‘Here they come! Brace yourselves!’
A moment later Cato felt his shield crash against him. He staggered back a pace before thrusting savagely forward and restoring the line at the front of the formation. More blows landed and hands tried to rip away the shield as the tribesmen attempted to get at their enemy. But the auxiliaries held their ground and punched their swords out, stabbing at the warriors surrounding them. The two men working the stakes continued their task, grunting as they wrenched them from the ground.
Suddenly there was a deafening crack and splinters shot through the confines behind the shields and a broad shaft of light pierced the gloom. Cato glanced round and saw that a huge Silurian warrior, stripped to a loincloth, his powerful body covered with swirling tattoos, was swinging a heavy war hammer back for another blow. His first had shattered the shield and caved in the chest of the man holding it. He now lay on the ground blinking as blood gurgled and sprayed from his lips. The hammer whirled round in a vicious arc and struck again, sending another man flying into his comrades.
‘Shit!’ Cato muttered as two warriors forced themselves into the gap. One carried a hunting spear and thrust it into the stomach of an auxiliary. The second tribesman darted in, clutching a small axe which he swung into the forearm of another of the auxiliaries. The formation was breaking up as the other men instinctively backed away.
‘Hold your positions!’ Cato bellowed. Then fingers closed round the edge of his shield and tried to wrench it from him. Cato hacked at the knuckles with his sword and was rewarded with a sharp cry of agony as two digits went flying and the warrior snatched his ruined hand back. Cato saw the giant with the war hammer smash another man down using an overhead blow that crushed the auxiliary’s helmet and the skull beneath it. Blood exploded from the face and ears of his victim. More of the enemy had thrust their way into the formation. Cato could see at once that it would not hold and it would be suicide to continue with his original plan.
With a bitter stab of frustration he sucked in a deep breath. ‘Fall back! Fall back!’
He kept his shield up as he cautiously retreated step by step. The other men closed ranks and fell into step as Cato called out the timing. The enemy stayed with them, the giant leading the attack, his weapon whirling and crushing one auxiliary after another. Cato knew that he had to be dealt with before he broke the spirit of the surviving men of the century. He halted the formation, then waited for the hammer to rise up again, ready for another overhead blow. Cato launched himself forward, slamming his shield up and into the giant’s face. His nose broke with a soft crack and Cato swung his sword in a short arc round the edge of the shield and stabbed him in the armpit. There was not enough power in the blow to break through the man’s ribs and the blade carved a shallow tear across his tattoed flesh. Cato did not wait to finish the job but fell back and continued to order the retreat of the century. He saw blood streaming down the giant’s face as the man staggered back, dazed. His comrades let out a groan of anxiety at the sight and fell back from the shields of the auxiliaries, long enough for a gap to open up between the two sides. There were far more Silurians lying on the ground than Romans and the sight of the wall of shields, and the lethal points of the swords pricking out between them, was enough to deter the enemy from renewing their attack. They contented themselves with jeering at the retreating Romans before one of their chiefs had the wit to bellow at his men to replant the stakes that had been torn up.
Cato led the men back out of slingshot range and then ordered them to form line to cover the rear of the rest of the column. By the time he could turn his attention to the fight across the main battle line, the enemy were already falling back. But they had exacted as heavy a price as they had paid and the line was no more than one deep across most of its length. The next attack would undoubtedly break it, Cato realised. He hurried across to Tribune Mancinus who was having a wound to his arm dressed by an orderly.
‘We can’t get through,’ Cato informed him.
‘I saw.’ Mancinus puffed his cheeks. ‘Can’t fight our way through to Bruccium. Can’t retreat to Gobannium. Not much of a choice left, sir.’
‘No.’ Cato pointed to a small knoll near the middle of the pass. ‘That’s the spot for us.’
The tribune considered the position and shrugged. ‘As good as any place for a last stand.’
‘We’d better take up position before Caratacus comes for us again.’
Mancinus nodded and waved the orderly away as soon as the dressing was tied off. The three wagons were driven up to the top of the knoll and the teams of beasts were led a short distance away before the drivers cut their throats. Cato ordered Stellanus to gather the Thracians, of whom twelve still lived, though they had saved three more of the mounts.
‘We’ll stay by the wagons and plug any gaps if the enemy cut through.’
Stellanus cocked an eyebrow. ‘If?’
Cato ignored the comment and watched the legionaries and auxiliaries begin to fall back around the hillock. The enemy knew that the end was near and began to edge forward as Caratacus beckoned to the men of his blocking force to join in the kill. The bloodied giant had recovered from the blow to his head and nimbly climbed over the barricades and threaded his way through the stakes to lead his party, somewhat larger in number than the surviving Romans, swinging his hammer as he came.
The last of the men trudged into place on the knoll and turned to face the enemy. Many were already wounded and had bloodied rags hastily tied about their limbs. Shields had been battered and some shield trims had split under the impact of swords and axes. Stellanus held Hannibal for him and Cato climbed into the saddle. From his vantage point he looked round the small ring of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder in silence as they waited. The injured in the wagons could only look on helplessly. Some held swords or daggers, though Cato was not sure if they meant to fight until the last breath or end their lives rather than face the possibility of torment from the Silurians. The standard-bearers of the two cohorts stood on the drivers’ benches of one of the wagons where the units’ colours would fly above the heads of the men until the end.
Mancinus made his way over to Cato and offered his hand. ‘It’s a shame that it has been such a short acquaintance, sir. A pity you didn’t remain in the fort.’
Cato sighed and gestured towards the reinforcement contingent. ‘They were to join my command. I couldn’t stand by and let them be cut down.’
Mancinus smiled. ‘You have a rather old-fashioned view of what the duty of a commander is.’
‘That may be, but rank comes with burdens as well as privileges.’ Cato cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘Lads! It’s too bad we’re here, but there’s one duty left to us now. Take as many of the bastards down with us as we can. Every one who dies by our hand is one less for Rome to deal with. We will be avenged. You can be sure of that. That’s work for our comrades. Let’s do ’em proud! As for the enemy, let’s show them how Romans die!’ He drew his sword and thrust it above his head. ‘For Rome, and for the Emperor!’
‘For Rome!’ Mancinus repeated, in part, and the cry spread around the knoll as the men prepared to sell their lives dearly.
Cato saw the enemy commander and his companions riding at the head of the oncoming ranks of the Silurians and he wondered if Caratacus might offer them a chance to surrender. If so, he knew he could not accept. After the cruel destruction that Quertus had visited on the kinfolk of the tribesmen, there would be no mercy shown to Roman prisoners, and they could only expect to live long enough to be given a pitiless and painful end. But Caratacus gave no sign that he intended to offer them terms. As he called out to his men, there was a distinct note of triumph in the words he spoke in his native tongue. The enemy warriors flowed round the knoll until they completely encircled it and only then began to close in. Their shouts were deafening and their faces etched with hate and triumph as they waved their fists and pumped their shields and weapons at the Romans. It was only at the last moment, when they were no more than a few paces away, that some instinct spread through the Silurian ranks and they charged home, slamming into the shields and desperately trying to work gaps between them to strike at the men behind.