'Kill them!' Figulus roared above the din of clashing weapons, the harsh cries of fighting men and the shrill whinnying of the horses. 'Kill 'em all!'
One of the legionaries, just in front of Cato, could not get round his comrades to reach the rider and was thrusting his dagger into the neck of the rider's mount instead. Jets of blood sprayed out from the glossy black hide below the bedraggled mane. There was a roar of anguish and rage as the rider saw what was being done to his horse and his sword slashed forward, cutting through the legionary's throat and spine in an instant and sending the head leaping from the man's shoulders in a hot explosion of blood.
'Don't let any get away!' Cato called out, as he quickly glanced round to find a new target. Several of the Batavians were down, one pinned beneath his horse as its hoofs lashed at the air. It tried to fight its way back on to its feet, oblivious to the screams of agony that were coming from beneath it. Cato worked his way round the animal, and then, to one side, the black-crested helmet of the Batavian commander rose up in front of him. The man's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Cato and he threw back his arm to cut the centurion down. As the blade began to slash down the Batavian's horse stumbled to one side and the blow missed. The Batavian shouted at his animal and yanked the reins to bring it round towards Cato. For an instant his back was to the Roman, and Cato jumped forward, grabbed the hem of the man's tunic and tried to wrench him from the saddle. For a moment the Batavian commander held his balance, clenching his thighs against the high saddle horns. Then another Roman grabbed his left arm and pulled him away from Cato. The instant he had recovered his balance, the Batavian hacked through the legionary's arm. As his comrade screamed Cato gritted his teeth and slammed his sword low into the Batavian's back, cutting through the chain mail and into his spine. Instantly, his legs spasmed and went limp, and he slid helplessly off his horse, arms flailing, as he thudded down on to the track. Cato stepped forward and cut the man's throat, then crouching low he forced a way along the track, towards the edge of the marsh.
'You!' He grabbed a man by the arm, and turned to look for some more. 'And you two! With me.'
The small party backed out of the fight and Cato led them round the fringe until they reached the track leading out of the marsh.
'Spread across the track. Don't let any of them get past!'
The men nodded, and held their blades ready. Further down the track the fight was coming to an end, and the legionaries had had the better of it. Only six of the Batavians still lived, clustered together, and still mounted as they warded off the lightly armed men who danced warily around them, short blades thrusting at any horse or human flesh that came within reach. Cato could see the danger at once. As soon as these men realised that their only chance lay in flight, they would pack together and charge the legionaries, trusting to the weight and impetus of their mounts to carry them through.
'Don't just stand there!' he shouted. 'Figulus! Get stuck in!'
An instant later one of the Batavians screamed out his battle cry, and it was taken up at once by the other five. They raised their swords high, kicked in their heels and their mounts surged forward. The legionaries nearest to them scattered, diving for safety rather than risk being trampled. Those further back moved aside more deliberately and poised for a strike as the horsemen galloped past. The Batavians ignored the men who posed no danger. They were intent on escape, not going down in a desperate fight in some far-flung marsh at the ends of the earth. So they covered their bodies with their large oval shields, hunched down and spurred their horses on.
The narrow width of the track meant that only two horses could gallop side by side and the Batavians slowed down as they jostled for position. At once, the more daring amongst the legionaries dodged forward and thrust their blades into the sides of the horses, or aimed at the bare legs between the leather breeches and the boots of the horsemen. A horse, stabbed in the flank, swerved round across the track and blocked the three horses immediately behind it. They crashed into the wounded animal and it stumbled back and rolled on to its side. At the last moment the rider threw himself clear and landed heavily at the feet of a group of legionaries. They hacked him to death at once. The other three desperately regained control of their mounts and tried to pick a path round the injured beast, but it was already too late. Their momentum had gone, and the surrounding legionaries rushed in, plucked them from their saddles and butchered them on the ground.
All this Cato saw in a blur of motion; then his eyes fixed on the two Batavians who had led the charge, and still came on, teeth-bared and eyes wide with desperation as they spurred their mounts forward. Cato saw a cavalry sword on the ground close by and snatched it up, the blade's weight and balance unfamiliar in a hand used to the feel of a short sword. On either side of him he sensed his men shrinking back from the horses pounding down the track towards them.
'Hold still! Don't let them escape!'
A moment before the Batavians were upon him, Cato raised the sword and sighted along its length to the glistening chest of the nearest horse, and braced himself. The horse galloped on to the point, which ripped through its hide, tore through its muscle and pierced the heart. Cato had thrown his weight behind the sword and the shock of the impact now hurled him to one side. He landed heavily in the long grass beside the track, the wind driven from his lungs.
The blinding white that had exploded through his head when he struck the ground faded into a cloud of swirling white sparks. Then it cleared and Cato was staring straight up, the grey sky fringed with dark blades of grass. He couldn't breathe and his mouth opened, lungs straining for air. There was a ringing sound in his ears, and when Figulus leaned over him, with a concerned expression, Cato could not comprehend what the optio was saying to him at first. Then the words quickly became audible as the ringing died away.
'Sir? Sir? Can you hear me? Sir?'
'Stop…' Cato wheezed, and tried to draw another breath.
'Stop? Stop what, sir?'
'Stop… bloody shouting… in my face.'
Figulus smiled, then reached an arm round Cato's shoulders and eased the centurion up into a sitting position. Scattered along the track were bodies and splashes of blood. Several horses were down, some still writhing feebly. The others had run off, riderless. Only one remained on its feet, nuzzling the body of the Batavian commander.
'The last one?' Cato turned back to Figulus.
'He got away. He'll be heading back to the legion as fast as Mercury himself.'
'Shit… how many did we lose?'
Figulus' smile faded. 'A third, maybe a half of the men. Killed and wounded. Some of the wounded will die, or we'll have to leave them. Comes to the same thing.'
'Oh…' Cato suddenly felt very cold, as the post-battle shock gripped his body, as it always did, and he trembled.
'Come on, sir,' said Figulus.'On your feet. We'll sort this lot out and find somewhere safe to rest, until it gets dark.'
'And then?' Cato wondered aloud.
Figulus grinned. 'Then we'll roast some horse-meat!'
05 The Eagles Prey
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The army of General Plautius broke camp the next day. Vespasian watched the activity from the watch-tower on the Second Legion's ramparts south of the Tamesis. He had risen early and leaned on the wooden rail, looking on as a multitude of tiny figures packed away their tents in the vast fortified camp that sprawled across the landscape on the far side of the river. Already a haze of disturbed dust had blended with the dispersed smoke of the campfires and hung over the scene, bathed in the diffuse glow of first light. Small detachments were busy removing the palisade and collecting the spiked iron caltrops from the ditch at the foot of the rampart. Once they had finished, other men laid into the rampart with their picks and shovelled the earth into the ditch. In the space of a few hours the marching camp would have been completely dismantled and would leave nothing behind that could serve the interests of the enemy.