shouldn't have ordered a pursuit,' Vespasian said quietly.
'No, sir.'
The legate turned towards Macro, eyebrows clenched together angrily at the implied criticism. But he knew the centurion was right. He should have thought. Vespasian felt sickened by the ease with which he had ordered the scouts to their doom.
Just short of the shields of the Sixth Century the surviving scout savagely reined in his horse, which reared up with a terrified whinny and kicked up a spray of snow. The scout released the reins and tumbled from his saddle.
'He's wounded!' shouted Macro. 'Get him behind the shields! Quickly!'
The nearest men ran out, grabbed the scout and dragged him inside the square. He slumped down, clasping a hand to his stomach where the bloody tear in his tunic revealed a long slash, cutting deep enough to expose some intestines. Macro knelt down to examine the injury. He grabbed the hem of the scout's cloak and made a cut in it with his dagger. Then he sheathed the blade and tore off a broad strip. Hurriedly, he worked it round the scout and tied the ends tightly. The man cried out and then clamped his teeth shut.
'There! That'll do until we can get him to the surgeons.'
'What happened?' Vespasian bent over the scout. 'Report, man! What happened to you?'
'Sir, there was scores of 'em… waiting for us inside the forest… We was following them down a trail… then suddenly they came at us on all sides, shrieking like wild animals… Didn't stand a chance… Cut us to pieces.' For a moment the scout's eyes widened in terror at the vivid memory of the terrifying enemy. Then his eyes refocused on the legate. 'I was at the back of the column, sir. Soon as I saw we'd had it, I tried to turn my mount. But the trail was narrow, my horse was scared and wouldn't turn. Then one of them Druids burst out of the forest and swung his sickle into me… I got him with my spear, sir! Got him good!' The scout's eyes gleamed with savage triumph before twisting shut as a wave of pain wracked him.
'That's enough now, lad' Vespasian said gently. 'Save the rest for your official report, once the surgeons have sorted you out.'
Eyes tightly clenched, the scout nodded.
'Centurion, give me a hand here.' Vespasian reached under the scout's shoulders and carefully lifted the man. 'Help me get him onto my back.'
'On your back, sir? Shall I get one of the men to do it instead, sir?'
'Damn it, man! I'll carry him.'
Macro shrugged, and did as he was told. The scout put his arms round the legate's neck and Vespasian leaned forward and supported the man's legs.
'That's it. Macro! Detail a man to lead that horse, then let's get moving.'
Macro gave the order for the century to move towards the camp. In close formation, the century's pace was necessarily slow, however much the men wished to hurry back to the shelter of the camp. In the centre of the square the legate staggered under his burden. To one side Figulus and Sertorius carried the body of Maxentius on Figulus's shield. Beside them walked Cato, staring directly ahead, his aching arm outstretched to keep the head he held as far from his body as possible. Macro, marching at the rear of the square, kept looking back towards the forest, watching for any sign of the Druids and their followers. But nothing moved along the dark treeline and the forest remained absolutely silent.
Chapter Nine
Three days later the snow had almost melted and only the odd patch still gleamed in hollows and crevices where the low winter sun could not reach. The first days of March brought a little more warmth to the air and the rutted track became slick with mud beneath the booted feet of the Fourth Cohort. They were marching south from Calleva, patrolling along the border with the Durotriges, in an attempt to discourage any more raids. The mission was more of a gesture of Roman support for the Atrebates than a realistic attempt to discourage the Durotriges and their sinister Druid allies. The reports reaching
'No, sir.'
The legate turned towards Macro, eyebrows clenched together angrily at the implied criticism. But he knew the centurion was right. He should have thought. Vespasian felt sickened by the ease with which he had ordered the scouts to their doom.
Just short of the shields of the Sixth Century the surviving scout savagely reined in his horse, which reared up with a terrified whinny and kicked up a spray of snow. The scout released the reins and tumbled from his saddle.
'He's wounded!' shouted Macro. 'Get him behind the shields! Quickly!'
The nearest men ran out, grabbed the scout and dragged him inside the square. He slumped down, clasping a hand to his stomach where the bloody tear in his tunic revealed a long slash, cutting deep enough to expose some intestines. Macro knelt down to examine the injury. He grabbed the hem of the scout's cloak and made a cut in it with his dagger. Then he sheathed the blade and tore off a broad strip. Hurriedly, he worked it round the scout and tied the ends tightly. The man cried out and then clamped his teeth shut.
'There! That'll do until we can get him to the surgeons.'
'What happened?' Vespasian bent over the scout. 'Report, man! What happened to you?'
'Sir, there was scores of 'em… waiting for us inside the forest… We was following them down a trail… then suddenly they came at us on all sides, shrieking like wild animals… Didn't stand a chance… Cut us to pieces.' For a moment the scout's eyes widened in terror at the vivid memory of the terrifying enemy. Then his eyes refocused on the legate. 'I was at the back of the column, sir. Soon as I saw we'd had it, I tried to turn my mount. But the trail was narrow, my horse was scared and wouldn't turn. Then one of them Druids burst out of the forest and swung his sickle into me… I got him with my spear, sir! Got him good!' The scout's eyes gleamed with savage triumph before twisting shut as a wave of pain wracked him.
'That's enough now, lad' Vespasian said gently. 'Save the rest for your official report, once the surgeons have sorted you out.'
Eyes tightly clenched, the scout nodded.
'Centurion, give me a hand here.' Vespasian reached under the scout's shoulders and carefully lifted the man. 'Help me get him onto my back.'
'On your back, sir? Shall I get one of the men to do it instead, sir?'
'Damn it, man! I'll carry him.'
Macro shrugged, and did as he was told. The scout put his arms round the legate's neck and Vespasian leaned forward and supported the man's legs.
'That's it. Macro! Detail a man to lead that horse, then let's get moving.'
Macro gave the order for the century to move towards the camp. In close formation, the century's pace was necessarily slow, however much the men wished to hurry back to the shelter of the camp. In the centre of the square the legate staggered under his burden. To one side Figulus and Sertorius carried the body of Maxentius on Figulus's shield. Beside them walked Cato, staring directly ahead, his aching arm outstretched to keep the head he held as far from his body as possible. Macro, marching at the rear of the square, kept looking back towards the forest, watching for any sign of the Druids and their followers. But nothing moved along the dark treeline and the forest remained absolutely silent.
Chapter Nine
Three days later the snow had almost melted and only the odd patch still gleamed in hollows and crevices where the low winter sun could not reach. The first days of March brought a little more warmth to the air and the rutted track became slick with mud beneath the booted feet of the Fourth Cohort. They were marching south from Calleva, patrolling along the border with the Durotriges, in an attempt to discourage any more raids. The mission was more of a gesture of Roman support for the Atrebates than a realistic attempt to discourage the Durotriges and their sinister Druid allies. The reports reaching
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