For a while the line held and the Romans fought with a desperate savagery that matched that of their opponents. Bodies fell in front of the shields and the Silurians had to clamber over their comrades to get at the legionaries and auxiliaries. But one by one the defenders of the knoll began to fall, and with each casualty the ring closed tighter about the wagons and the handful of horsemen beside them. Cato resolved to lead them in one final dash towards Caratacus, hoping by some miracle to get close enough to make an attempt on the life of the enemy commander. But Caratacus held back, with his men, watching the destruction of the last of the relief column.
Cato snatched a brief moment to think about the manner of his death. It was true that it had been foolhardy to ride to the aid of the men around him, yet he could not have lived with himself if he had not. And there was the euphoria following his defeat of Quertus. It was not just the Thracian who had been defeated, but Cato’s fear of certain death. It had been liberating to trust his life to his courage and skill at arms. Perhaps it was that sense of triumph that had led him to this end. That, and the hope that his actions might help save these men. Now that they were doomed, he resolved that he would make his sacrifice of value to Macro at least. If they killed enough of the Silurians, that might undermine their will to continue attacking the fort. There was some comfort in the thought that his last service in life would be to help the truest friend he had ever known.
A short distance away the giant who had battered the tortoise formation apart thrust his way forward to take a swing at a legionary. The soldier raised his shield to block the blow and it shattered under the impact and drove him down on to his knees. The Silurian kicked out and sent his opponent sprawling. One more blow caved in his chest and he fell motionless on the bloodstained grass.
‘Stellanus!’ Cato called out. ‘Take that one down.’
The centurion nodded, lowered his spear and urged his mount forward. The Silurian looked up with a brutal snarl as he spied another victim and raised his hammer. It blurred through the air and struck the horse on the side of the head. At the same time Stellanus thrust his spear and the point pierced the giant’s thick neck and burst out above his shoulder blade. He let out a roar of pain and rage, cut off abruptly as blood filled his windpipe and mouth. The horse staggered to one side and fell, rolling over the centurion and into the backs of three more legionaries locked in combat. The animal’s legs kicked out, sweeping two more men down, and left an opening in the Roman line. At once the Silurians rushed forward, bursting in amongst the defenders of the knoll. The giant staggered over to the horse, still twitching, and bent down to grasp Stellanus by the neck. The centurion could only move one arm and he beat it against the giant’s jaw, but for all the effect it had he might have been patting a hound. A moment later, powerful hands gave his head a sharp twist, breaking his neck. Then, blood coursing from his mouth, the Silurian’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed over his victim.
More tribesmen scrambled over the bodies and poured up the slope, spreading out as they threw themselves at the Romans. With the perimeter collapsing, the soldiers fought individually. Others went back to back or formed small clusters and hacked ferociously at the warriors swirling round them.
‘The standards!’ Mancinus cried out as he backed up towards the wagons. He turned and looked at Cato. ‘Save the standards!’
Cato hesitated for an instant, torn between his duty to fight alongside his comrades and the shame that would befall them all if the standards were taken by the enemy. Then he turned to the standard-bearers on the wagon and sheathed his sword. ‘Give them to me!’
The two men handed them over and Cato passed the auxiliary standard to one of the Thracians and kept hold of the legionary standard, ramming the base down into his spear holster. A small group of Silurian warriors broke away from the fight below and began to sprint up the slope towards the wagons.
‘Get out of here!’ Mancinus shouted to Cato and then ran to meet the enemy, knocking one man down with his shield and stabbing another in the stomach. He wrenched the blade free and struck again before he was borne back by three more men and thrown to the ground. He called out one last time. ‘Go!’
Cato kicked in his heels. ‘Blood Crows! Follow me!’
He charged down towards the melee, intending to cut his way free and make for the shelter of the trees now that the enemy blocking force had abandoned its position to join in with the destruction of the Roman column. The horsemen held together and those on the ground before them hurried out of their way and turned to slash and stab at them as they pounded by. The sounds of battle filled the air, while around them a raging sea of weapons flickered and blood spurted. A wild-eyed youth sprang at Cato, hands clawing for the shaft of the standard, and he lashed out with his boot, the nailed sole striking the tribesman in the face and sending him flying. They passed through what was left of the Roman line and plunged on through the ranks of the Silurians.
Ahead, a shrewder warrior stepped to the side of the oncoming horses and thrust his hunting spear out. Cato swerved aside but the rider following him did not see the danger and the spear got caught between the horse’s legs and it pitched forward, hurling its rider from his saddle. He landed in a group of warriors, knocking them over, and then they fell on him like wild dogs. Another Thracian was struck by an axe that nearly severed him at the knee, but he let out a defiant roar and then clenched his jaw shut, pressed his thigh tightly against the saddle and rode on. The enemy were thinning out and Cato saw that they were almost free of the melee. Ahead there was open ground at the end of the line of obstacles where the pine trees met the rock-strewn side of the pass. His heels nudged Hannibal’s flanks and the horse turned in that direction. The Thracians raced after him, knocking aside the last of the enemy, and then they were on open ground, hoofs thudding on the peaty soil as they desperately made their bid to save the standards and salvage some honour from the massacre taking place behind them.
They reached the end of the line of stakes and slowed down as they entered the trees. Cato reined in and looked back towards the knoll. The fight was almost over. Silurians were swarming over the wagons, hacking at the helpless injured who lay within. Only a few pockets of resistance still held out. Cato urged Hannibal in amongst the trees and out of sight before the enemy turned their attention towards the small party of horseman who had broken out. The thick pine branches overhead filtered the light into a dull green, pierced here and there by shafts of a golden hue. The sound of the fighting was muffled and birdsong chirruped above. The ground was covered with many years of fallen needles and twigs and the horses padded through the straight tree trunks, weaving their way into the forest. Cato knew that they had to regain the track as soon as possible and stay ahead of the enemy. If they remained in the trees, Caratacus would soon be able to throw a screen of his warriors round them and close in for the kill.
‘Sir.’ One of the men broke into his thoughts and Cato looked up.
The Thracian gestured to the man who had been wounded in the knee. ‘We have to see to Eumenes. He can’t go far with his leg in that shape.’