Cato gazed upon his crimson ranks as the Fourth Century, Aurelius', surged forwards towards the factory – their tight ranks dissolving as the Legionaries split and ran for cover, the slower and more unfortunate falling to the rebels' bullets. The sun was at its peak, bearing down upon the fighters with all its fury. Some of the other centuries attempted to hide in the shade while they awaited their turn, before being forced back into formation by their bawling Decanii. Slaves ran among the Cohort, filling up the fighters' water bottles and bringing up spare pilum, swords, daggers and axes for any Legionaries who spotted flaws in their current weapons.
Aurelius charged with his men whilst the other centurions gathered around Cato's personal banner with the Legate and his Praetorian guard. They had a reasonable view of the field without being in the sights of the rebel sharpshooters.
"The charge is faltering." Centurion Laebo commented as dozens of Aurelius' men fell to the ground, the wounded were ignored and left to their screaming – conserving ammunition Cato assumed.
"That they are." The Legate responded dryly, watching it unfold through his binoculars. There were some dozen rebels in the ground before the factory, behind sandbags and any other form of cover, whilst another five or so were atop the roof. The rest hid behind the windows of the factory, pouring a steady and accurate rain of lead down upon the men of the Legion. Aurelius himself had so far avoided being hit, though as soon as he left his cover it became evident enough that his plumed helmet was a target for every marksman in the factory. The Centurion roared encouragement to his men as he made his way, cover by cover, towards the factory.
"Decanus Piso and his men should be providing better cover." Laebo added as a bullet grazed Aurelius' shoulder and sent him stumbling to dive behind a small pile of debris as cover. Much to Cato's disappointment the Centurion got to his knees and waved on the nearest group of Legionaries. Many of his recruits had fallen and now the Primes had begun their advance, this group at least being able to return fire made far better progress but with no less progress.
"That they should." Was all Cato could answer with as he once more scanned the windows, looking for a good vantage point that Boone might have chosen for his place. The Centurions around him were now getting twitchy, each one champing at the bit to join in the charge. A cheer rose from the ranks as the veterans of the Fourth Century threw their weight behind the charge.
One surviving recruit, perhaps either the bravest or most foolish among the century, abandoned any notion of self-preservation or cover and charged the enemy position – spurred on by the inclusion of the veterans, Cato presumed. As if under the protection of some divine being he went ignored by the defenders until he had made some serious ground and even as they directed their guns towards him the Legionary went untouched.
Dirt and pebbles were thrown upon him in every direction as the bullets fell short, wide or went past. As he drew closer the Legionary grasped his pilum overarm and drew back. Without slowing in his advance the recruit's body rocked through the motion he had been taught since adolescence and cast his javelin towards the enemy. It sailed with a slight arc through the air and to the cheers of the Fourth Century and the observing Centurions, plunged into the chest of a rebel who came above his sandbag after reloading.
"Now if only the rest could emulate that man." Centurion Cornelius put in as the Legionary was hit by over a dozen bullets from the vengeful rebels. True to Cornelius' hopes the men of the Fourth Century threw themselves forwards with renewed vigour. They charged once more, several following their now dead comrade's example and ignored the need to find cover. Two of them vaulted over the nearest sandbag, falling upon the rebel behind it. His screams joined those of the wounded as the blades cut into his flesh. The two men were overtaken by another five men but before the gap between them had gone beyond three paces there was an explosion. Not a big one but still enough to send all five to the ground. One was able to climb his feet before a bullet took him whilst the rest rolled around in pain on the ground.
"They have a grenade launcher." Laebo observed, finally pushing Cato to his limit. The Legate turned on the Centurion.
"Would you be so kind to remind at which point this morning you were asked for a running commentary." He snapped. Laebo opened and closed his mouth a few times. "No? So kindly cease that annoying activity you call talking." The others laughed and in an attempt to save some pride Laebo went to protest.
"Now go and join your Century, if the Fourth fails I expect you to carry the day." Reluctantly the Centurion saluted and jogged down to his men. Cato neglected to watch him go and instead tightened the straps on his armour. He had left the Legate's armour and bumper sword in his tent, preferring his lighter Centurion's armour and gladius for the work ahead.
"Send in the prisoners with the next Century." Cato ordered one of the Praetorians who ran off to pass on the order. Some two dozen captured NCR soldiers, Fiends and Powder Gangers had been brought south with the army, all dressed in NCR fatigues. They would be sent out as human shields – either the rebels would try and avoid them, allowing the Legion to gain ground, or they would gun them down and waste bullets. Once more the Fourth's advance was faltering, due in no small part to the grenade launcher that sent any Legionaries foolish enough to gather in large groups to an early grave. Aurelius was struggling to keep them going in the face of such a steady and accurate rain of bullets. The Legion would never break and run but they could not be expected to fight a battle where merely advancing would mean death.
"They need some encouragement." Macro observed. "Shall I trumpet them along, sir?" Cato considered it but shook his head. Taking a deep breath the Legate strode forwards and drew his gladius.
"Mars!" He roared with all the strength of his lungs, thrusting the blade into the air.
"Exulte!" Was the instant response from the Cohort.
"Mars!" The Praetorians and Centurions took up the cry. "Exulte!" Hearing the roar from their brothers in arms those remaining of the Fourth added in their voices and charged once more. The Centurions continued the chant as Cato turned to Macro.
"Tell the drummers to play up some encouragement." The Vexillarius nodded and ran off to the squad of slaves who stood before the great war drums that took a Brahmin to carry a pair. They began to beat a strong rhythm as Macro trotted back.
"Legate!" A voice called from behind. Cato gave the assault once final glance before sheathing his gladius and turning around. A dust covered Legionary stood between two sentries, gasping for breath.
"Letter from Nova Roma." The man gasped, pulling the letter from behind his armour. "Marked high priority, sir." Cato snatched it from his hands.
"See that he has a drink and some food." Cato ordered one of the slaves, who bowed and led the messenger away, struggling to keep him from collapsing. Cato broke the seal and unfolded the paper and there written in a familiar script with no stamp or indicator towards its writer.
It has been done, fruition will come soon.
Cato had to resist the urge to smile as he tore the letter into over half a dozen pieces and threw it into the air.
"Sound the advance." He ordered and with a look glee Macro pressed the horn to his lips and played the familiar tune. In response Laebo's century hefted their weapons as the prisoners were driven forwards. "Take my standard to the front." Cato ordered the Vexillarius, doing a final check of his armour straps. "I want it placed atop the stairs, other than that you have your orders." Macro saluted and jogged off.
"Aemilius, you have command." The Legate informed the Centurion he trusted the most, a sound cautious man who would not throw the entire force forwards the moment he was left alone. "Praetorians, with me. We have work to do."
Cato crouched low as he crept along the dusty stones of the ridge. The sound of the battle below covered any noise the movement he and his guard could make. Even still there was no speaking between them, just the masks of grim determination – the Legion never were a cheery lot, Cato thought, and the Praetorians were the dourest of the bunch. Two of the Praetorians – stone faced killers whose names Cato had never bothered to ask carried thick bundles of rope around their shoulder and like Cato each only wore lightweight armour. The Legate did not know their quality personally but they were good enough to be a member of Caesar's guard and that was a good enough guarantee for Cato.
"Sir?" One of them spoke up from behind. "Sir?" He said once more after Cato ignored him.
"What?" Cato hissed, snapping his head to face the man.
"Shouldn't this attack have been launched earlier to prevent the losses?" He queried.
"The point is not to save lives here." Cato told him. "We're here to find someone." Cato did not wait for a response and continued on. They were close now, having already passed the last of Piso's marksmen – well his body to be precise, the young recruit that more balls than brains and had chosen a spot that gave him a commanding view of the battle, unfortunately it gave the sharpshooters on the Factory's roof a good view of him too.
Cato felt his hands clamming up, he was far more nervous than he had been in recent memory and all because of a ghost. Why hadn't the bastard just died like he was supposed to, Cato cursed before forcing himself to stifle a smile. He was the last person in the world to accuse others of not dying when they should.
The small troop, numbering fifteen in total made their way along the ridge until Cato ordered them to halt and crawled his way up to the edge. The factory lay beneath him; the waves of Legionaries' were slowly making their way forwards, metre by metre – paying for each step in blood. Prisoners ran forwards as they were forced to the front by prodding spears. At first they were ignored by the rebels until Cato heard someone call from below.
"Open fire on the NCR uniforms!" A commanding voice ordered. Some dispute followed until the voice put an end to it. "They could be Legion!" Bullets tore into the captives as they sprinted forwards. One began to wave his hands in the air.
"Sergeant Brooks! 3rd Rifles, out of Reno – don't sh..." The man was cut off as a bullet tore through his flesh. Cato dragged his eyes from the battle and scanned the roof before him. It was plain, no adornments to separate it from the dozens of other factories in the country but it had what Cato needed – a door into the factory. A sniper crouched by edge, popping his head up and taking a shot into the advancing Cohort with deadly efficiency. It was however, not Boone, but some man Cato had never seen before in NCR uniform. By the sound of it there was another shooter on the roof but the doorway obscured Cato's line of sight to whoever it was.
The Legate pulled Joshua Graham's pistol from his belt and sighted it at the sniper. Taking a deep breath Cato pulled the trigger three times in quick succession and watched in satisfaction as all found their target. The sniper jerked up straight before slumping forwards and lying still. Turning back, Cato gestured for the Praetorians to join him.
"You." He pointed to the one who had questioned him earlier. "Go first." A brief moment of shock crossed the soldier's face before he steeled his emotions and went back some distance for a run up.
As he braced himself the rest moved out of his path. The Praetorian sprinted forwards in a sudden burst of movement and leapt into the gap. He flew through the air, his cloak billowing behind him. It made for a majestic sight Cato conceded, well until he slammed into the wall of factory and fell out of sight with a cry. Cato leaned out over the edge, the man's body lay dashed upon the stones at the foot of the factory, his skull split open and his skin cut to the bone.
"Bugger." He muttered, turning back to the others. "This might have been a better starting point – who's the best runner or jumper?" There was a brief discussion among the Praetorians until one raised a hand.
"I was the fastest in my Cohort before my promotion, Legatus." He said, proudly.
"Take your turn then." Cato ordered him. The Praetorian saluted and in a wise move, undid his cloak. Handing it to a comrade the Praetorian took his place before stretching. Then he shot forwards, moving with greater acceleration than Cato would have thought any man was capable off. He made the leap with ease, hitting the roof with a perfectly executed roll.
At that moment the second sniper came around the corner, no doubt investigating the noise. Still not Boone, Cato lamented as the Praetorian came up from his roll and in one smooth move close-lined the sniper. The rebel was thrown to the ground, his rifle flying out of his hand. Before he could recover the Praetorian was atop him, raining blows down upon his skull. Five swift punches to the head, aided by the ballistic fist, and the rebel was dead. That, Cato reminded himself, was why these men were chosen as the personal guard of Caesar.
The Praetorian gave the rebel one final blow just to make sure and moved back to the edge, where one of his comrade threw the rope to him. It was tied to a vent on his side and to a strong enough looking rock on the Legate's side, with a Praetorian gripping it on only side just to be safe. Cato went first, gripping on the rope tight and shuffling along – his knees turning white from the pressure exerted on them.
"Name?" Cato demanded of the Praetorian after he made it over.
"Septimus." He grunted from his place by the rope. The next Praetorian had begun the cross and the rope began to strain against the vent. After realising it would take a fair amount of time for the entire group to cross Cato wandered off and checked the rest of the roof. The snipers were alone – small, near empty boxes of ammo by their spots. The guns were of good make, not Gun Runner quality but better than most of the trash carried by scavengers and bandits in the wasteland. So Boone found a source then, Cato mused as he glanced down at the battle. The charge was closing in, inch by inch but it moved at a snail's place. There would be a sudden burst of organised gunfire from the Legion then the fastest runners would sprint to as far away cover as they dare.
"Oh shit." A voice said. Frowning, Cato turned around. By the open door of the stairwell stood two men and a woman. Both men carried boxes of ammunition that threatened to spill from their arms and the woman hefted a heavy machine gun over her shoulder. The man at the front wore an NCR uniform while the others the leather armour of a scavenger or a mercenary. The NCR soldier dropped his boxes and fumbled for his pistol. Much to his misfortune Cato was faster and bullets tore into his body before his fingers even touched the grip. Cato turned the gun on the woman and pulled the trigger. His reward was a hollow click. There was a brief second as both sides watched each other in silence, neither rebel was armed beyond the machetes at their hips – Cato's only weapon the gladius in its scabbard.
"Sir?" Septimus' voice called from the other side of the door, breaking the tension. The woman, a thick armed brute with a carving on her forehead, and the man, tall, lean and gaunt, glanced behind the door and saw the rope.
"Cut it!" The man ordered, dropping his boxes. The woman cast aside her gun for it was far too cumbersome to use in a situation such as this. Both drew their machetes as Cato ripped his gladius from it scabbard. The woman dashed toward the rope as the man threw himself at Cato with a snarl. Rather than meet the blade Cato threw his pistol at the man's head. The man swayed out of its path, off-balance as Cato bulled into him.
The woman sidestepped around Septimus, who left his place supporting the rope to assist his legate, and swung her blade down onto the thick rope. It snapped into the air and flew towards the gap, sending the unfortunate Praetorian clinging to it plunging towards the rocks. Septimus leaped for it and managed to grasp the end. It began to drag the Praetorian towards the edge before he could dig his feet in. The woman cut at him and it took all the Praetorian's skill not to lose his grip or footing as he swayed out of the blade's path.
Then Cato was upon them, slashing and stabbing with ferocity. The woman managed to parry or dodge the first four blows before the fifth took her high in the arm. Flinching back, she managed to duck beneath the next slash but left her neck exposed. Before the Legate could follow up he turned instinctively as the man came up on his peripheral vision. He turned in time to block the blow and within a second the tide had turned. Cato was skilled with a blade but holding off two foes was difficult for any man. They drove him back, scoring a small knick on his shin and forearm.
The Legate stepped inside a slash from the man, throwing a thundering punch into his jaw. The rebel stumbled back, giving Cato time to draw his dagger from his boot and move away from the edge. The pair went to either side of him but he threw himself at the scarred woman, his dagger and gladius striking out like a snake at any unprotected flesh. Before any fatal blow could be struck the man once more joined the fight.
Cato was once more pushed back, near both his physical and the literal edge but from the left came a crimson blur as Septimus tackled the woman. The Praetorian who had just crossed had taken his place at the rope and now went about retying it to the vent. Both the rebel and Septimus rolled to their feet and squared off before attacking. The woman swung high, a blow Septimus caught on his vambrace before delivering a hook with his free hand – which was returned with a stinging straight to his solar plexus.
Giving an almost feral grin Cato moved towards the man. He attacked without grace or finesse but as a wild storm. For every blow that the rebel could block another came soon after. The dagger stabbed into the rebel's thigh to a grunt of pain. Cato struck high, his gladius met by the machete and for a moment the two pushed the blades against each other.
That moment was all that was needed – the dagger was pulled from the rebel's leg and plunged into his ribcage. He let out a wordless gasp, oblivious to the following two blows that left blood pouring from his side. Cato took a step back and slashed his gladius across the rebel's throat. Blood burst from the wound as the rebel as he sank to his knees. He stretch his arm out towards the woman before he slumped the ground and lay still as his lifeblood was pumped from his body. Cato covered the ground between him and the woman, whose back faced him as he wrestled with Septimus, in two quick strides and drove his gladius through her back and into her heart. She died as quiet as she had been in battle as she collapsed to into Septimus, who dumped her unceremoniously on the ground.
Cato looked up at Septimus after wiping his blade on the woman's clothes.
"I want you beside me in the battle." He told the panting Praetorian.
"As you command, Legatus."
"Now tell the others to hurry up, I have a sniper to kill."