disengage-advance was carried out automatically, almost as if his body belonged to another entity altogether.
As the dead and dying fell beneath the blades of the Romans, the line slowly moved forward over a field of bodies, wrecked tents and scattered equipment. Suddenly the Sixth Century came upon an area the Britons had set aside for cooking; the turf ovens and open fires still crackled and burned with an orange brilliance in the failing light, bathing those nearby in a vivid red that only accentuated the horror of battle.
Before Cato could see it coming, a massive blow to his shield caught him off balance and he tumbled into a large steaming pot suspended over a fire. The flames seared his legs and before the water spilled and doused the fire, it scalded him down one side of his body. He could not help screaming at the sharp, nerve-searing agony of his burns and nearly dropped his shield and sword. Another blow landed on his shield; looking up, Cato saw a thin warrior with long pigtails looming over him, feral hatred twisting his features. As the Briton raised his two-handed axe for the kill, Cato thrust Bestia’s sword up to cover the blow.
It never landed. Macro had rammed his blade in under the Briton’s armpit almost up to the hilt and the man died instantly. Biting back the pain from his burns, Cato could only nod his thanks to the centurion.
Macro flashed a quick smile. ‘On your feet!’
The front rank of the century had passed them and for a moment Cato was safe from the enemy.
‘You all right, lad?’
‘I’ll live, sir,’ Cato hissed through gritted teeth as a river of pain raged down the side of his body. He could hardly focus his mind through the agony. Macro was not fooled by the bravado, he had seen it enough times in the fourteen years he had served in the army. But he had also come to respect an individual’s right to deal with it as he chose. He helped the optio back to his feet, and without thinking gave Cato an encouraging slap on the back. The youngster stiffened, but after only a moment’s trembling he recovered enough to take a firm grasp of his sword and shield, and pushed his way towards the front rank. Tightening his grip on his own sword handle, Macro waded back into the fight.
For Cato the rest of the battle for the Britons’ camp was a blur in his mind, so much effort was required to keep the terrible pain of his burns at bay. He might have killed any number of men but later he could not recall a single incident; he stabbed with his sword and countered blows with his shield oblivious to any sense of danger, aware only of the need to control the agony.
The battle flowed remorselessly against the Britons, crushed between the relentless pressure of the two legions. Desperately they looked for the point of least resistance and began to rush for the gaps between the closing lines of legionaries. First dozens then scores of Britons broke away from their comrades and ran for their lives, scrambling up the reverse slopes of the ramparts and running off into the gathering dusk. Many thousands escaped before the two lines of legionaries met and encircled a doomed band of warriors determined to fight to the last.
These were no ordinary levies, Macro realised as he exchanged blows with an older warrior whose sweat glistened on the skin of his well muscled body. A heavy gold tore hung round the Briton’s neck, similar to the trophy taken from the corpse of Togodumnus, which Macro now wore. The Briton saw it; recognition flashed across his features and he hacked at Macro with renewed frenzy in his desire for revenge. His wrath did for him in the end; the cooler-headed Roman let the man’s fading energy use itself up on his shield before a swift strike settled the matter. A legionary, one of the previous autumn’s recruits, knelt down and laid a hand on the dead Briton’s torc.
‘Take that and you’re dead,’ warned Macro. ‘You know the rules on looting.’
The legionary nodded
As the dead and dying fell beneath the blades of the Romans, the line slowly moved forward over a field of bodies, wrecked tents and scattered equipment. Suddenly the Sixth Century came upon an area the Britons had set aside for cooking; the turf ovens and open fires still crackled and burned with an orange brilliance in the failing light, bathing those nearby in a vivid red that only accentuated the horror of battle.
Before Cato could see it coming, a massive blow to his shield caught him off balance and he tumbled into a large steaming pot suspended over a fire. The flames seared his legs and before the water spilled and doused the fire, it scalded him down one side of his body. He could not help screaming at the sharp, nerve-searing agony of his burns and nearly dropped his shield and sword. Another blow landed on his shield; looking up, Cato saw a thin warrior with long pigtails looming over him, feral hatred twisting his features. As the Briton raised his two-handed axe for the kill, Cato thrust Bestia’s sword up to cover the blow.
It never landed. Macro had rammed his blade in under the Briton’s armpit almost up to the hilt and the man died instantly. Biting back the pain from his burns, Cato could only nod his thanks to the centurion.
Macro flashed a quick smile. ‘On your feet!’
The front rank of the century had passed them and for a moment Cato was safe from the enemy.
‘You all right, lad?’
‘I’ll live, sir,’ Cato hissed through gritted teeth as a river of pain raged down the side of his body. He could hardly focus his mind through the agony. Macro was not fooled by the bravado, he had seen it enough times in the fourteen years he had served in the army. But he had also come to respect an individual’s right to deal with it as he chose. He helped the optio back to his feet, and without thinking gave Cato an encouraging slap on the back. The youngster stiffened, but after only a moment’s trembling he recovered enough to take a firm grasp of his sword and shield, and pushed his way towards the front rank. Tightening his grip on his own sword handle, Macro waded back into the fight.
For Cato the rest of the battle for the Britons’ camp was a blur in his mind, so much effort was required to keep the terrible pain of his burns at bay. He might have killed any number of men but later he could not recall a single incident; he stabbed with his sword and countered blows with his shield oblivious to any sense of danger, aware only of the need to control the agony.
The battle flowed remorselessly against the Britons, crushed between the relentless pressure of the two legions. Desperately they looked for the point of least resistance and began to rush for the gaps between the closing lines of legionaries. First dozens then scores of Britons broke away from their comrades and ran for their lives, scrambling up the reverse slopes of the ramparts and running off into the gathering dusk. Many thousands escaped before the two lines of legionaries met and encircled a doomed band of warriors determined to fight to the last.
These were no ordinary levies, Macro realised as he exchanged blows with an older warrior whose sweat glistened on the skin of his well muscled body. A heavy gold tore hung round the Briton’s neck, similar to the trophy taken from the corpse of Togodumnus, which Macro now wore. The Briton saw it; recognition flashed across his features and he hacked at Macro with renewed frenzy in his desire for revenge. His wrath did for him in the end; the cooler-headed Roman let the man’s fading energy use itself up on his shield before a swift strike settled the matter. A legionary, one of the previous autumn’s recruits, knelt down and laid a hand on the dead Briton’s torc.
‘Take that and you’re dead,’ warned Macro. ‘You know the rules on looting.’
The legionary nodded
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