The Eagles Prey

He never heard the harsh bray of the enemy war horns. He became aware only that the Britons were pulling back when the pressure against his shield abruptly eased and he had space to work his sword forward again.

'They're going!' someone shouted with disbelief. A ragged chorus of elated cheers from the Romans echoed across the ford as the Britons withdrew. Macro kept silent, quickly taking the chance to glance around and appraise the situation. One of his men brushed past him, dropping down into the current and taking a pace towards the retreating enemy.

'YOU!' Macro bellowed, and the man glanced back, afraid. 'You are on a fucking charge, my son. Get back up here!'

The legionary backstepped and climbed up the bank to his furious centurion.

'What the hell are you thinking? Going to take on the whole of bloody Caratacus' army on your own, were you?'

'Sorry, sir. I-'

'You're sorry, all right! As sorry an excuse for a bloody legionary as I've ever met. Do that again and I'll ram this sword right up your arse. Understand me, boy?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Get back in line.'

The man backed away, merging into the ranks as his comrades mocked him with shakes of the head and muttered tutting noises.

Macro ignored them as he stared across the ford to see what the enemy would try next. Most likely they would simply regroup and attempt to force the gap in the barricade in a more ordered fashion. A movement at his feet drew Macro's eyes and he saw an enemy warrior trying to rise up from the river bank. All along the edge of the ford the enemy dead and injured were piled on the churned-up shore and in the pebbled shallows. With hardly a thought Macro leaned down to the man and thrust the point of his sword into the warrior's neck. With a gasp the Briton slumped back down amongst the bodies of his comrades, blood pumping from the wound. His eyes fixed on Macro, wild and desperate. Then they glazed over and he was dead. Macro shook his head and looked up. One down, another twenty-nine thousand to go.

On the far side of the ford the chieftain in charge of the diminished assault group was re-forming his men into a crude testudo, a bristling hedge of spears to the front. As soon as he was satisfied with the formation he shouted an order and the warriors splashed back into the ford.

'I thought we'd taught the bastards a lesson,' muttered a soldier close to Macro.

The centurion made a wry smile. 'I think we've taught them one lesson too many.'

This time the enemy had a clear route to the Roman defenders. The testudo would rise up from the river, push through the gap in the barricade and crush the men behind. This was the moment of decision, Macro realised. He strode back up the small hump of the island and looked toward the south bank of the river, searching for sign of Maximius. Nothing. Then he saw a flash, and another, half a mile away, downriver. Macro squinted and made out a tiny silvered mass, like a slender centipede, crawling towards him. For an instant his heart lifted. Then he realised they were still too far off to render any help in time. The decision remained. He could obey his orders and stay and fight, even though there was no hope of keeping the enemy at bay, or he would have to stomach the order to withdraw and try to save his men, even at the cost of his reputation.

Macro turned round and looked towards the enemy shield wall, already a third of the way across the ford, and they were still retaining the formation. It was obvious what he must do. There was simply nothing else for it now and he walked briskly back to his exhausted men leaning on their shields.

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER TWELVE

As his men marched along in the dust kicked up by those ahead, Centurion Cato was continually sca

Only the cohort wasn't in position. The crossing was being held by a handful of men under Macro's command. Despite all the careful preparation and concentration of forces, the plan was failing. Although he had thirty thousand soldiers, General Plautius would have the issue decided by the actions of a mere eighty. On their shoulders lay the responsibility for the success or failure of the general's grand scheme to end organised native resistance once and for all. If Caratacus could be crushed before the day was ended then countless lives would be saved in the long run – Roman lives at least.

With a sickening dread Cato feared that Macro would see it the same way and be determined to do everything he could to stop the Britons crossing the river, even if that meant the death of himself and every man in his century. His sacrifice might just delay the Britons long enough for Plautius to fall upon them from behind, and maybe even for Maximius to stall them on the south bank and deny them any escape route.

As he marched beside his men Cato tried to put himself in Macro's position and as he quickly weighed up the options he realised that he would have accepted the need to stay and fight it out. The stakes were too great to do anything else. He turned to his men.

'Keep moving! Keep moving, damn you!'

Some of the legionaries in the Sixth Century exchanged surprised looks at this needless outburst and a bitter voice called out, 'We're going as fast as we fucking well can!'

Figulus jumped to one side of the column and turned on the men. 'Shut your mouths! I'll personally take the head off the next bastard to breathe a word! Save it for the Celts.'

Cato turned his eyes back to the enemy. The far bank was almost covered with men and horses now. They must be close to the ford. Ahead, the river curved away from him and appeared to narrow abruptly. Then, as the gleaming river seemed to cut into the north bank, Cato realised that he was seeing the island that lay in the middle of the ford. His pulse quickened as he squinted his eyes to catch the distant details. The far side of the island was a mass of tiny figures. Sunlight flashed off polished equipment and the spray in the water at the men's feet. The trees on the small island hid Macro's legionaries from view and there was no telling how the defenders fared.

As Cato watched, the enemy in the ford began to pull back, scurrying antlike towards their comrades massing on the far bank. His spirits rose as he knew that Macro and his men had repulsed the attack and still lived. Only half a mile now separated the cohort from Macro's century, and from the front of the column Maximius could be heard bellowing at his men, urging them on with every vile imprecation available to him.

The width of the river was in full view and Cato could see the enemy forming up for another assault on the island defences. But this time there was something altogether more organised about the attempt to force the crossing. Instead of the shapeless mob rushing towards the Roman lines, Cato saw a dense mass moving across the ford at a steady pace. By the time the enemy reached the far side of the island the cohort was no more than a few hundred yards from the entrance to the ford and Maximius sent the mounted scouts ahead to reinforce Centurion Macro.

They urged their horses on and pounded into the shallows with a great shower of white, sparkling spray. But before they were a third of the way across a legionary burst into sight from between the willows that lined the banks of the island. More men appeared, thrashing through the water. As they caught sight of the scouts they paused a moment, then continued fleeing towards the south bank. This was no rout, Cato realised as he saw that every man still carried his cumbersome shield and bronze and iron helmet. The scouts paused midstream and Cato could see the decurion angrily addressing the legionaries and stabbing his hand towards the island. They ignored him, filing between the flanks of the horses before rushing back towards the near bank. From the island a small tight knot of men emerged and plunged down into the crossing, keeping their shields towards the enemy. A short distance behind them, a handful of Britons followed the Romans into the ford, then more and more joined them, surging after the tiny rearguard covering the retreat of their comrades.