He glanced to both sides and, seeing that Cato was nearest, bellowed a war cry and threw himself at the centurion. As the man rushed towards him, time seemed to slow and Cato was able to register every mud- stained crease in the man’s fearsome expression. He was young and built like a bull, but with too much fat on his frame. The timbers of the walkway thudded and creaked under his weight as he charged the Roman. Cato gritted his teeth and made himself run faster. The differences in their height and weight were firmly in the warrior’s favour and his teeth bared in a savage grin as he braced himself for the impact. At the very last moment Cato threw himself against the palisade, angling his shield as the man thundered towards him. Unable to shift his direction quickly enough, the man glanced heavily off Cato’s shield and lost his footing on the edge of the walkway. For an instant he swayed, sword arm waving in an attempt to recover his balance. Cato thrust his blade into the man’s back and, bracing his foot against the bare, sweating flesh, he kicked the warrior off the walkway. The collision had knocked the breath out of Cato and as he turned back, gasping for air, he saw two more men had clambered over the palisade, one facing Cato, the other running towards the small party of Wolves rushing at him. Beyond his men Cato glimpsed more of the defenders fighting off a second group of Durotrigans, thrusting their swords at any man foolhardy enough to try to haul himself up the wall.
Cato fixed his eyes on his new foe – a swarthy Celt, older and more wary than his blood-crazed companion. He approached the centurion with a measured stride and then lowered his lithe body into a crouch, poised on the balls of his feet, sword held up and to the side, ready for an overhead blow or a cut to the body. This man, Cato realised, was not going to fall for the same trick as his friend. When the centurion was no more than ten paces away he suddenly shouted with rage and charged home.
The warrior had been expecting a more subtle, calculated attack and the savage rush took the man by surprise. Cato’s heavy legionary shield drove into his foe and knocked him off his feet. Cato stamped down on his face as he ran across his enemy and jabbed his sword into the man’s chest. It was not a fatal blow, but one that might keep him out of the fight for a vital instant. The Durotrigan warrior grunted as the sword stuck in his ribs and winded him. Then he was gone, dropping behind Cato as the centurion turned on the next man to cross the wall. He was still stretching down for his spear when Cato attacked him and only had time to register a surprised expression before the tip of the short sword struck him in the eye and crunched through the skull into his brain. Cato whipped the blade back and, leaning forward, hacked at the next pair of arms reaching up for the top of the palisade. His sword bit deep into a shoulder and the man fell away. No one else moved forward to take his place and others further back raised javelins to throw at the centurion. Cato just managed to duck his head in time as the dark shafts arced over the wall.
Four of his men, bent double, came scuttling along the walkway behind Cato.
‘Finish that one off.’ Cato pointed to the older enemy, clutching at the wound in his chest. A sword flickered out and opened the man’s throat. He died with a gulping choking sound, slowly slumping to the ground where he struggled feebly to rise for a moment before the dregs of life flowed from him. Cato watched him die, forced to stay down as the enemy continued to throw missiles over the wall.
‘Sir!’
‘What?’ Cato started guiltily and looked up from the dead man. One of the native warriors was pointing over the centurion’s shoulder.
‘There, sir!’
Cato glanced round and saw a hand reach over the palisade twenty paces further along the wall. Having distracted Cato and his men with the barrage of missiles, the attackers had simply shifted their assault further along the wall.
‘Come on!’ said Cato, crouching low as he hurried to deal with the new threat. But it was already too late. Glancing ahead, Cato saw that the enemy were already over the wall between himself and Mandrax’s party. Three men were on the walkway, and then they dropped down into the enclosure, and more streamed over the palisade. Cato saw that three ladders were leaning against the wall, all the time disgorging more men. The fight for the wall was over then. He stopped and turned back to his men, grabbing the shoulder of the nearest.
‘You! Get back to Macro. Tell him. . . Just show him where they’re crossing the wall. He’ll know what to do then.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The warrior brushed past his comrades and scurried back along the wall towards the gate.
‘Let’s go,’ Cato said to the others, and leaped down from the walkway. He ordered the Wolves to make for the redoubt, and as they dashed off across the enclosure towards the great hall Cato ran towards the Durotrigans gathering below the point where they crossed the wall. One of them saw the centurion and shouted a warning to his companions. Cato stopped and called out over their heads.
‘Mandrax! Mandrax!’
Beyond the Durotrigans Mandrax glanced round, and saw the danger.
‘Fall back!’ Cato shouted, and thrust his sword towards the great hall.
The warning given, the centurion turned and ran. He had not got far when the Durotrigans raised a deafening war cry and charged into the enclosure. Cato snatched a look over his shoulder and took in the whole terrible scene in an instant. The enemy were starting to come over the wall in ever more places, and all the survivors of the Wolf Cohort were fleeing towards the redoubt. In their midst, rising above the tide of heads and the points of spears, was the standard with the gold-painted wolf’s head. The Durotrigans had already run down some of the men slowed by their injuries, and now hacked at them as they fell to the ground. Away to the left, Macro had seen that the wall had fallen, even before Cato’s message could reach him, and the legionaries were abandoning the gate and dropping down into the enclosure.
Cato faced forward again, and ran for his life, instinctively dipping his head between the shoulder bands of his armour as the howls of the Durotrigans rose up a short distance behind him. Ahead lay the hurriedly prepared breastwork of the redoubt; the opening set to one side where a heavily laden cart had been drawn back to allow access. Men were already crowding through it, casting terrified looks at the enemy charging towards them. As Cato closed the gap between himself and the final line of defence he shouted at the men desperately trying to shove their way into the redoubt.
‘Wolves! Wolves! Turn and form by the standard! The standard!’
Some men heeded him and faced round, shields raised and short swords held ready. Others stared wide-eyed and too frightened to think of anything but flight from the enemy. Mandrax, long-limbed and fit, reached the redoubt well ahead of Cato and turned to face the enemy, planting his standard down defiantly. Men hurried into position on either side of the standard and closed ranks. By the time Cato reached them a small, solid line stood between the men pouring into the redoubt and the Durotrigans. Those who had not been able to reach safety before the Durotrigans overtook them either died as they tried to run away, or stopped and tried to defend themselves and were quickly cut down by the overwhelming odds. But they bought some time for their comrades and most of the defenders managed to reach the redoubt, rushing either side of Cato’s small formation.
As the first Durotrigans came up against the unbroken line of shields they drew back, eyeing the Roman and his native troops warily, before turning aside in search of easier prey. Rising on his toes Cato craned his neck to try to see what had become of Macro and the legionaries. Then he saw them, a tight knot of men marching steadily towards the great hall with linked shields, Macro’s crest bobbing and twisting at the front of the formation as he cut a path through the throng of Durotrigans, all the time shouting encouragement to his men and cursing the enemy. Suddenly, Cato was aware that the Durotrigans were massing in front of him, having dealt with all the Atrebatan stragglers. They stood twenty paces away, clattering their spears against the inside of their shields and chanting their war cries with faces distorted by the wild exultation of battle-rage. Cat
o sensed the men either side of him flinch back from the spectacle.
‘Hold your ground!’ Cato shouted, voice worn down to a grating croak by the strain of the last few days. ‘Hold your ground!’
He glanced over towards the legionaries, cutting a path through the loose chaos that filled the enclosure. The Durotrigans were pouring in from all directions now, and some, with more presence of mind than most of their wild comrades, had thrown the locking bar to one side and opened the gate. Under the pressure of the massed warriors packed into the street on the far side the gate crashed inwards and, with a triumphant roar, the enemy swept inside. Unless Macro increased the pace they would catch the Romans before they could make the redoubt. Cato looked round at his men. ‘Hold still! Just a little longer, lads.’
A spear flew out from the Durotrigans gathering on the ground in front of the great hall, and Cato jerked his shield up, just in time to block the iron tip. With a jarring crash the spearhead burst through the leather backing, just to the side of his helmet. A cheer went up from the Durotrigans for the warrior who had nearly speared himself a Roman centurion. At once the shield felt heavy and unwieldy and Cato cursed his luck. Once the enemy closed in, a shield was just as vital as a sword, but encumbered with the shaft of a javelin Cato would be at a serious disadvantage. He called out over his shoulder. ‘Get me a shield!’
Those Durotrigans close enough to hear the order jeered him and those who fought with no armour brandished their bare chests in contempt. The incident had drawn together the spirit of the Durotrigans in that indefinable way that feeling flows through a mob, and it was clear that they would charge any moment now.
‘Sir!’ a voice called out behind him, and Cato looked over his shoulder. Mandrax held a shield out to him.
‘Whose?’
‘From one of our dead, sir.’
‘All right, then. . .’ Cato glanced quickly along the front of the enemy mob: they were all cheering, spears and swords thrusting up into the sky.
He threw his shield forward and turned and snatched the spare from Mandrax, quickly raising it in front of his body. Macro and his men still struggled towards the redoubt, hacked from all sides. A steady clatter and thud of blades and spear tips striking the legionary shields accompanied their progress. The men facing Cato turned towards the sound, and their shrill cries faded. Here was a chance, Cato decided, his heart racing.
‘Make ready to charge,’ he said, quietly enough for just the Wolves to hear. ‘And make it loud!’ He allowed a few breaths for the men to brace themselves up, then, ‘Charge!’
Cato gave full voice to a wild animal roar, and the shrieks and cries of his men rang in his ears as the Wolves rushed forward. The Durotrigans turned back towards the small body of men they had been about to massacre, shock and surprise on their faces, and they had not moved when Cato and the Atrebatans slammed into them. Several were struck down before they could resist. Cato smashed his shield boss into the ribs of a thin man, who grunted explosively and collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Cato kicked his boot down on the man’s face for good measure and stepped over him, thrusting his sword at the next enemy who came within reach. His sword was parried at the last moment, but the desperate swipe at the centurion’s blade left the man’s side exposed to the Atrebatan warrior beside Cato and his guts were ripped open by a slashing blow.
The Wolves piled into the enemy, shouting and screaming as they thrust and stabbed with their short swords. They carved a wedge into the Durotrigans, and before the enemy could respond the Atrebatans had cut their way through to Macro and the legionaries.
‘Close up!’ Cato called out. ‘Mandrax! To me!’
As the two units linked up Macro nodded a greeting to Cato, but the younger centurion knew there was too little time to waste.
‘Sir, we have to get back to the redoubt before they recover.’
‘Right.’ Macro turned to look back towards the gate. A dense mass of Durotrigan warriors was surging towards them. Macro turned to his men. ‘At the trot. . . advance!’
Cato relayed the order to his men and, with them at the front, the small column hurried towards the redoubt, making no attempt to stop and engage the shaken enemy, and only fending off the blows directed at them by the more intrepid spirits amongst the Durotrigans. But, behind them, the force that had torn through the gates was racing to catch up with the defenders. Their example was infectious and a renewed desire to close with and destroy the Romans and their allies rippled through the enemy warriors in the royal enclosure.
The men who had already reached the redoubt called out to their comrades from behind the makeshift breastwork, beckoning them on with desperate waves of their arms. Cato, at the front, was tempted to increase the pace, but knew that the moment they broke formation they would be cut to pieces as the enemy recovered their courage and set upon the defenders once again. Then the great hall was right in front of them and they made towards the narrow gap that led inside the redoubt.
‘Wolves!’ Cato called out, swerving to one side. ‘To me!’
His men formed up on their centurion, and the legionaries ran past, panting for breath as their heavy armour jingled rhythmically. Immediately behind the Romans came the first of the Durotrigans from the gate, thirsting for a chance to get at the men who had caused them such grievous losses from the shelter of the palisade above the street. The rearmost of Macro’s men had turned to face the threat and paced backwards as fast as they could, with no chance to check their footing as they warded off the enemies’ blows with their large shields. As soon as his men were in line Cato looked round and saw that most of the legionaries had passed through the entrance to the redoubt. Only the small knot of the rearguard were left, fighting their way step by step towards safety.
Cato cleared his throat. ‘Hold your ground! Wait until the last legionary has passed by.’
As soon as the rearguard came alongside him, Cato bellowed the order to fall back and the compact group of Romans and Atrebatans inched towards the entrance to the redoubt, all the while thrusting shields and swords into the faces of their enemies. The Durotrigans could scent victory now, and were desperate to obliterate the last of the defenders. So they closed on Cato and his men with a savage ferocity that knew no bounds, slashing, thrusting, kicking and even head-butting the shields of the defenders in their desperation to destroy. The last of the legionaries disappeared inside the redoubt and now Cato’s men were falling back through the gap, until there was only Cato, Mandrax and a handful of others.
‘Get the standard inside!’
Mandrax made a wild slash at the man facing him, who shrank back from the feint, and then the standard was gone, leaving Cato and one other man, facing the endless ranks of woad-painted faces beneath limed hair. Behind them, Macro appeared at the breastwork.
‘Cato! Run, lad!’
As the young centurion thrust his shield forward he yelled at the man beside him to fall back. The native warrior, crazed by battle beyond all reason, did not heed the order and slashed at the nearest enemy, shattering the top of his foe’s skull. The warrior’s cry of triumph barely rasped from his throat before a spearthrust caught him in the mouth and passed right through his head, emerging in a bloody tangle of blood, bone and hair at the back of his head, and knocking his helmet off. Cato ducked behind the body as it slumped down, and ran through the gap.
‘Close it up!’ Macro shouted, and the men waiting behind the wagon heaved it forward. The axles groaned as the solid wheels rumbled towards the sturdy stone wall of the great hall. One of the Durotrigans made it into the gap and faltered as he sensed the wagon. He turned and was caught and crushed on the tailboard as the wagon crashed up against the masonry and the gap was sealed. As soon as the vehicle was stationary, wicker baskets packed with earth were heaved under the axles to stop the enemy trying to move the wagon or sneak underneath it.
Although most of the legionaries and the native warriors had gained the shelter of the redoubt the fight was far fro
m over. The Durotrigans swarmed up to the breastworks, thrusting their spears and the points of their swords at the men above them. Macro had handpicked the defenders and, protected by the crude fortifications and their large shields, the legionaries kept the enemy at bay. Some of the Durotrigans tried to clamber up the sides of the wagons, but were quickly dealt with and, dead or dying, tumbled back down on to their comrades.
Inside the redoubt Macro cast a glance round the men defending the half-circle protecting the entrance to the great hall and nodded his satisfaction. For the moment, at least, they could hold off the enemy and he could spare time to see to the men and consider the situation. Around him squatted the rest of his legionaries and Cato’s men, exhausted and mostly injured; some with superficial cuts and a few with more serious injuries that would need attention. One of the men was beyond saving; he had been gutted by a spear and he sat, pale and sweating, with his hands clamped over the wound to keep his intestines from spilling out.
Macro went over to Cato, who was leaning against the back of the wagon as he caught his breath.
‘That was close,’ Macro said quietly.
Cato looked up and nodded.
‘You’re wounded.’ Macro pointed to the young centurion’s leg. Cato shifted it forwards and saw that his calf had been slashed below the knee. He had only been aware of a dull blow as he had turned and run through the gap. Now that he saw the blood flowing down the back of his leg and over his boot the wound began to burn.
‘Get it bound up,’ ordered Macro. ‘Surgeon’s just inside the hall. Once he’s seen to you get him out here to deal with the others.’
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 34
