quickly and threw himself at the dwindling knot of Britons, only to impale himself on a broad-bladed war spear.
Macro swore. Then he pushed on, and found Cato at his side once more, teeth clamped together in a snarl as he fought on with vicious efficiency. As the setting sun’s afterglow of orange and red stained the sky, a Roman trumpet blasted out the signal to disengage and a small space opened up around the surviving Britons. Cato was the last one to give way; he had to be physically hauled back from the fight by his centurion and shaken into a more stable frame of mind.
In the dusk, a small ring of no more than fifty of the Britons glared silently at the legionaries. Bleeding from numerous wounds, blood smeared bodies heaving with spent breath, they leaned on their weapons and waited for the end. From the ranks of the legions a voice called out to them in a Celtic tongue. A call for surrender, Macro guessed. The call was repeated and this time the surrounded Britons gave vent to a chorus of shouts and defiant gestures. Macro shook his head, suddenly very weary of killing. What more had these men to prove by their deaths? Who would ever know of their last stand? It was axiomatic that history was written by the victors in war. He had learned that much from the history books Cato had used to teach him to read. These brave men condemned themselves to die for nothing.
Gradually the defiant words and gestures petered out and the Britons faced their foes with fatalistic calm. There was a moment’s silence, then without need of any word of command the legionaries surged forward and wiped them out.
By torchlight the Romans took stock of their victory. The gates were guarded against counterattack and the work of searching the bodies strewn across the British encampment for Roman injured commenced in earnest. With torches held aloft, the patrols of legionaries located their wounded comrades and carried them to the forward casualty station hurriedly erected on the bank of the river. The wounded Britons were mercifully despatched with quick sword and spear thrusts and heaped into piles for later burial.
Macro sent a forage party out to find provisions for the Sixth Century and dismissed Cato. Only one thing was on the optio’s mind. The desperate need for some kind of relief from the pain of his burns. Leaving the century by the rampart, he climbed over the remains of the palisade and scrambled down the far side. He made his way across the ditch and up onto the river bank, eerily lit by the flickering torches and braziers of the casualty clearing station. Rows of injured, dying and dead had been arranged all along the river bank and Cato had to pick his way through them to reach the river. At the water’s edge he laid down his shield and carefully unfastened the straps of his helmet, mail corselet, and weapons belt. He felt a palpable sense of lightness seep into his exhausted body as he gingerly stripped off his equipment and felt himself for injuries. There were some cuts, now crusted over with dried blood, and the burns were starting to blister. They were agony to the lightest touch. Naked, and shivering more from tiredness than the cool evening air, Cato waded out into the gentle current. As soon as he was deep enough, he slumped down and gasped as the cold water enclosed his body. A moment later he was smiling in pure bliss at the numbing relief it brought to his burns.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Bet that hurts!’ Macro grinned as the surgeon spread salve over the blistered skin that ran up Cato’s right side from his hip to his shoulder. The blazing look the optio shot back at him was eloquence itself.
‘Keep still,’ the surgeon tutted. ‘It’s hard enough working by this light without you twitching all over the place.. Here, Centurion, hold that torch steady.’
‘Sorry.’ Macro raised the pitch torch higher, and by its flickering orange glare the surgeon dipped his hand in the small jar of salve between his
Macro swore. Then he pushed on, and found Cato at his side once more, teeth clamped together in a snarl as he fought on with vicious efficiency. As the setting sun’s afterglow of orange and red stained the sky, a Roman trumpet blasted out the signal to disengage and a small space opened up around the surviving Britons. Cato was the last one to give way; he had to be physically hauled back from the fight by his centurion and shaken into a more stable frame of mind.
In the dusk, a small ring of no more than fifty of the Britons glared silently at the legionaries. Bleeding from numerous wounds, blood smeared bodies heaving with spent breath, they leaned on their weapons and waited for the end. From the ranks of the legions a voice called out to them in a Celtic tongue. A call for surrender, Macro guessed. The call was repeated and this time the surrounded Britons gave vent to a chorus of shouts and defiant gestures. Macro shook his head, suddenly very weary of killing. What more had these men to prove by their deaths? Who would ever know of their last stand? It was axiomatic that history was written by the victors in war. He had learned that much from the history books Cato had used to teach him to read. These brave men condemned themselves to die for nothing.
Gradually the defiant words and gestures petered out and the Britons faced their foes with fatalistic calm. There was a moment’s silence, then without need of any word of command the legionaries surged forward and wiped them out.
By torchlight the Romans took stock of their victory. The gates were guarded against counterattack and the work of searching the bodies strewn across the British encampment for Roman injured commenced in earnest. With torches held aloft, the patrols of legionaries located their wounded comrades and carried them to the forward casualty station hurriedly erected on the bank of the river. The wounded Britons were mercifully despatched with quick sword and spear thrusts and heaped into piles for later burial.
Macro sent a forage party out to find provisions for the Sixth Century and dismissed Cato. Only one thing was on the optio’s mind. The desperate need for some kind of relief from the pain of his burns. Leaving the century by the rampart, he climbed over the remains of the palisade and scrambled down the far side. He made his way across the ditch and up onto the river bank, eerily lit by the flickering torches and braziers of the casualty clearing station. Rows of injured, dying and dead had been arranged all along the river bank and Cato had to pick his way through them to reach the river. At the water’s edge he laid down his shield and carefully unfastened the straps of his helmet, mail corselet, and weapons belt. He felt a palpable sense of lightness seep into his exhausted body as he gingerly stripped off his equipment and felt himself for injuries. There were some cuts, now crusted over with dried blood, and the burns were starting to blister. They were agony to the lightest touch. Naked, and shivering more from tiredness than the cool evening air, Cato waded out into the gentle current. As soon as he was deep enough, he slumped down and gasped as the cold water enclosed his body. A moment later he was smiling in pure bliss at the numbing relief it brought to his burns.
Chapter Fourteen
‘Bet that hurts!’ Macro grinned as the surgeon spread salve over the blistered skin that ran up Cato’s right side from his hip to his shoulder. The blazing look the optio shot back at him was eloquence itself.
‘Keep still,’ the surgeon tutted. ‘It’s hard enough working by this light without you twitching all over the place.. Here, Centurion, hold that torch steady.’
‘Sorry.’ Macro raised the pitch torch higher, and by its flickering orange glare the surgeon dipped his hand in the small jar of salve between his
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