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As long as the formation held firm.
'Hold the line steady!' Macro shouted, as some of the more nervous men in the century began to outpace their comrades. Chastened, the men adjusted their stride and lines evened out to present an unbroken wall of shields to the enemy. The Durotriges were no more than a hundred paces away now and Cato could pick out the individual features of the men he would kill or be killed by in the next few moments. Most of the enemy's heavy infantry wore chain mail over their brightly coloured tunics and leggings. Shaggy beards and pigtails hung down beneath polished helmets and each man carried a war spear or long sword. Although they had been organised into a discreet unit, it was clear from the uneve
Cato was aware of a strange whirring sound rising above the crunch of snow and chink of equipment, and glanced to the light infantry on each side of the enemy centre.
'Slingers!' someone shouted out from the Roman ranks.
Centurion Hortensius reacted at once. 'First two ranks! Shields high and low!'
Cato adjusted his grip and crouched slightly so that the bottom rim of his shield protected his shins. The legionary immediately behind raised his shield above Cato. The action was repeated all along the first two ranks so that the front of the Roman formation was sheltered from the coming volley. A moment later and the whirring abruptly rose in pitch and was accompanied by a whipping sound. A deafening rattle filled the air as the deadly volley of shot struck the Roman shields. Cato flinched as a corner of his shield was hit by a lead shot. But the Roman line did not falter and remorselessly advanced as the slingshot continued to crash off the shields with a sound like a thousand hammer blows. Yet several cries told of shots that had found their targets. Those men who fell out of line were quickly replaced by the legionaries in the next rank and their writhing forms left to be scooped up by a handful of men acting as casualty bearers and dumped in one of the cohort's wagons, rumbling along inside the square.
Thirty yards out from the heaving mass of the enemy line, Hortensius ordered the cohort to halt.
'Front ranks! Ready javelins!' Those who still had a javelin to throw after the fight in the settlement swept their right arms back, planting their feet apart in readiness for the next order. 'Javelins, release!'
In the dying light it appeared as if a fine black veil rose up from the Roman ranks and arced down onto the milling mass of the Durotriges. A shattering clatter and crash was quickly followed by screams as the heavy iron heads of the Roman javelins punched through shields, armour and flesh.
'Draw swords!' bellowed Hortensius above the din. A metallic rasp sounded from all sides of the box formation as the legionaries drew their short stabbing swords and presented the tip to the enemy. Almost at once the harsh blare of war horns sounded from behind the Durotriges and with a great roar of battle rage they swept forward.
'Charge!' Hortensius cried out, and with shields held firmly to the front and swords held level at the waist, the Roman front lines threw themselves at the enemy. Cato's heart pounded against his ribs and time appeared to slow – enough for him to imagine being killed or terribly wounded by one of the men whose savage faces were mere feet away. An icy sensation flowed through his guts before he filled his lungs and gave vent to a wild cry of his own, determined to destroy everything in his path.
The two lines hurtled against each other with a rolling clatter of spear, sword and shield that sounded like a huge wave crashing on a stony shore. Cato felt his shield jar as it thumped into flesh. A man gasped as the air was driven out of his lungs and then again in agony as the legionary next to Cato drove his sword into the Briton's armpit. The man dropped and Cato kicked him to one side as he in turn thrust towards the unprotected chest of a Briton wielding his axe above Macro's skull. The Briton saw the blow coming and threw himself back from the point of Cato's sword so that it merely tore open his shoulder instead of dealing a mortal blow. He did not cry out as blood poured down his chest. Nor did he cry out when Macro rammed his sword in so ferociously that it went straight through and burst bloodily from the small of the man's back. A startled expression flashed onto his ruined face, then he fell amongst the other dead and injured littering the churned-up snow, now stained with blood.
'Press forwards, lads!' Cato shouted. 'Keep it close, and stick it to 'em!'
Beside him Macro smiled approvingly. The optio was finally acting like a soldier in battle. No longer coy about shouting out encouragement to men far older and more experienced than him, and cool-headed enough to know how the cohort must fight in order to survive.
The heavily armed Britons hurled themselves on the Roman shield wall with a fanatical savagery that horrified Cato. On either side of the box formation, the more lightly armed natives closed in on the flanks, screaming their battle cries and urged on by the Druids. The priests of the Dark Moon stood a little behind the fighting line, pouring curses on the invaders and calling upon the tribesmen to sweep this small knot of Romans from the British soil they defiled with their eagle standards. But religious fervour and blind courage provided no protection for their unarmoured breasts. They fell in large numbers before the lethal thrusts of swords designed to make short work of such foolish heroics.
At length the British heavy infantry became aware of the grievous losses that were piling up at the front of the armoured square, and still the Roman line remained unbroken and unwavering. The Durotriges began to shrink back from the terrible blades that stabbed out at them from between shields that all but hid their enemy from view.
'We've got 'em!' Macro bellowed. 'Forward! Keep forcing them back!'
The Durotriges, brave as they were, had never before encountered such a ruthless and efficient foe. It was like fighting a great iron machine, designed and built for war alone. It rolled forward without pity, impressing upon all who stood in its path that there could be only one outcome for those who dared to defy it.
A cry of anguish and fear grew in the throats of the Durotriges and flowed through their milling ranks as they realised the Romans were prevailing. Men were no longer willing to throw themselves uselessly at this moving square of impenetrable shields that was cleaving its way through ranks of swords and spears. As the Durotriges at the front recoiled, the men in the rear began to step back, at first just to keep their balance, and then their feet picked up speed, as if of their own will – carrying them away from the enemy. More men followed and scores, then hundreds of Britons peeled away from the dense mass of their comrades and fled down the track.
'Don't fucking stop!' Hortensius roared from the front rank of the First Century. 'Keep advancing. If we stop we're dead! Forward!'
A less experienced army would have drawn up right there, flushed with excitement at having bested their enemy, trembling with the thrill of having survived and awed by the carnage they had wrought. But the men of the legions continued their advance behind a solid shield wall, swords poised and ready to strike. Most had grown into manhood under the iron will of a military discipline that had stripped away the soft malleable material of humanity and fashioned them into deadly fighters, wholly subordinate to the will and word of command. After only the briefest pause to dress their lines, the men of the Fourth Cohort steadily advanced down the track leading through the vale.
The sun had settled beyond the horizon and the snow took on a bluish tinge as dusk closed in. On either side, the slopes were loosely covered by the broken ranks of the Durotriges, watching in silence as the square trudged past. Here and there their leaders, and the Druids, were busy reforming their men by force of will and cruelly wielded blows from the flat of their blades. War horns brayed out their rallying cries and the warriors gradually began to recover their wits.