The Eagles Conquest

Now was the moment.

For an instant his mind began to weigh up the terrible risks and absurdity of what he was about to do, and he knew that if he delayed any longer his courage would fail him. He tensed and sprang over the transport's side, screaming for the others to follow him. The water was chest deep and his boots slipped into the soft silt of the river bottom. Around him the rest of the century splashed down and then they surged forward towards the bank.

'Come on! Come on!' Cato shouted above the din.

The Britons knew that this fight must be won before the Romans could secure a foothold on the bank, and plunged into the river to meet the attack. The two sides crashed headlong into each other, close to the transports. A huge man surged through the water making straight for Cato, spear raised high above his head, ready to strike. Cato threw his shield forward when the blow came, and knocked the spear to one side. The counterstroke was executed with a precision that would have made Centurion Bestia proud, and the dead centurion's ivory-handled sword plunged deep into the Briton's side. Cato ripped it free just in time to slash at the head of the next enemy. He fought his way to the shore foot by foot, teeth locked tight as an inhuman howl in his throat challenged all who stood in his way. The churned-up water flashed white and silver in the bright sunlight, and specks of crimson splashed up and sparkled like rubies before spattering down on the combatants.

The water about Cato's legs turned a muddy red as more Romans struggled through the shallows and attempted to link with legionaries who had landed moments before. Already the transports were being pushed back into the river and were making for the second assault wave as fast as the sweeps could be worked. Cato and the others were on their own until the next wave could join the battle, and the only thing that mattered was to live until that moment. He was only ankle-deep in the water now, and had to take care not to slip in the mud. He blocked with his shield and thrust with his sword in a steady rhythm, gritting his teeth against the pain from his burns. The rest of the century fought close by, forming a shield wall automatically as years of relentless training bore fruit. The initial mad scramble was over and the fight began to take a form more familiar to the Romans.

'Move left, with me!' Cato called out as he spied the nearest men from one of the other transports. Slowly, his century edged forward, onto the flattened grass of the river bank and began to sidestep towards their comrades. All the while the Britons hacked at their shields with sword, axe and spear. With a sharp cry the man next to Cato went down as the bloody tip of a wickedly barbed spear burst through his calf. With a vicious wrench the Briton at the end of the spear pulled it back and the legionary fell onto his back, screaming. The century closed up and moved on, their comrade's cries cut short as the Britons quickly butchered him. Little by little the small clusters of legionaries fell in with each other until they were able to form a solid line of four or five hundred men. And yet the Britons still swarmed around them in their thousands, desperately trying to push them back into the river.

'Steady, lads!' Cato shouted again and again as he cut and thrust at any faces and bodies that came within reach of his sword. The shield he presented to the enemy shuddered and thudded with the impact of their blows; a waste of effort and indicative of the poor training of these British levies who fought with un guided rage and simply attacked whatever part of the invader that fell before their weapons. But what the Britons lacked in quality they made up for in quantity, and although the ground was littered with their dead and dying, they came on as if they were possessed by demons. And maybe they were. A glance over their ranks revealed to Cato a scattered line of strangely garbed men with wild beards, urging the Britons on with arms raised imploringly to the heavens, and screaming savage curses. With a thrill of horror Cato realised these men must be Druids, tales of whose exploits were told to terrify Roman children.

But there was time for only the briefest of glances before he had to deal with the next crisis. A body of Britons, better armed and more determined than their comrades, suddenly confronted the Sixth Century and forced them back into the river. Several of Cato's men were down, some knocked over, others losing their balance in the slippery mud, and suddenly the shield wall was breaking apart. Before Cato could rally his men, he was aware of a presence at his side. He just had time to glance right and glimpse the snarling face of a black-haired Briton before the man slammed into his side and both men went tumbling into the shallows of the river.

A blinding flash of the sun. Then an instant of glittering spray and the world went dark before Cato's eyes. Water filled his mouth and lungs as he instinctively gasped for the next breath. The Briton was still on top of him, hands frantically fumbling for his throat. Cato had dropped his sword and shield as he fell; he grabbed at his attacker, trying to use the man to haul himself up out of the water, strangely devoid of the sounds of battle. But the Briton had a powerful physique, and firmly held him down. The agonised desire for air and the imminence of his death lent Cato a reserve of desperate strength. His hands groped for the man's face and his fingers thrust into the Briton's eyes. Abruptly the man released his grip on Cato's neck and Cato burst to the surface, spluttering water and gasping for breath. He kept his fingers clamped on the man's face and the Briton shrieked with pain, clawing at Cato's arms before some instinct made him smash a fist down at his opponent. The blow struck Cato's cheek and the world went white an instant before he was back under water with the weight of the man on top of him again.

This time Cato thought he must surely drown. His head felt as if it would burst, and his frantic writhing achieved nothing. He stared at the silvery surface of the water. The life-giving air, a scant foot away, might just as well have been a mile off, and as his world began to dim, Cato's last thought was of Macro: regret that he had failed to avenge the centurion. Then the water turned red and the sunlight was dimmed by thick blood. The Briton's hands still grasped him by the throat. but now another hand reached down through the water, grabbed his harness and yanked him up into the brilliant sunshine. Cato burst from the surface through a pool of red and filled his burning lungs with air. Then he saw the body of the Briton. The head was almost severed, only some gristle and sinew attaching it to the torso.

'All right?' asked the legionary holding his harness, and Cato managed to nod as he gulped down more breaths. A small band of men from the century stood guard about them and fended off blows from the nearest Britons.

'My sword'?'

'Here you are, sir.' The legionary fished it out. 'Nice blade, that. You ought to look after it.'

Cato nodded. 'Thanks.'

'All right, sir. Century can't afford to lose more than one centurion a day.'

With a final shake to clear his head, Cato retrieved his shield and raised his sword. The pace of the fight had noticeably slackened as exhaustion took its toll. Neither Romans nor Britons seemed as keen for martyrdom as they had a while before, and in places small groups faced each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. Glancing back across the river, Cato saw that the second wave had almost finished embarking on the transports.

'Not long now, lads!' he called out, coughing with the effort of shouting with water still lodged in his lungs. 'The next wave's on its way!'

A series of thumping cracks from the trireme drew his attention, and as his eyes followed the arc of the bolts he saw a fresh column of British warriors approaching along the river bank. In the middle of the column was a chariot, ornate even by native standards, upon which stood a tall chief with long, flowing blond hair. He raised his spear and called out, and his men answered with a deep-throated roar. Something about their attire and the confident way they ignored the missiles from the ship was horribly familiar.