Vespasian answered curtly, ‘If that happens, Tribune, you’ll have to continue your career in another life. . . Gentlemen! Let’s make sure it doesn’t happen. Anyone else?. . . Good. Back to your units. We march as soon as I give the signal. . . Centurion Macro! A moment, please.’
Macro, a man who favoured the back row of any gathering – a hangover from a very brief period of formal education as a child – waited until the other officers had dispersed before approaching the legate.
‘Sir?’
‘You know Centurion Gaius Silanus?’
‘Yes, sir. Second Cohort.’
‘That’s him. Or was. He was killed in a skirmish yesterday. I want you to replace him. Take what’s left of your garrison with you.’
‘Yes, sir. What about Centurion Cato, sir?’
‘What about him?’
‘Are his men to march with us?’
Vespasian nodded. ‘We need every man who can hold a weapon. Cato’s cohort – what is it you call them?’
‘The Wolves, sir.’
‘Wolves? Good name. Anyway, they’ll guard the carts.’
‘They won’t like that, sir,’ Macro replied quietly. ‘They’ll want to fight.’
‘Really?’ said Vespasian with a trace of irritation. ‘Well, they’ll do as I tell them.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll let Cato know.’
‘You do that.’
Before the first rays of the sun washed the sky, the dense column of heavy infantry, and the remaining handful of their native allies, emerged from the ruin of Calleva’s main gate. A pale blue light hung across the landscape and, looking up, Cato could see that it would be a cloudless day. A hot march lay ahead with the sun beating down on them. As soon as the First Cohort cleared the gate it turned south, towards the legion’s camp. The wagons carrying the wounded and King Verica were positioned in the middle of the column and on either side marched Cato’s men, and the royal bodyguard under Cadminius. Vespasian had made it quite clear that all the native troops were placed under the command of Centurion Cato, without exception, to the obvious chagrin of Verica and the captain of his personal guard.
As the tail of the column emerged from Calleva, Cato looked back and saw a line of faces along the palisade, watching them depart in silence. The bitter expressions well told of the betrayal and despair felt by the Atrebatans. To one side, where the watchtower had once stood, a tall pole rose up from the charred timbers. Impaled on the top was the head of Tincommius, his features so bruised and swollen that it was barely possible to recognise the once handsome prince.
A small column of refugees hurried from the gate, heading in the opposite direction in a bid to escape the inevitable bloodshed when Caratacus and his army arrived before Calleva. Away to the west the tiny figures of a screen of cavalry appeared on a distant hillside and moved towards Calleva with painstaking slowness. Behind them, crossing the brow of the hill, crawled a thick black column of infantry. The Durotrigans who had withdrawn from Calleva the previous night now marched to join their allies. Caratacus, it seemed, had made an early start as well. Nearly five miles separated the two sides, by Cato’s estimate. Not much of a margin, but one that the hard-marching legionaries should be able to maintain until they reached the Second Legion’s fortified encampment.
Before long the enemy column changed course, moving obliquely away from Calleva and straight towards the Romans. Vespasian’s small force crested a low ridge and marched out of sight of the Atrebatan capital. The sun rose and climbed steadily into a clear sky, and not a breath of wind disturbed the air so that the deafening crunch of army boots and the squeaking creak of the wagons’ wheels filled the men’s ears. Dust was thrown up by the leading cohort and it left a gritty sensation in the mouths of the men further down the column. By late morning the sun was shining brightly and sweat poured off the men marching without respite, since any stop would close the gap between them and their pursuers.
So it was that at noon, the head of the column was approaching a narrow vale that curved round a small bare hillock. At the head of the column rode Vespasian and Tribune Quintillus, eschewing the normal practice of riding behind the vanguard. The legate was keen to reunite his forces as speedily as possible and did not want to waste any time having the lay of the land ahead relayed to him.
‘We’re making good time,’ Quintillus was saying conversationally.
‘Yes. . . good time,’ the legate replied, then he straightened his back and stared ahead.
‘What is it, sir?’
Vespasian did not answer, but urged his mount into a trot along the track as he craned his neck to see more. A few moments later he had a clear view round the hillock. Half a mile ahead of the column a dense mass of chariots and cavalry lay across their path.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Caratacus had sent his light forces on ahead, even though he knew that they could not defeat the Romans by themselves. But then again they didn’t have to, Vespasian smiled bitterly. They just had to delay the legionaries long enough for Caratacus and his heavy infantry to arrive and pile into the rear of the Roman column. If the legate moved quickly, he could form his men into a dense wedge and force his way through the enemy blocking the way ahead. But such formations had never been designed for speed and the natives would simply fall back before the wedge and harry the Romans until their comrades could catch up and throw their weight decisively into the fight.
‘Sir?’ Quintillus was looking at him expectantly. ‘Shall I give the order to turn the column round?’
‘No. Caratacus will have moved between us and Calleva by now.’
‘Well. . . what shall we do?’ Quintillus stared at the enemy waiting ahead of them. ‘Sir?’
Vespasian ignored the tribune as he wheeled his horse round and raised his arm. ‘Halt!’
The vanguard cohort pulled up and the order was swiftly conveyed down the column. Each century stopped marching and the wagons grumbled to a standstill, then nothing moved on the track. The legate was already assessing the surrounding landscape, and fixed his gaze on the small hillock to their right. He had already decided that the column’s best chance of survival was a static defence. If they tried to continue they would be worn down and cut to pieces long before they came in sight of the rest of the legion. If they could inflict enough damage on their enemies they might just demoralise them enough to withdraw so that the column might still reach the legion’s fortified camp. . . Fat chance of that happening, he mused.
Vespasian drew a breath before he gave the order that would commit him and his men to action.
‘Column. . . deploy to the right!’
‘Sir?’ Quintillus urged his horse alongside Vespasian’s. ‘What are you doing?’
‘We’re making a stand, Tribune. What else can we do?’
‘Making a stand?’ Quintillus raised his finely plucked brows. ‘That’s madness. They’ll kill us all.’
‘Very likely.’
‘But, sir! There must be something else we can do. . . Anything?’
‘What do you suggest? You can’t ride for help this time, Quintillus. Not unless you want to chance your arm with that lot ahead of us and make a break for it.’
The tribune blushed at the barely concealed charge of cowardice, and shook his head slowly. ‘I’m staying.’
‘Good man. Now make yourself useful. Ride to the top of that hill and keep watch for Caratacus. Also. . .’ Vespasian wondered how far he should trust to luck after the fates had led him into this trap. ‘Also, keep an eye out for that other force the scouts reported. They might be ours.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Quintillus turned his horse up the slope and galloped towards the brow of the hill.
The First Cohort, twice the size of the legion’s other cohorts, was marching past Vespasian, following the colour party up the grassy slope. Behind them the rest of the column rippled forward. Century by century they moved along the track until they reached the legate’s position, and then turned abruptly to their righ
t. Vespasian was watching Caratacus’s blocking force for any sign of movement, but the enemy was content simply to deny the Romans passage along the vale, and sat on their chariots and horses watching the Romans climb up the hill. A more enterprising commander, Vespasian reflected, would have tried to occupy the hill ahead of the Romans, but the Britons’ lack of self-control was a defining feature of the way they waged war, and the British commander was probably wise to have his men stand their ground.
As the wagons turned up the slope their drivers urged their lumbering oxen on with shouts and sharp blows from their canes. The legate watched for a moment, conscious of the slow progress of the vehicles, then he shouted an order.
‘Centurion Cato!’
‘Sir?’
‘Set your men to those wagons. I want them on top of the hill as quickly as possible.’
Cato saluted and ordered his men to load their weapons into the wagons. Then with a handful of warriors assigned to the rear of each of the eight wagons, the big Celts heaved and strained to move the wagons up the hill. Cadminius and his men took charge of the wagon provided for Verica and did their best to ensure that their king was not jolted. All the while the legionaries marched past them, until only the rearguard remained, tasked with protecting the wagons until they reached the position the legate had chosen. It was back-breaking work that required as much nerve as strength. Every so often the forward momentum would slacken and the big chocks of wood carried in the back of each wagon would have to be quickly dropped into place behind the wheels to ensure that the wagons did not begin to roll back down the slope. Once that started it was almost impossible to stop, and men might be crushed, vehicles might collide and the oxen, harnessed to the wagons would be sent sprawling with a very real chance of breaking their legs. And all under the merciless glare of the midday sun. By the time the incline of the slope began to even out Cato and his men were running with sweat and slumped down beside the vehicles, chests heaving as they struggled to catch their breath.
“What the hell are you doing? On your feet!’ Vespasian shouted at them as he rode up to the wagons. ‘Centurion, get your men formed up! I want these wagons drawn up in the centre. Make sure that the king is well protected. I’m holding you responsible for his safety.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato drew himself up and licked his lips, dry – like his throat – from all his exertions. Then, using a combination of orders and harsh curses he ordered his men to manoeuvre the wagons into a dense mass, before the chocks were pounded tightly against the wheels. The sharp smell of the oxen was made worse by the baking heat, but only when the work was finished did the centurion allow his men a small measure from their waterskins. Around them curved the lines of the cohorts, drawn up in a tight circle about the crest of the hill. Down in the vale the Britons had not moved and sat watching the Romans, as still and silent as before. Away along the track towards Calleva, a dark column of infantry was marching towards the hill, throwing up a thin haze of dust that obscured the full extent of their numbers. Still further in the distance was a smudge on the horizon that might be a thin band of cloud, or another force of men on the move.
Vespasian passed the order for the men to rest and eat their rations. The coming fight might well be their last, but men fought best on full stomachs and the legate was determined to wring every advantage that was available to him out of the situation. They had the high ground, clear lines of visibility and the best training and equipment of any army in the known world. In all this, Vespasian was content. But three and half thousand men, no matter what their quality, would not prevail against many times that number, and every moment that passed revealed more and more of the enemy’s strength as their column crept over a distant ridge and headed relentlessly towards the tight ring of legionaries defending the top of the hillock. There seemed to be no end to the enemy forces spilling across the landscape, and the Romans viewed it all with quiet resignation as they chewed on strips of salted pork drawn from their haversacks.
Macro came over to see Cato, and pulled himself up on to the driver’s bench beside his friend.
Macro nodded towards Verica’s wagon. “How’s the king doing?’
‘Well enough. I looked in on him a while back. He’s sitting up and complaining about being bumped about.’
‘Think he’ll recover?’
‘Does it matter?’ Cato nodded towards the approaching enemy column.
‘No,’ Macro conceded. ‘Not now.’
‘After all that fighting back in Calleva, we end up here,’ Cato grumbled.
‘That’s the army for you,’ replied Macro, straining his tired eyes as he stared in the same direction as Cato. ‘Any idea who that second lot are yet?’
‘No. Too far. Moving quickly, though. Few more hours and they’ll be up with us.’
‘Knowing our luck, they’ll just be more of those bastards.’ Macro pointed towards the enemy column approaching the hill. ‘Don’t know where they all come from. Thought we’d destroyed their army last summer. Caratacus must have found himself some new allies.’
‘With people like Tribune Quintillus handling the diplomatic side of things, it’s a wonder the entire island isn’t against us.’
‘Right.’ Both centurions turned their heads to look down the slope a short distance to where Vespasian and his senior officers were conferring. The tribune was talking in an animated fashion and pointed back in the direction of Calleva.
‘I expect he’s trying to persuade the legate to make a break for it.’
Cato shook his head. ‘Isn’t going to happen. Premature suicide isn’t the legate’s style. The tribune’s wasting his breath.’
‘He’s proved to be a real asset for our cause all right,’ said Macro. ‘Things dropped in the shit the moment he arrived.’
‘Yes. . . yes, they did.’
‘It’s almost as if the twat was trying to make a mess of the situation in Calleva.’
‘Well, why not?’ Cato replied quietly. ‘There was a lot at stake for him. If Verica managed to keep on top of events the tribune would just have had to go back to the general and make a report. I imagine he’s been stirring things up as much as he can behind the scenes. Anything to upset the situation, and give him an excuse to use his procurator’s powers. Not that he was very successful there. I think he must have assumed that Celtic aristocrats played to the same bent rules as Roman aristocrats. Didn’t account for their sense of honour.’
‘Honour?’ Macro raised his eyebrows. ‘Tincommius didn’t seem to know much about honour.’
‘Oh, he did, in his own way. The man wanted his tribe to remain free, almost as much as he wanted to rule it. And he must have been an eager enough student of Roman political techniques while he was in exile.’
‘You’ve got to hand it to us,’ Macro smiled, ‘there’s not much we can’t teach these barbarians.’
‘True. Very true. . . As it is, the Atrebatans are finished. Plautius will have to annex their kingdom and turn it into a military province.’
Macro looked at him. ‘You think so?’
‘What else can he do? Assuming the general can recover from this balls-up. The loss of a legion is going to stall the campaign for quite a while. And it won’t play well in Rome.’
‘No. . .’
‘But look on the bright side,’ Cato smiled bleakly, ‘at least Quintillus is going to have to live, or die, with the consequences of his actions.’ He waved his hand towards the enemy.
‘I suppose.’
As they watched, the column started to split in two as Caratacus’ forces moved to surround the hillock. The chariots and cavalry in the vale advanced to complete the encirclement and with a last glance towards the distant haze above the still unidentified column closing in from north-west of Calleva, Macro jumped down from the wagon.
‘I’ll see you afterwards,’ he nodded to Cato.
‘Yes, sir. Until then.’
Chapter Forty
As Macro strode off to
his century the headquarters trumpeters blasted out the signal to stand to. All across the crest of the hillock men rose wearily to their feet and shuffled into the tight defensive formation that Vespasian hoped would hold off the Britons’ assault when it came. The legionaries closed ranks and grounded their javelins and shields in an unbroken ring four ranks deep. Centurions paced along their men, bawling out insults and threats to any man who had committed even the smallest infraction of the rules. An untied helmet or bootstrap, poorly slung sword or dagger – all provided the centurions with an excuse to charge in and give the miscreant the fright of his life. Which was very much to the point. With an enemy massing for the attack, any diversion from thoughts of the coming battle would help steady the legionaries.
Shortly after noon the enemy made their move. Dense blocks of native warriors surrounded the hill, and worked themselves up into a frenzy of excitement around their gaudy serpent banners as they waited for the order to attack the hated Romans. The deafening war cries and braying of long war horns carried up the slope and assaulted the ears of the legionaries waiting silently on the crest. Then, without a discernible word of command, the Britons rippled forward, walking fast, then breaking into a slow trot as they reached the foot of the slope. Vespasian gauged the distance between his men and the enemy carefully, to judge the best moment to issue his first order. As the gradient increased the Britons slowed down, bunching together as they struggled up the hill to close with the legionaries. When they were no more than a hundred paces away, and some of the men began to look round anxiously at their legate, Vespasian cupped a hand to his mouth and filled his lungs with air.
‘Shields up!’ bellowed the legate, and all round the hilltop the red shields with their ornately painted surfaces rose up; metal trims and polished bronze shield bosses glittering in the sunlight. For a brief moment the shields shimmered as each man aligned himself with his neighbour and then the defensive wall was complete and the Romans peered over the rims with grim expressions.
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 37
