The Eagle and the Wolves c-4

by Simon Scarrow4_

  'Cohort! Halt!'

  The Wolves stumbled to a halt, some warriors not quite understanding the order, or not willing to obey it immediately. The result was a straggling line spread across the floor of the vale. After a moment's hesitation Macro echoed the order to halt and started running across towards Cato.

  'Dress your lines!' Cato bellowed out to his men and the century commanders immediately started to shove and kick their men into order. A pounding of hoofbeats announced the arrival of the tribune.

  'What the bloody hell are you doing, Centurion? Get your men forward!'

  'Sir, there's something wrong about this.'

  'Get your men forward! That's an order! You want that lot to escape?'

  'Sir, the wagons. Look at them.'

  'Wagons?' Quintillus glared at him. 'What about the bloody wagons?' He thrust the point of his sword towards Cato. 'Get forward, I say!'

  'Those aren't wagons,' Cato insisted. 'Look at them. They're chariots.'

  'Chariots? What bloody nonsense is this?'

  'Chariots tied back to back, to look like wagons,' Cato explained quickly, and stepped over to one of the bodies. 'And these men, dead long before the chariots were set alight.'

  Macro came running up, breathless and angry. 'What's going on? Why'd you call a halt?'

  Before Cato could reply, there came the distant roar of a war cry. The raiders at the end of the vale had seen their pursuers stop. Now they turned and were charging back towards the Atrebatans, screaming like madmen.

  'I don't believe it,' Quintillus said softly. 'They're attacking us.'

  Cato tore his gaze away from the enemy bearing down on them, and swept his eyes over the hillsides.

  'There! There's your reason,' he said bitterly, thrusting an arm towards the trees on the hill to their left. Durotrigan warriors were pouring out from the shadows beyond the trees and forming up in a dense mass barely two hundred paces from where they were standing. Cato turned to the other hill. 'And there!'

  For an instant the tribune's well-mannered facade crumbled as the deadly nature of the situation he had led the two cohorts into was thrust before his eyes. 'Oh, shit…'

  'Wolves!' Cato quickly turned to his men, hand cupped to his mouth. 'Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Centuries! Refuse the left flank!'

  As Macro sprinted off to join his men, the three centuries at the extreme left of the Atrebatan line folded back to face the Durotrigans massing on the slope above them. Unlike the natives in the two cohorts, the enemy were heavily armed, many with chain mail protecting their bodies. Already Cato could see that the Atrebatans were outnumbered; the tables had been completely turned on them and their Roman commanders. Cato spared their enemy an instant of grudging admiration before he turned to Tincommius and spoke to him in Latin.

  'Get out of here! Get back to Calleva, as fast you can. We won't be able to hold them for long.'

  'No,' Tincommius replied. 'I'll stay here. I'd never make it.'

  'You'll go.'

  Tincommius shook his head and Cato turned towards the tribune.

  'Sir! Take him. Get him out of here!'

  Quintillus quickly nodded and reached down for the hand of the Atrebatan prince, but Tincommius shook his head and, stepping back, he drew his sword.

  'Quick, you fool!' shouted Quintillus. 'There's no time for heroics. You heard the centurion! Give me your hand!'

  'No!'

  For a moment the three men froze, each glancing anxiously at the others, then the tribune withdrew his hand and took a firm grasp of the reins.

  'Very well. You had your chance. Centurion, carry on. I'm going for help.'

  'Help?' Cato angrily turned on the tribune, but Quintillus ignored him. Savagely yanking the beast's head round, he kicked his heels and spurred the pony back towards Calleva, leaving Cato staring after him, lips pressed together in cold contempt and fury.

  'Help?' Figulus snorted. 'How fucking thick does he think we are?'

  Before Cato could reply there was a blast on a war horn to their left, immediately joined by another from the right. With a triumphant roar the Durotrigans poured down the slope towards the ordered lines of the Wolves and the Boars. Even as he glanced round his men Cato saw that some of them were already stepping back from their position in the line. He must keep them in hand, before the line started to crumble.

  'Hold your position there!' he roared at the nearest unsteady man, who guiltily jumped back into place. Cato cupped his hands. 'Cohort! Ready javelins!'

  The second line took a pace back while the men in front changed their grip on the javelins and braced their feet apart, ready to throw the deadly missiles into the wildly charging ranks of the enemy. Cato glanced to the left and then straight down the vale. The small group they had seen initially, no more than thirty paces away, would reach them first.

  'First, Second and Third Centuries… release!'

  With a collective grunt of effort the men threw their arms forward and hurled their javelins. The volley was more ragged than that of fully trained legionaries, Cato noted, but it achieved nearly the same terrible effect. The dark shafts arced up into the sky and then dropped down on the Durotrigans, who tried to take cover from the volley. It was instinctive, but quite useless. Those who managed to raise shields to protect themselves were almost as effectively skewered as those who did not as the heavy iron heads punched through the shields and tore into the flesh beneath. There were nearly two javelins for each man in the small charge, and after the crash and clatter of the volley only half continued on towards the Wolves, leaving their comrades dead or screaming in the long grass. The survivors would be easily dealt with and Cato turned his attention to the much larger band of Durotrigans charging down the slope towards the other three centuries.

  'Make ready!' Cato bellowed, his nervous voice rising in pitch. 'Release!'

  The front ranks of the Durotrigans went down in a rippling wave of stumbling and stricken men. But at once, those behind rushed over their dead and injured comrades, and threw themselves towards the oval shields of the Wolves.

  'Draw swords!' Cato called out, wrenching his own blade free of its scabbard. The ridged ivory handle fitted well into his tight grip and he pushed his way into the second rank of Figulus' century. 'Keep those shields up and hold the line!'

  The volley of javelins had done its job and the enemy crashed singly into the shield wall rather than engulfing it in one wave. The first score of Durotrigans to reach the Wolves were cut down the moment they tried to burst into the shield wall, killed by swift thrusts of short swords from every side. But then the main weight of the charge crashed into the thin line of the Atrebatans, and the cohort reeled back from the impact. Cato fixed his eyes on the savage expression of a huge warrior making straight for him, sword swinging up for a killer blow. The centurion didn't give him the chance, and threw himself under the man's arm, ramming his blade into his foe's throat. A sheet of warm blood gushed over Cato's arm as the warrior dropped to his knees, clutching desperately at the huge wound in his neck. Cato ignored him, quickly finding another target: an older man with a spear. This veteran was not as strong as the first, but more experienced and more wary. He feinted at Cato and, as the centurion made to block the blow, the old warrior dipped the spearhead under Cato's blade and thrust towards his chest. Only a wild twist saved Cato from the full impact. Even so, the glancing blow spun him round, driving the breath from his lungs. The veteran quickly drew his spear back to deliver the fatal thrust, but a shield boss crashed into the side of his head and he crumpled down.

  'Sir!' Figulus shouted, risking a swift glance at his centurion. 'You hurt?'

  'No,' gasped Cato as he snatched up a shield from one of his men lying dead at his feet, helmet cleaved in two by an axe blow that had shattered the skull.

  Keeping the shield high, Cato glanced round to see that the line of his cohort had disintegrated and the men were lost amid a general melee of stabbing spears and swinging swords and axes. His ears filled with the thu
d of blows landing on shields and shattering bodies, the metallic clash of desperate parries and the cries and screams of the dying. Cato stepped back and looked over his shoulder. Macro's men had also been driven in by the ferocious charge, and in between the two sides of the desperate skirmish the three centuries that had faced the first charge were breaking, dropping their weapons and streaming back towards Calleva, running for their lives.

  'Oh, no…'

  A sudden shout from Figulus saved Cato as he turned, saw the axe blade biting through the air towards his face, and ducked just in time. The axe hissed through the air above Cato's head, clipping off the metal bracket that held his crest. As the red horsehair dropped to the bloody ground beside him, Cato swung his sword into the warrior's kneecap, smashing the bone and severing muscles across the joint. That one would never be able to fight again, Cato noted as he struggled back on to his feet.

  'Cato's down!' a voice cried out nearby. 'The centurion's dead!'

  'No!' Cato cried out. But it was already too late. The cry was taken up on all sides, and the remains of the cohort broke. For a moment Cato stood side to side with Figulus, shield up and sword ready to thrust, but the Durotrigans left them alone as they went for the unprotected backs of those who had turned and were trying to escape the carnage. It was the worst thing the Atrebatans could do. A man armed and facing his enemy was far safer than any who dropped his sword and shield and ran for his life. But the first victim of panic is always reason, and those who ran were driven by an animal instinct to flee and survive that was senseless and quite foolish.

  'Let's get out of here!' said Cato. 'Keep close.'

  The two Romans pushed their way through the loose mass of figures spread across the floor of the vale. As long as they kept their guard up, they were ignored as the Durotrigans went in search of easier prey. But as the mass of struggling men gradually dispersed Cato knew that the Durotrigans would turn their attention on them.

  'Figulus.'

  'Sir.'

  'We'll have to run for it. When I give the word, drop your shield and follow me. But whatever you do, keep hold of your sword.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  A moment later, the way ahead of them cleared, and in the distance Cato could see the sprawling mass of thatched roofs of Calleva. He took a last look round, then shouted. 'Now!'

  The two Romans threw their shields down and ran after the figures streaming back towards the safety of Calleva. In among them ran the Durotrigans, screaming with exultation as they ran their foes down and stabbed and slashed at those too slow, or too panic-stricken to escape their pursuers. Cato led his comrade in a straight line, crouching low and running as fast as his legs could carry him. Only a few of the Durotrigans paid them any close attention, and of these only a handful tried to stop them escaping. But singly, they were no match for two legionaries and were quickly cut down.

  They had run for just over a mile when Figulus suddenly pulled Cato's arm.

  'Listen!'

  'What?' Cato turned round, chest heaving as he gulped for breath. The effort of running such a distance in his chain mail had exhausted him. Spread out around them were the survivors of the two cohorts, still flooding back towards Calleva. The Durotrigans had dropped back, and were busy looting and mutilating the bodies of their Atrebatan enemies.

  'Look!' Figulus gasped as he pointed back towards the smouldering remains of the decoy supply column. 'Over there!'

  A line of horsemen was galloping over the crest of the hill that had earlier concealed the Durotrigan ambush. As soon as they reached the bottom of the vale they spread out, lowered the tips of their spears and urged their horses on towards the scattered remnants of the Wolves and the Boars, still struggling towards Calleva's ramparts.

  'Shit!' Cato panted, unbuckling his belt. 'Run! Don't stop for anything.'

  The dreadful screams of those being ridden down in the long grass began as Cato struggled out of his harness and desperately wrenched the heavy chain mail over his head. He dumped it on the ground, snatched up his sword and ran after Figulus, already some distance ahead of him. He was halfway back to Calleva when the wound to his side began to make itself felt once again. He had thought it quite healed, but now the extreme exertions of the fight and rout caused a stabbing throb down the entire side of his body, so that every breath was agony. His heart pounded so much that it filled his ears almost to the exclusion of every other noise, and drowned out the screams of the dying, the exultant cries of the Durotrigans and the thrumming of horses' hoofs as the enemy charged to and fro amidst the panic-stricken men fleeing for their lives.

  Cato forced himself on, knowing that to stop would be to invite a merciless death. The sword weighed heavily in his hand, but he tightened his grip and ran on. A mile short of the gateway he came across a narrow stream meandering across the small plain in front of Calleva. Before he realised what was happening Cato stumbled on the loose earth hanging over the edge of the stream and splashed down into the shallow water. The sudden shock of the cold current jolted his senses. With a great effort of will he scrambled on to his knees and looked for his sword which had slipped from his grasp in the fall. The blade glimmered beneath the glassy surface several feet away. Cato was about to reach for it when he heard a horse close by. A shadow wavered on the far side of the stream, and Cato lowered himself back into the water, pressing his body close to the bank just beneath the overhang of loose earth. An instant later there was the breathless champing of a hard-ridden horse immediately above him. A small avalanche of pebbles and loose earth cascaded into the water beside Cato. On the far bank was the faint shadow of the horse and rider, and Cato stilled his breathing. A fluke ripple in the surface of the stream refracted a strong shaft of light on to the blade of his sword and it gleamed brightly in the water for an instant.

  But an instant was enough. The rider slid off the back of his horse and jumped down into the stream, right in front of Cato, sending spray into the centurion's face. The warrior waded a few paces downstream towards the sword and then Cato realised he would be seen the moment the man picked up the sword and turned round. There was not time to think. Cato rose and threw himself on the back of the rider as he bent over the sword. The impact drove both men splashing down. The centurion was on top, and he reached forward, searching for the rider's throat. He found it, clenched his fingers round the muscular neck and pressed as hard as he could. The rider thrust himself up, erupting from the water in a cascade of glittering spray, hands clawing behind his head, reaching for Cato's arms. He found them and tried to wrench Cato's grip free, failed and then reached further back, clawing for his attacker's face and eyes. Before he could succeed Cato rammed his knee into the small of the man's back and pulled him sideways into the stream, struggling to push the man's head beneath the surface.

  The Briton was too strong for him, and in one convulsive heave he turned over on top of Cato, facing up to the morning sky and pressing back on the body trapped beneath him. The impact drove the breath out of Cato, and he just had the sense to clamp his lips shut before the water closed over his face. But he knew he had little time left. His burning lungs demanded air, and he would be forced to release his grip on the rider and try to force his way to the surface. Out of the corner of his eye something glimmered. The sword. Cato twisted his head and saw that it was within easy reach on the bed of the stream. He released his grip on the man's throat and snatched at his face with his left hand, fingers working towards the man's eyes. His right hand splashed back into the water, grabbed for the handle of the sword, brought the blade round, and then with the last of his fast-ebbing strength he thrust the blade up through the rider's back. The man jerked, in spasm, jerked again, frantically struggling to tear himself free of the blade, which Cato was working furiously up and down in his chest. The thrashing became weaker, and at last Cato heaved the body to one side and burst out of the stream, gasping for air. As he sat coughing and spluttering in the slowly spreading pool of crimson, Cato checked his enemy. The rider
lay on his back. The tip of Cato's sword had burst through his heart and right through the front of his chest. Dark red billowed up round the edge of the blade and slowly dissipated in the gentle current. The man's head was tilted back beneath the surface of the water. His eyes stared sightlessly at the sky as his hair waved downstream, like the long tendrils of the weeds growing close to the bank.

  As soon as Cato had caught his breath he heaved the man on to his side, placed a boot on his back beside the sword handle, and wrenched the blade free. It came out with a fresh gush of blood and Cato immediately pulled himself on to the bank and crept downstream, away from the enemy and roughly in the direction of Calleva. The Durotrigans would notice the riderless horse soon enough and come to investigate. He had briefly considered trying to mount the animal himself, but could not trust himself to do it well. Besides, he was a poor rider while the Durotrigans were experts, and they would run him down long before he got the beast anywhere near the gates of Calleva. So he moved downstream as swiftly and quietly as he could, ears straining for any sign that the body had been detected and the enemy were giving chase. A quarter of a mile later Cato realised he was trembling. He knew he was too tired to go on. He must hide and rest a while; recover some strength and then move on towards the safety of the town.

  Safe? Calleva? He chided himself. The cohorts had been destroyed. The only thing standing between the Durotrigans and the Atrebatans were the handful of legionaries serving the depot and Verica's bodyguard. The moment the enemy realised that, Calleva would be at their mercy. He had to get back, gather the survivors up and try to save the town. Then he thought of Macro and Tincommius. Had either of them made it? Were they dead, somewhere out there in the long grass? Food for the carrion birds already spiralling overhead in the late morning sunshine.

  Cautiously moving round a bend in the stream Cato came across a fallen tree, wrenched up from the ground years before by some wild storm. The soil round the base of the tree had been pulled up, and badgers had dug themselves a sett amongst the tangle of dead roots. Cato pressed himself into the narrow entrance and hurriedly used his sword to loosen the soil above him. Clods of earth tumbled over the hole, gradually filling it and burying the centurion under a shallow layer of soil. He would be revealed the moment anyone made a close inspection of the twisting roots, but it was the best he could do. He lay still, watching the stream through the small gap he had left, and waited for the long hot day to end.