The Eagles Prey

For a moment Cato was not engaged, and he glanced round. A horse was down on its back, lashing the air with its hoofs as its screaming rider was crushed beneath it. Two more of the enemy were down on the track, mortally injured, one of them writhing as he clasped his hands over a terrible injury that had ripped open his stomach. But not one Roman had been cut down. After the impact, they had recovered and maintained the shield wall in good order, while above them spears and shields clattered uselessly against the large curved surfaces of the Roman shields.

The enemy horsemen kept the attack up for a while longer, then their leader bellowed an order and they abruptly disengaged and trotted back a short distance,just out of javelin range. Beyond them Cato glimpsed the head of the enemy column marching round the corner where the two Roman lookouts had been posted shortly before. It was time to start the withdrawal.

'Fall back! Optio!'

'Sir?'

'Take half the men. Retire a hundred paces and form a new line. Leave a gap for us to pass through when we reach you.'

'Yes, sir!'

Septimus gathered his men and they trotted up the track until they reached a point where the space either side of the track was again hemmed in by clumps of gorse. The optio halted the men and formed them up.

Cato nodded his satisfaction then turned back to assess his situation. The horsemen were preparing to charge again; tightening the grip on their reins and weapons. As soon as the first man urged his mount forward Cato shouted an order to ready javelins. The horsemen faltered at the sight of the dark, deadly shafts being prepared for them, and then reined in and drew up, still out of range.

'Good,' Cato muttered. 'Port javelins! Sixth Century will prepare to retire… march!'

The legionaries started to retreat in good order, keeping their faces to the enemy, as they stepped back carefully to avoid any stumbling. The horsemen stared at the Romans for a moment and then a chorus of jeers and catcalls pursued the legionaries up the track. One of Cato's men started to shout some abuse back.

'Silence!' Cato shouted.'Ignore them. We've got nothing to prove. It's not our men who are lying dead on the track!'

The five sections under Cato's command steadily withdrew towards Septimus and his men. Even so, the gap between the Romans and the head of Caratacus' column had narrowed considerably by the time Cato passed through the gap Septimus had left for him.

'My turn to fall back,' said Cato. 'Their infantry might well be on you before you reach us.'

'Looks that way, sir.' Septimus nodded. 'Don't get too far ahead of us.'

'I won't. Good luck.'

'Fuck that,' muttered Septimus.'We're going to need bloody divine intervention to see us through this lot.'

'You're not wrong,' Cato smiled. 'Stick it to them, Optio.'

Septimus saluted and turned away to make sure that his thin line was tightly closed up and ready to resist the coming onslaught. Cato led his men further up the track and as they reached a bend he halted and formed them up. In the distance, above the low-lying expanse of rushes and stunted trees and clumps of gorse he could see the distant figures of the rest of the cohort toiling away at the contruction of the rampart and palisade.

'Not so far to go, lads!'

'Far enough,' someone muttered.

Cato spun round. 'Silence there!'

He turned back to see how the optio was faring. Septimus was already on the move and the rearmost rank trudged slowly backwards. Only a short distance beyond them the horsemen had edged off the track and the main column of enemy infantry was marching swiftly forward, eager to close with the hated Romans and cut them to pieces.

Towards the front of the column was a chariot. Standing on the platform, behind the driver, was Caratacus, bare-headed and bare-chested, with the huge gold torc around his muscular neck. One hand grasped the shaft of a great war spear, nearly twice as tall as the man himself. The other rested easily on the side rail of the chariot and despite the rutted surface of the track the native commander rode his vehicle with a superb sense of balance and self-confidence.

Caratacus raised his spear and thrust it towards the retreating Romans in a savage gesture of command. At once his warriors let out a huge roar and surged forward, swords and spears raised up and ready to strike. Septimus halted his men, closed up and shouted an order for them to unleash their javelins. It was a desperate measure and Cato wondered if the optio had let desperation overcome good sense. The effect of the collective volley in the confined space of the track would be devastating, but there would be no javelins left after that, only swords.

Septimus' shouted commands were just audible above the din of the enemy. 'Javelins… loose!'

A tattered dark veil lifted up from the legionaries, arced into the air and then lashed down on the natives. Their war cries faded for a moment, then the sound of the impact carried to Cato and his men: a rattling, thudding chorus that was quickly swallowed up by cries of pain and shouted curses. Septimus yelled at his men to continue falling back.

There was a brief respite while the Britons picked their way through their dead and injured littering the ground from which the dark shafts of javelins protruded at every angle. Then the battle cries picked up once again and the enemy raced forward. But the full impact of their mass charge had been broken by the volley and they hurled themselves individually upon the broad shields and glinting blades of the legionaries. The first few were cut down without difficulty and the men did not even break step as they continued towards Cato. Then, as warriors charged home as a mass, Septimus and his men slowed to a halt and were forced to fight to stay in formation. To fight for survival.

As more and more of the enemy piled into the melee the legionaries began to move towards Cato again, only this time they were not giving ground, they were being driven back. Watching them draw closer Cato knew that it was only a matter of time before Septimus lost so many men that the survivors would no longer be able to hold their formation. Then they would be broken and cut down. The leap-frog withdrawal of the sixth century would no longer be possible, Cato realised. Their only chance was to stay together now.

As Septimus' men began to pass through the gap left open for them, Cato called out to the optio, 'Form your men up behind me. We can't afford to divide the century any more.'

Septimus nodded and turned to deploy his men as the five fresh sections under Cato's command took over the fight.

Tightening the grip on his sword and hefting the shield forwards and up, Cato stepped forward and pushed into the front line. At once a heavy blow from an axe drove his shield back into him. But this dense fighting at close quarters was what the Roman legions trained for, and Cato rode back with the blow. Then, transferring his weight on to his back foot he launched himself against the enemy and felt his shield smash into a body with a loud thud. There was a grunt of pain and surprise, and Cato rammed his short sword forward, round the edge of the shield, and was rewarded by the shock of an impact that ran up his arm. He withdrew the blade, noting the blood dripping six inches from the point. A fatal injury in all probability and, he realised with surprise, he had never even seen the man who had suffered it.

Another impact on his shield, and this time fingers curled over the top of it, inches from his face, and wrenched it back. Cato held on with all his strength, then swung his helmet forward, crushing the enemy's knuckles with the solid iron cross brace above his brow. The fingers were snatched back and Cato thrust his shield forward, into space this time, and then stepped back to draw a breath.