Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (13 page)

Cato shook his head, clambered back to his feet, and pushed forward. He was aware of the splash of water, and realised that the charge of the Wolf Cohort had carried them as far as the ford. One last effort and the fight was over. He could even hear Macro now, bellowing in triumph and battle-rage as he cut through the rear of the enemy column. Already Cato could see the red auxiliary shields and tunics of the other cohort through the shattered ranks of the Durotrigans before him. One of them suddenly looked at Cato, threw his sword into the river and kneeled down, pleading. Before the centurion could respond the Atrebatan warrior to his right thrust his sword into the man’s chest. Cato looked round and saw that more and more of the enemy were foolishly lowering their weapons and trying to surrender. But the blood-crazed Atrebatans continued to strike them down where they stood.

‘Stop!’ Cato desperately shouted above the din. ‘Wolf Cohort! Halt! STOP!’

When the warrior to his right made to strike down his next victim Cato whacked him on the arm with the flat of his sword, knocking the blade from the man’s hand.

‘Enough!’

Slowly sense returned to the Atrebatans as their Roman officers bellowed orders to end the carnage. The surviving Durotrigans were cowering on the ground or had retreated into deeper water, to escape the savage short swords, and waited for their fate, up to their chests in the bloodstained current.

‘Cato! Cato, lad!’ Here was Macro, beaming face spattered with blood. Beside him, holding the Boar standard was Tincommius, with a gash on his upper arm. ‘We did it!’

But Cato was looking down-river, where a small band of the Durotrigans was escaping along the bank.

‘Not yet, sir. Look there!’

Macro followed where Cato pointed. ‘All right, get your men after them. I’ll tidy up here.’

Cato turned away, splashing back to the edge of the ford, taking care not to stumble over the semi-submerged bodies. On the track he dragged Bedriacus clear of the mêlée and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Wolves! Wolves! On me!’

The commanders of his centuries obediently came trotting over, but the Atrebatans had started mutilating the bodies of their enemies.

‘Wolves!’ Cato shouted again.

‘What the hell are they up to?’ muttered Figulus. ‘Oh, no . . .’

Cato turned round and saw one of his men standing above a dead enemy, holding the hair in one hand as he hacked through the last few tendons of the neck with his short sword. Looking round, Cato realised they were all at it. He glanced back at the escaping Durotrigans.

‘Centurion Cato!’ Macro bellowed from the ford. ‘What the hell are you waiting for? Get after them!’

Cato ran back down to his men, grabbed the nearest warrior by the arm and shoved him towards the Durotrigans. ‘GO! MOVE!’

Some of the others looked up, saw what he was gesturing at and started after the enemy, tucking the severed heads under their arms.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Cato exploded. ‘Leave the heads until later!’

They ignored him and started the pursuit along the riverbank. Cato stopped one man, and, with a grimace, pulled the head out of his hands. The Atrebatan warrior growled a warning and raised his sword threateningly.

‘Tincommius!’ Cato shouted, keeping an eye on the warrior. ‘Get over here!’

The Atrebatan noble pushed his way through the men of the cohorts and approached Cato.

‘Tell ‘em to leave the heads alone.’

‘But it’s a tradition.’

‘Fuck tradition!’ Cato yelled. ‘The Durotrigans are getting away. Tell our men to drop the heads and get moving.’

Tincommius shouted Cato’s order to the cohort, but the only reaction was an angry muttering. By now the Durotrigans had a lead of nearly a quarter of a mile and were fading into the gathering dusk.

‘All right,’ Cato continued desperately, ‘tell ‘em they can keep the heads they’re already carrying. We’ll come back for the rest, I swear it.’

Contented by their commander’s compromise, the Wolves left the mangled corpses, and few remaining prisoners, in the care of their comrades of the Boar Cohort. With heads jammed under arms, they began to chase after the Durotrigans, Cato leading the way and Bedriacus right at his heels.

The surviving Durotrigans were mainly from the chariots, and weighed down by their equipment. Despite their head start, slowly the distance closed as Cato sprinted after them, constantly looking back to make sure that his men were keeping up. Those unburdened by gory trophies stayed with him, anxious to win their share of the final glory of the skirmish. The rest struggled manfully with shield, sword and one or more heads.

There was no track on the riverbank and the Durotrigans scrambled along, fleeing for their lives, their pigtailed leader among them. Some were injured and began to fall behind.

At last Cato had almost run down the rearmost man. His heart pounded as he pushed himself to move faster, and he prepared to sink his sword in between the man’s shoulder blades. When no more than ten feet separated them the man glanced back and his eyes widened in fear. So he missed the small gap where part of the riverbank had crumbled, and tripped, sprawling on the ground at Cato’s mercy. The centurion paused long enough to run him through and continued after the others.

Several more of the stragglers were dispatched, and the men of the Wolf Cohort remorselessly closed on the last group of Durotrigans as the light of the dying day cast long shadows of running men across the grass of the riverbank. In the end the enemy realised the game was up and their leader shouted an order to the surviving members of his band. They stopped running, turned to face their pursuers, and closed ranks, chests heaving for breath.

Cato and his men were in equally poor shape as they surrounded the score of warriors who stood in a tight semi-circle with their backs to the river. The enemy were clearly experienced fighting men, and even though they knew their end had come, they were preparing to take as many of the Atrebatans with them as possible.

But Cato still wanted to offer them a chance to live. He pointed to their leader and waved his hand down.

‘Give in,’ he panted in Celtic. ‘Drop your weapons.’

‘Fuck you!’ The enemy leader spat on the ground before screaming something unintelligible to Cato. Whatever it was, it provided the Atrebatans with the excuse to attack and they rushed forward in a wave of scarlet. Cato went with them, Bedriacus shouting his war cry at his side. The stocky enemy leader wielded his sword two-handed in a fast whirling sweep, and the first of the Atrebatans keen to have the honour of killing him was almost cut in half as the heavy blade splintered his shield, severed his arm and tore through his midriff. More of the lightly armed Atrebatans fell at the feet of the small knot of Durotrigan warriors, but there was never any doubt about the outcome. One by one the Durotrigans fell, to be butchered on the ground. At last only their leader remained, blood-streaked and exhausted.

Cato pushed himself forward opposite the pigtailed man, raising his shield and readying his sword for the decisive thrust. His opponent sized up the skinny Roman and snarled his contempt. Just as Cato knew he would, he swung his great sword up to cut his Roman foe in two. The centurion threw himself forwards and down, rolling into the man’s legs. The man fell headlong over Cato’s back, right at the feet of Bedriacus. With a savage howl of triumph the hunter rammed his short sword into his enemy’s skull with a dull crunch. The body trembled a moment, and was still.

As Cato climbed wearily to his feet Bedriacus hacked through the dead leader’s stocky neck. It was hard going, and Cato turned away, looking towards the ford, nearly half a mile away. He was so tired that every breath was agony and he felt light-headed. When he looked back Bedriacus was trying to tie the head on to the standard’s crosspiece using the pigtails.

‘No!’ Cato shouted angrily. ‘Not on my bloody standard you don’t!’

Chapter Twelve

Word of the victory swept through the muddy streets of Calleva as soon as the excited messenger, sent by Macro, brought the news to Verica. When the two cohorts approached the main gates they saw that a large crowd had gathered outside the ramparts. At the sight of the cohorts the crowd let out a roar of triumph and delight. The Durotrigans, who had been causing so much misery and grief over recent months, had at last been given a bloody nose. In truth, it had been no more than a brief skirmish, but desperate people are inclined to celebrate the smallest of victories. And so the wild cheering carried on as the column neared Calleva. A short distance behind the two cohorts trundled the wagons of the supply convoy the Durotrigans had hoped to intercept and destroy. They had linked up with the cohorts the morning after the ambush.

At the head of the Boar Cohort, Macro proudly marched along the track. Despite his reservations about the calibre of these natives, they had performed creditably enough. Most of them had been farmers a few weeks before, used to wielding nothing more deadly than a hoe. But now they had been blooded, their spirits were high, and they might yet win his grudging approval. The Durotrigan raiders had been completely crushed; only a handful had escaped by swimming down-river as night fell. Fifty prisoners had been taken, once the Roman officers had managed to restore control over their men and stop them competing for head trophies. The Atrebatans had been particularly merciless to the handful of former warriors of their own tribe discovered amongst the enemy, and few of these had been spared.

The Atrebatan renegades could not stomach what they saw as Verica’s craven alliance with Rome. So they had deserted their tribe and fled to the ranks of Caratacus, fast swelling with all those who still kept faith with the past glories of the Celtic peoples. The surviving captives stumbled along between the cohorts in two lines, tethered together around their necks, with their arms bound behind their backs. While Macro hoped to sell them to the dealers waiting in Calleva, he was realistic enough to know that the Atrebatans would almost certainly want to make a bloody sport of them to slake their thirst for revenge. Such a waste, Macro sighed, when able-bodied slaves were fetching high prices in the markets of Gaul. Perhaps Verica might be persuaded to throw the injured and weak to the mob and save the best stock for a more profitable fate.

Macro turned back towards Tincommius. The young nobleman looked solemn as he held the gleaming boar standard as high as he could.

‘Quite a reception.’ Macro nodded towards the crowd at the gate.

‘That lot would cheer anything . . .’

Macro could not help smiling at the youngster’s cynicism. ‘Go and ask Cato if he wants to join us. We might as well enjoy this together.’

Tincommius fell out of line and trotted back down the rippling column of red shields, ignoring the cheerful jibes and comments from the men as he passed. When he reached the junior centurion at the head of the Wolf Cohort Tincommius nodded a greeting to Bedriacus and fell in beside the Roman.

‘Centurion Macro wonders if you’d like to join him when we reach the gates.’

‘No.’

‘No?’ Tincommius raised his eyebrows.

‘Thank him, but I think it’d look better if I marched in with my cohort.’

‘He thinks you deserve the acclaim just as much as he does.’

‘As do all these men.’ Cato thought it only natural that Macro would want to relish his moment of triumph. Natural, but bad politics. ‘My respects to Centurion Macro, but I’ll march into Calleva at the head of my own men.’

Tincommius shrugged. ‘Very well, sir. As you wish.’

As Tincommius returned to his unit. Cato shook his head. It was important that Verica and the Atrebatans saw this victory as their own. This was no time to indulge himself in some petty triumph, much as the prospect of being hailed as a hero appealed to some craven spirit within him.

Besides, the victory had been easily won. The enemy had been careless. No doubt they had grown used to freely scouring the lands of the Atrebatans for easy pickings. When they were fast enough to elude the legions and strong enough to overcome any pitiful attempts at resistance offered to them by the Atrebatans, it was small wonder that they had fallen so readily into the trap. A successful ambush was one thing, but how would these barely trained men cope when drawn up in front of an enemy prepared to fight a pitched battle? How quickly would their current high spirits fail them? Their proud boasting would soon die away. Their mouths would dry up. The icy grip of fear would tighten on their imaginations, squeezing out every dark dread that plagued men poised on the threshold of battle.

Now that he had been appointed to the rank of centurion the impulse to scrutinise himself was worse than ever. Despite the vibrant mood of celebration washing around him on all sides, Cato was consumed by a bitter melancholy and had to force himself to smile as he turned and met the inane grin of Bedriacus the hunter as the latter raised the Wolf standard high over his head and waved it from side to side.

Ahead the excited crowd was spilling forwards along the sides of the two cohorts, and Verica’s bodyguards struggled to protect their king from being jostled. The cheers of the people of Calleva were ringing in Cato’s ears as their ruddy features beamed into his face and rough hands clapped him on the shoulders. All attempt at preserving any sense of marching discipline collapsed and the men of the two cohorts merged with the rest of their folk. Here and there proud warriors were holding up the heads of their enemies for family and friends to admire. Cato felt a little sickened by the display, much as he had come to like and, in some small way, admire these men. Once the island had been pacified, the Atrebatans might be induced to adopt more civilised ways, but for now he must tolerate the quaint traditions of the Celtic way of war.