavalry sword up and out, ready to strike, and slashed down at the first warrior he came down upon, laying open his shoulder and back. Then the man was gone and the horse knocked another to the ground and there was a dull crack as a bone gave way beneath the hoofs pounding over the body. The horse shied at a third man who turned and roared at the mounted figure looming over him and Cato snatched at the reins to keep the beast from swerving too far and unseating him.
Cato’s shield smashed into the warrior. Half turning in his saddle, Cato swung his sword across in an arc and the edge of the blade split his opponent’s skull down to the jaw. The warrior’s back arched as his arms snapped out and the movement threatened to wrench the sword from Cato’s grasp. He held on and pulled with all his strength. He felt the blade give, and pulled again and it came free, causing him to lurch in his saddle. His horse had stopped, and Cato looked round.
The Blood Crows had broken the men who had been bearing down on Macro’s cohort and the slope around Cato was a heaving mass of native warriors and horsemen. The enemy’s cries of triumph had turned to panic and scores were fleeing towards the left of the line while their leaders tried to stop them and thrust them back towards the bloody melee on the flank. There were Druids there as well, Cato saw. Robed figures with wild hair, screaming curses at the Romans and those amongst their people who refused to turn and fight.
A movement to his side caught Cato’s attention and he turned his head to see two men armed with spears rushing towards him. He pulled the reins and turned his horse towards them, digging his heels into the animal’s flanks. The men were forced to either side and a spear thrust towards the right of Cato’s chest. He cut down savagely with his sword and there was a ringing clash as the edge struck the iron spearhead and knocked it aside. The wet ground meant that it was hard for the man to change direction and his shoulder slammed into Cato’s leg. The warrior looked up with a snarl, his eyes gleaming through the dark hair plastering his scalp. Cato instinctively smashed the pommel of his sword on the top of the man’s skull and he fell away.
His shield hand suddenly jerked and the reins snapped tightly, causing the horse to turn. The second man staggered back, one hand still trying to rip the Roman’s shield aside to open a gap through which his spear could strike. Cato pulled his shield back, throwing his weight to the other side and the spear point glanced off the flat surface and tore a shallow gash in the horse’s side. The beast leaped beneath Cato and he clamped his legs to its sides as it kicked out, a hoof catching the warrior and knocking him on to his back.
It took a moment to regain control and Cato saw that Macro had re-formed his men into a line, two deep, extending from the barricade a short distance up the slope. The first men from the other cohorts were taking position to his left. All the time, more men were passing through the gap in the barricade as Crispus and his legionaries worked to widen the breach. The battle was beginning to turn in their favour, Cato realised. But he and his men had to keep the enemy distracted for as long as possible. The Blood Crows were scattered amongst the horde of warriors, fighting on in little knots, or singly, and Cato could see he had already lost a quarter of his men. He must hold them together if they were to stand any chance of survival. The standard-bearer was a short distance away, together with four other men clustered around him as they struggled to prevent the enemy from capturing the standard. Cato spurred his horse over to them, keeping his shield close and his sword out, ready to strike or parry. One of the riders saw him approach and moved aside to let him pass. Cato reined in by the standard-bearer, sheathed his sword and cupped his hand to his mouth to call out over the battlefield, ‘Blood Crows! Blood Crows on me! On me!’
Then Cato turned to the men about him. ‘Keep close, lads. We’ll make for the Fourth Cohort.’
One by one, his men worked themselves over to the standard and joined the growing party of riders as they cut a path through the native warriors towards the steadily strenghtening line of legionaries forming up the slope. Cato noticed that the enemy’s spirit was wavering. Fewer men were willing to attack the small party of mounted Romans. Others were drifting away from the fight, seeking safety in the direction of the centre of their line. Only a handful grasped the importance of the desperate fight on the flank, Caratacus amongst them. He raged through their ranks, shouting and thrusting men towards the enemy, struggling to drive them forwards through the rain and the glistening mud.
By the time the last survivors of the two squadrons had rejoined the standard, they had forced their way through to the waiting legionaries, presenting their shields in an unbroken line.
‘Make a gap!’ Cato ordered as he urged his horse forward. ‘Open ranks!’
The men directly ahead of him shuffled aside and Cato led the riders through and a short distance beyond before the shields closed behind him. Macro hurried to his side and looked up with a relieved expression.
‘Fine work, sir! Bloody marvellous. You arrived just in time. Else Caratacus and his bastards would have been all over us and we’d have lost the breach.’
Cato grinned back, struggling to control the tremor in his limbs. He looked up and saw that at least two hundred men had already formed on the flank of Macro’s cohort and more were taking position all the time. Ahead of them a gap had opened between the two sides and no amount of shouting and cajoling by their leaders could persuade the native warriors to return to the furious struggle that had erupted on their flank. The churned mud between the two sides was littered with bodies, splintered shields, abandoned weapons and puddles of bloodstained rainwater.
The tops of Roman standards appeared behind the breach and a moment later Legate Quintatus led his officers and the colour party through the gap and up to Cato.
‘I heard what had happened at this end. Excellent work, Prefect!’ He grinned. ‘How the hell did you get up here? You’re supposed to be guarding the camp.’
‘We were the last reserve available to the general, sir. Once your attack stalled,’ Cato explained briefly, not wanting to reveal that he had acted on his own initiative. There would be time for repercussions later, and Cato had little doubt that there would be. Whatever he may have achieved, he had also abandoned his post in the middle of a battle. He had left the army’s camp defenceless.