The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  Here and there, a lucky spear thrust or sword blow found a gap in the shield wall and thudded home into the flesh of the man behind. Any legionary too badly wounded to continue marching would fall to the ground and his place would be quickly filled from the dwindling ranks of reserves to keep the shield wall intact. The wounded would be left behind as the column passed on, and each man who marched by would meet the eyes of his wounded comrades and register a last farewell. As the rearguard approached the injured covered their bodies with their shields and prepared to fight on as best they could before being killed. It was pitiless, thought Cato, quite pitiless. Yet he knew that if he fell he could not expect his men to risk their lives to save him, or any other injured man. That way all of them would die.

  The rearguard steadily gave ground as the enemy pressed through the gateway and battered the end of the column, desperately trying to breach the line of shields and cut the small Roman force to pieces. Figulus, taller and broader than most legionaries, held his ground in the centre of the line and kept his men together with steady commands as he deflected blows off his shield and thrust his sword into the enemy massing behind the column.

  Step by step the legionaries and the Wolves forced their way up the street towards the junction with the road that led from Calleva’s main gate to the royal enclosure. The hard earth beneath their boots quickly became slick and muddy with the gore of the dead and injured, and the cloying smell of blood mixed with the sharper smell of disturbed soil. From his position in the middle of the column, detached from the intensity of the hand-to-hand fighting, Cato could see that they had reached the broad street that cut through the centre of Calleva.

  ‘Cato! Cato!’ Macro’s voice rose above the din of battle.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Soon as we clear the junction take your men and clear the way towards the royal enclosure.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  The legionaries slowly fought their way across the junction until the column had passed into the route leading up to the gates of the royal enclosure, cutting off a small group of the enemy.

  ‘Now, Cato!’ Macro shouted.

  ‘Follow me!’ Cato called to his men, and charged up the street.

  A few of the enemy, those with cool heads, tried to stand their ground. But they were quickly overwhelmed and cut down. The rest broke and ran down the street to the right, ducking into the shelter of any side alleys, casting terrified looks back at their pursuers as the Wolves chased after them.

  Cato drew up and looked round, wide-eyed and breathing hard through clenched teeth. Mandrax was behind him, standard in one hand and blood-smeared sword in the other. The Atrebatan warrior grinned at the centurion, thrust his standard into the ground and snatched up the grey locks of a man Cato had knocked down. Mandrax yanked his head back and swept his sword back to cut the man’s head off.

  ‘No!’ Cato shouted. ‘Not now. Leave the heads till later. There’s no time.’

  With a look of disgust Mandrax released the man’s hair and snatched up his standard. Then Cato saw that some of the rest of his cohort had already taken a few heads, and others were busy looking for more.

  ‘Drop those!’ Cato shouted in Celtic. ‘Drop ‘em, I said! Form up!’

  Reluctantly, the men obeyed, hurriedly forming a solid block across the street that ran up to the gates of the royal enclosure. As soon as the Wolves were ready, Cato ordered them to move forward fifty paces, halt and wait for orders. Then he ran back to the junction. The legionaries were easily holding off the main body of the enemy that filled the street in the direction of Calleva’s main gate for as far as Cato could see.

  Macro suddenly appeared, shoving his way through the rear ranks of his men. He saw Cato and nodded grudgingly.

  ‘Nice work. . . Take your men forward and make sure the route to the enclosure is kept open.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘As my lot get close to the gate, you get yours inside. Be ready to close it the instant the last man passes through.’

  Cato smiled faintly. ‘That wouldn’t be you, by any chance?’

  ‘Get going.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato trotted back to his men and ordered them forward. They met no further resistance from the Durotrigans who had been separated from the main body of the enemy, and the only ones they saw quickly ran off at the sight of Cato and his men. Then the street widened slightly as it turned a corner and there was the entrance to the royal enclosure. The gates were open and several of the king’s bodyguard, fully armed, were standing along the palisade on either side. Cadminius stood in the entrance and beckoned to Cato and his men as they approached. Cato ran over to him.

  ‘Macro and the last of our men are not far behind. We’ll have to keep the gate open for them.’

  ‘Keep it open?’ Cadminius shook his head. ‘Can’t risk it. Get your men in and Macro’ll have to take his chances.’

  ‘No,’ Cato said firmly. ‘The gate stays open until I say.’

  Cadminius opened his mouth to protest, but there was a ruthless gleam in Cato’s eyes, and the Atrebatan looked away and nodded.

  ‘All right. . . We’ll need every man we can get to defend the enclosure.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Cato replied quietly. He turned back to his men. ‘Inside. Behind the gate, close formation.’

  As the Wolves marched inside, Cato indicated the position for Mandrax, and the men formed up around their standard, facing back down the street towards the sounds of fighting. They did not have to wait long for the legionaries to appear. Macro’s men came into sight, falling back at a steady pace, keeping a tight formation across the street as they fended off the Durotrigan mass desperately trying to force a way through the shields.

  ‘Pass all the javelins to the front!’ Cato called out to his men, and the few remaining javelins were thrust forward into the hands of the men of the front rank, who quickly sheathed their swords.

  ‘You’ll be using them as spears,’ Cato said. ‘No throwing. Front rank, close up, overlapping shields! Two paces forward. Thrust over the rims.’

  There was a clatter as the men aligned their shields and readied their javelins in a tight overhead grip. This way they would have a longer strike range, and present a more unnerving danger to the Durotrigans as the iron tips stabbed towards their eyes. Then they waited silently, watching through the gateway as their Roman allies retreated towards them. Cato went forward to join Cadminius and a small group of warriors standing ready to close the gate the moment the order was given.

  From the Roman ranks Macro shouted an order for the rear two lines to break formation and man the palisade. The men trotted past the sides of the Wolves and hurried up on to the narrow sentry walk either side of the gate. The Roman line, thinner now, gave way more easily under the pressure of the Durotrigan horde, and Cato feared it might cave in before Macro and his men reached them. The enemy saw the opportunity as well, and threw themselves forward in a renewed frenzy of hacking and slashing blades. As the legionaries reached the enclosure they were no longer able to maintain formation and stumbled back from the screaming mob. Then they were passing through the gate, exhausted and gasping for breath, but aware enough to keep clear of Cato’s men. There was Macro, in a small knot of legionaries, cursing and shouting his defiance into the faces of his enemies as he thrust his blade at them, legs poised for balance as he carefully backed towards the safety of the enclosure.

  With a quick rearward glance, Macro sized up the position and after a last savage roar at the Durotrigans he shouted to the last of his men, ‘Run for it!’

  They turned and sprinted through the gate as Cato ordered his spearmen forward. At the sight of the wicked iron javelin points protruding over the wall of oval auxiliary shields the Durotrigans instinctively shrank back.

  ‘Close the gate!’ Cato shouted, throwing his shoulder to the timbers as Cadminius and his warriors quickly heaved the gate into place. Suddenly the gate shivered and started to swing back as the
Durotrigans recovered and charged forwards again.

  ‘Help! Help here!’ Cato cried out, and the Wolves surged forward, adding their weight to those desperately trying to seal the entrance. For a moment the gate was still, caught between the two straining forces, then Cato felt his boots sliding backwards.

  ‘Heave! Come on, you bastards! Heave!’

  More men joined them, Macro and his legionaries among them, and the gate was held still again, no more than a foot from the timber frame and locking bracket. Macro drew back and looked up to the men on the palisade.

  ‘Use your daggers! Hit ‘em with anything you’ve got. Throw your fucking swords at them, if you have to!’

  As the men drew their daggers and hurled them down into the dense mass straining at the gate, the enemy’s attention was distracted for a crucial moment, and with one last effort the defenders closed the gate and slammed the locking bar home.

  While some of the men slumped to the ground or bent double as they struggled to catch their breath Cato forced himself to stand upright. He picked up his shield, pushed his way through the men and climbed the short ladder up to the palisade. Keeping his shield raised he looked down and saw that the Durotrigans were already melting away from the enclosure, until only a small handful still hammered away at the timbers with their swords and spears.

  ‘Keep hitting ‘em,’ Cato shouted to the men beside him, then leaned back to the men inside the entrance. ‘Get every javelin up here, now!’

  As soon as the iron-headed shafts began to strike down amongst them, even the most resolute of the Durotrigans recognised that their rage was useless, and they ran back from the gate, down the street and out of range. Cato nodded his satisfaction, and then dropped down into the enclosure to find Macro. His friend was sitting on the ground, bareheaded as he examined a dent on the top of his helmet. He ran his fingers tenderly across the scar on his scalp.

  ‘You all right, Macro?’

  The centurion nodded, and blinked his eyes. ‘I’ll be fine. Just a bit dizzy. Some bastard whacked me right above that injury. . . Give us a hand.’

  Cato grasped his arm and heaved the other man to his feet. He looked round the exhausted faces inside the gate. ‘Where’s Figulus?’

  ‘He was knocked over back there.’

  ‘Dead?’

  Τ didn’t see.’

  Cato nodded once, then turned towards the gate. ‘Our friends have gone, for the moment.’

  Macro nodded, then looked up at the sky. It was near sunset, and a brilliant orange spread across the horizon.

  ‘It’ll be dark soon.’ Macro looked at Cato. ‘We’d better get some torches lit. Somehow I don’t think Tincommius and his pals are going to give us an easy night.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A strange silence settled over Calleva once night had fallen. In the royal enclosure Macro had ordered most of the men to rest. After the enemy had pulled back Macro had thrown his men into constructing an inner redoubt around the entrance of the great hall. All the spare wagons and carts had been heaved together to form a small semi-circle backing on to the stout stone walls of the hall. Wicker baskets were filled with soil and crammed beneath the wagons to reinforce them and hold them in position, and benches were brought from inside the hall to provide the defenders with a breastwork to fight behind. If the outer wall fell, which it must, thanks to its being little more than a glorified fence, then everyone would retreat to this last redoubt, and after that a last stand inside the great hall, guarding the king’s bedchamber.

  Once the work was complete Macro told his men to rest. They lay across the ground, dark shapes curled up by their weapons in the flickering glow of the torches that were ranged along the palisade. Verica’s household slaves had been sent to bring the exhausted defenders food and drink from the royal kitchen, and the king’s bodyguards were keeping watch for any signs of the enemy. Beyond the enclosure, the huddled mass of thatched roofs was silent, there were no cries for mercy, or the usual horrified shrieks that accompanied the fall of a town. Macro sat with his head cocked towards the burned- out remains of the town’s gate. The only noises that rose up in the distance were the periodic choruses of dogs barking, and once in a while a shouted order from the enemy.

  After a while Macro gave up and nudged Cato, who had fallen asleep shortly before.

  ‘You hear anything?’

  Cato struggled up on one elbow, blinking away the ache in his eyes, fearful that Macro had detected the approach of the enemy.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘Shhh! Listen. . .’

  Cato sat up and strained his ears, but all was quiet. ‘I can’t hear anything.’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ said Macro. ‘There should be more noise. They’ve taken the town; they should be enjoying the spoils.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘They’re trying to win the Atrebatans over. I doubt Tincommius is going to permit them even the smallest amount of rape and pillage. Not if he’s as bright as he needs to be.’

  Macro looked at Cato, his features barely visible in the dark. ‘You admire him?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t. He’s a fool. If he succeeds in turning the Atrebatans, one way or another they’ll be slaughtered. That’s the kind of king people really don’t need.’

  ‘No. . .’ Macro looked away. ‘There’s something else that worries me.’ ‘Oh?’

  ‘Tincommius said that Caratacus was coming.’

  ‘Yes. So?’ Cato rubbed his eyes. ‘I doubt it’ll make much difference. We’re not going to be around that long.’

  ‘Maybe. But what if Quintillus has found the legion?’

  ‘I doubt the tribune made it. They must have caught him.’

  ‘What if they didn’t? What if he reached the legion and Vespasian sends a relief force?’

  Cato was silent for a moment before he replied, ‘We can only hope he didn’t make it. Best lose a few hundred of us than a few thousand.’

  ‘True. We can see that, but Vespasian can’t. Far as he knows the only opposition he’ll face is the force that ambushed us. Even that coward Quintillus will find it hard to overestimate their strength enough to keep the legate away. If Vespasian comes, he’ll bring most of the legion with him, right into the path of Caratacus.’

  Cato paused as he contemplated this awful possibility. He looked at Macro. ‘Then we’ve got to warn him, assuming Tincommius was telling the truth.’

  ‘How?’ Macro responded sourly. ‘We’re surrounded. The moment anyone tries to make a break for it they’ll be bagged and killed on the spot, if they’re lucky.’

  ‘Somebody has to try,’ Cato said quietly. ‘If there’s a chance that the legate might attempt to save us.’

  ‘No. It’s pointless. We need every man right here.’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ Cato persisted. ‘We’re all dead in the end. Let me go.’

  ‘No. You stay. That’s an order. I’ll not send any man on a bloody stupid suicide mission. As I said, there won’t be a relief force sent to us. All that’s left is to hold on, and take as many of the buggers with us as we can.’

  ‘Or surrender and take our chances.’

  ‘Some chances!’ Macro laughed harshly. ‘Oh, they might spare our native lads, and they might even let Verica live long enough to die from his wounds. But not us. They’ll have something special sorted out for us. You can count on it.’

  ‘All right then,’ Cato conceded, ‘but they might spare the Wolves, and Cadminius and his men. We could offer terms for their surrender and fight on ourselves.’

  Macro stared at him, but in the dark Cato could not read his expression and he continued his line of argument. ‘There’s no point in more deaths than necessary. If the Wolves and the bodyguards are spared because we were seen to save them, it might count for something in the longer term. It might leave some sympathy for Rome.’

  ‘It might. Then it might not. If they die with us, then their kin might blame the Durotrigans for their deaths. Better s
till, blame that bastard Tincommius.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Cato replied quietly. He was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Should we talk it over with Cadminius and the others?’

  ‘No,’ Macro said firmly. ‘The moment we start giving in, the fight will go out of our lads. Think about it, Cato. Think about how you’d feel watching the natives marching out of here and leaving us to die. Not the best way of keeping your pecker up, is it? And what guarantee do we have that they’d let the native lads live? You’d trust their lives to Tincommius? He’d have their heads on the ends of stakes in a trice.’

  ‘Which might well have a useful impact on the loyalty of the Atrebatans, from our point of view,’ Cato replied coldly.

  ‘Cynic!’ Macro laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder.

  Cato smiled. ‘But you’re right. We can’t trust Tincommius with their lives. I guess they’ll have to take their chances with us. I doubt they’ll protest. The bodyguards aren’t very fond of Tincommius – even the ones who think we might have had a hand in that attack on Verica.’

  ‘They seriously believe that?’

  Cato shrugged. ‘Hard to say. I’ve heard some of them muttering about it, and I get the odd suspicious glance. Seems that Tincommius’ words might have had some effect after all. The only one who can convince them of the truth is Verica.’

  ‘Have you heard anything about him?’

  ‘No. But I think we should find out. If there’s a chance that he can recover enough to confirm that he was attacked by Tincommius, it might help.’

  ‘All right then, you go and see. But don’t be long. Our friends might try something.’

  ‘Do you really think they will?’

  ‘No. . . They must be as exhausted as we are. They’ll want a rest. I doubt they’ll be in any great hurry. We’re bottled up in here with no way out, and they’ve got Caratacus and his whole bloody army on the way to help them out. I think they can wait until dawn before making the next move.’