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With renewed fervour the Sixth Century dealt with the few remaining Britons still alive amid the carnage around the settlement's well. Cato's blade was wedged in the ribcage of one of the raiders and with a frustrated growl he stamped a boot down on the man's stomach and wrenched the sword free. Looking up, he just had time to jump back as the rearing head of a horse surged towards him, nostrils flaring and eyes wide with terror at the screams and clash of weapons that filled the night. Above the head of the horse loomed the silhouette of the warrior who had tried in vain to form his men up and fight the Romans. He brandished a long sword in one hand, raised high and clear of his frightened horse. He fixed his gaze on Cato and swung his blade with all his might. Cato went down on his knees and threw his shield up in the path of the sword. The blow landed with a shattering crash just above the shield boss and would have cut clean through had it not caught on the reinforced metal rim of the side nearest the horse. Instead, the blade stuck, and when the warrior tried to draw it back, he wrenched the shield back with it. Snarling in wild frustration, the man lashed out at Cato with his boot, co
The horse struggled wildly to free itself of the blade, rearing back so far that it rolled over onto its back and crushed its rider. Before the Briton could try to free himself of the mortally wounded beast, a legionary sprang forward and finished him off with a quick stab to the throat.
'Figulus! See to the horse as well!' ordered Cato as he crept back from the flailing hooves of the stricken animal. The young legionary worked his way round to the head and opened an artery with a quick slash of his sword. Cato was back on his feet, glancing round to find a new enemy, but there were none. Most of the Britons were dead. A few of the wounded cried out, but they would be ignored until there was time to end their suffering with a merciful thrust. The rest had fled, ru
The legionaries were surprised at the speed with which they had overwhelmed the enemy, and for a moment they remained tense and crouched, ready to fight.
'Sixth Century! Form up!'
Cato saw the squat form of his centurion march off to one side of the pile of bodies by the well.
'Come on, lads! Form up! We're not on a fucking exercise! Move!'
The well-disciplined men responded instantly, hurrying over to their centurion, forming a small column on the snowy ground. Macro saw no gaps in the ranks and nodded with satisfaction. The enemy had had too little time to injure more than a handful of the men in Macro's century. He nodded a greeting at Cato as he took his place in front of the men.
'All right, Optio?'
Cato nodded, breathing heavily.
'Back towards the gate then, lads!' Macro shouted. He clapped Figulus on the shoulder. 'And don't spare the horses!'
Chapter Twelve
As the snow billowed softly about them, the legionaries moved down the track towards the remains of the gate, from where the wind-muted sounds of battle drifted back to them. Cato noticed that the wind had slackened a little. Silvery patches were opening up in the clouds above to admit the light of the stars and the dim crescent moon. In the baleful glow reflecting off the blanket of snow, the fleeing shapes of the Britons could be seen amongst the ruins. For a moment Cato felt a welling up of rage and frustration at the sight. They might yet escape before the legionaries' thirst for revenge was slaked. Then Cato smiled grimly. Maybe he was the only one who desired to make the enemy pay for what he had seen in the well. Maybe the veterans marching down the track with him just saw the enemy in professional terms. A foe to be overcome and destroyed; no more, no less.
As they approached the ruined gateway, they could see a great dark mass of Durotrigan raiders surging around the ruins with little sense of order. Individual figures were scrambling along the remains of the earthen rampart, seeking a means of escape through the shattered wooden palisade and the iron cordon of the legionary skirmish line waiting beyond. A few of the raiders might escape, but only a few, Cato thought to himself with cold satisfaction.
'Halt!' Macro ordered. 'There they are, lads, ripe for killing. Keep close and make sure you look before you thrust. There's enough of 'em to go round without you having to kill any of our lads! Form line!'
While the front rank of the column stood still, the following files took position on each side until the century formed a line two men deep, across the ruins. As Cato waited for his centurion to give the order to advance, he noticed a small knot of Durotrigans break away from their comrades and slip into the shadows of some ruined huts.
'Sir!'
'What is it?'
Cato thrust his sword arm out, pointing towards the huts with his blade. 'Over there. Some of them are making a break for it.'
'I see 'em. We can't have that,' Macro decided. 'You take half the men and see to them.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Cato, no heroics.' Macro had noted the dark mood that had possessed his optio since the lad had witnessed the grim horror inside the well and wanted it known that he would not tolerate any foolishness. 'Just hunt them down and then bring the men straight back.'
'Yes, sir.'
'I'll advance first. Once I'm clear, you can carry on.'
Cato nodded.
'Squads to my left… advance!'
With Macro setting the pace, the first five sections stepped forward, shields facing the enemy, short swords at the ready. The dark mass of the Britons shrank back from the approaching shield wall, and their cries of despair and panic reached a new pitch of terror as the silent line of Romans closed on them. A few of the more stout-hearted among the Durotriges broke free of the mob and stood, weapons raised, prepared to go down fighting, true to their warrior code. But they were too few to make any difference and were quickly overwhelmed and cut down. Moments later came the dull crash of shields and the ringing of swords as Macro and his men carved their way into the heaving mob.
Cato turned away and drew a deep breath of the cold air. 'The rest of you, follow me!'
He led the men around the fringe of the fighting by the gate, into the winding lane down which the small group of Durotriges had disappeared. Here the huts of the settlement were not so badly gutted by fire. Chest-high walls of stone and the skeletal remains of timber frames rose up all around them as they pursued the enemy at the trot. Their leather harnesses creaked and their scabbards and loin guards chinked as the snow softly crunched under their boots. Ahead of him the path was disturbed by the passage of the Durotriges only moments before, and they had left a clear trail for the Romans to follow. It quickly became obvious to Cato why the small party had made off in this direction as he recalled the storage pits that had been uncovered earlier. They were after whatever loot they could carry with them.