Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (2 page)

‘Shit!’ Vespasian hissed through clenched teeth. These bloody infantry swords were no good on horseback, and he cursed himself for not carrying a long cavalry sword as his scouts did.

Then another enemy warrior was in front of him. He just had time to register the thin, frail physique and white spiked hair before he slashed his blade into the man’s neck with a wet crunching sound. The man grunted and tumbled forward, and was gone as Vespasian galloped on towards the convoy. He snatched a glimpse at his scouts, and saw that most had reined in and were busy thrusting their spears at any Briton they could find cringing on the ground. It was the perfect moment for any cavalryman: the killing frenzy that followed the breaking of the enemy line. But they were heedless of the danger of the chariots that were even now trundling across the slope towards the small party of Roman horsemen.

‘Leave them!’ Vespasian roared. ‘Leave them! Make for the wagons! Go!’

The scouts’ senses returned to them and they closed ranks, and galloped after Vespasian as he made for the rearmost wagon, no more than a hundred paces away. The auxiliaries in the rearguard raised a ragged cheer and waved them on with their javelins. The horsemen had almost reached their comrades when Vespasian heard a faint whirr, and the dark streak of an arrow shot by his head. Then he and his men were in amongst the wagons, halting their blown horses.

‘Close up! Close up at the rear of the convoy!’

While his men eased their horses into formation behind the last wagon, Vespasian trotted forward to the convoy’s commander, still standing astride the driver’s bench of his vehicle. As soon as he saw the legate’s ribbon fastened around Vespasian’s breastplate the man saluted.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You are?’ Vespasian snapped.

‘Centurion Gius Aurelias, Fourteenth Gallic Auxiliary Cohort, sir.’

‘Aurelias, keep your wagons moving. Don’t stop for anything. Anything, you understand? I’ll take charge of your men. You look after the wagons.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Vespasian wheeled his horse round and trotted back towards his men, taking a deep breath before shouting out his orders.

‘Fourteenth Gallic! Form line on me!’

Vespasian swept his sword out to the side and the survivors of the convoy escort hurried to take up position.

Beyond the cavalry scouts the Durotrigans had recovered from the shock of the charge, and now that they could see how pitifully few men had panicked them they burned with shame and thirsted for revenge. They advanced in a dense mass of mixed light and heavy infantry, and rumbling round to the side of the convoy came the chariots in an effort to head off the wagons before they could reach the gates and trap the Romans between them and their infantry, like a vice. Vespasian realised there was nothing he could do about the chariots. If they did manage to cut the convoy off from the gates then Aurelias would simply have to try to force his wagons through, trusting to the lumpen momentum of his oxen to push aside the lighter Durotrigan ponies and their chariots.

All that Vespasian could do now was hold off the enemy infantry as long as possible. If they should reach the wagons then all was lost. Vespasian took one last glance along his slender line of men, and the grimly determined expression on the faces of the tribesmen advancing on them, and knew at once that he and his troops stood no chance. He had to stop himself from laughing bitterly. To have survived all the bloody battles against Caratacus and his armies over the last year, only to die here in this squalid little skirmish - it was too ignominious. And there was still so much he wanted to achieve. He cursed the fates, and then the commander of the garrison at Calleva. If only the bastard had led his men out to support the convoy at once, they might have stood a chance.

Chapter Two

‘Not in here you don’t!’ Centurion Macro shouted. ‘Officers only.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ replied the orderly at the nearest end of the stretcher. ‘Chief surgeon’s orders.’

Macro glowered for a moment and then eased himself back down on to his bed, careful to ensure that he kept the injured side of his head away from the bolster. It had been two months since a druid had nearly scalped him with a sword blow, and while the wound itself had healed, it was still painful, and the blinding headaches were only just beginning to abate. The orderlies came into the small cell and carefully lowered the stretcher, grunting with the effort.

‘What’s his story?’

‘Cavalryman, sir,’ replied the orderly when he had straightened up. ‘Their patrol was ambushed this morning. The survivors started coming in a short while ago.’

Macro had heard the garrison’s assembly call earlier. He sat up again. ‘Why weren’t we told?’

The orderly shrugged. ‘Why should you be? You’re just patients here, sir. No reason for us to disturb you.’

‘Hey, Cato!’ Macro turned towards the other bed in the cell. ‘Cato! You hear that? The man thinks that sorry little centurions like ourselves don’t need to be told about latest developments . . . Cato? . . . CATO!’

Macro swore softly, looked quickly around, reached for his vine staff, leaning against the wall by the bed, and then gave the still form in the other bed a firm poke with the end of the staff. ‘Come on, boy! Wake up!’

There was a groan from under the blanket, then the rough woollen folds were eased back and Cato’s dark curls emerged from the warm fug beneath. Macro’s companion had only recently been promoted to the rank of centurion. Before then he had served as Macro’s optio. At eighteen Cato was one of the youngest centurions in the legions. He had won the attention of his superiors for his courage in battle and his resourceful handling of a sensitive rescue mission deep into enemy territory earlier that summer. That was when he and Macro had been severely wounded by their druid foes. The leader of the druids had hacked into Cato’s ribs with a heavy ceremonial sickle, laying open his side. Cato had nearly died from the wound, but now, many weeks later, he was recovering well, and regarded the dull red scar tissue that curved round his chest with a measure of pride, even though it hurt like hell when he put any strain on the muscles down that side of his body.

Cato’s eyes flickered open, he blinked and then turned to look at Centurion Macro. ‘What’s up?’

‘We’ve got company.’ Macro jabbed his thumb at the man on the stretcher. ‘Seems that Caratacus’ lads are making themselves busy once again.’

‘They’ll be after a supply column,’ said Cato. ‘Must have bumped into the patrol.’

‘That’s the third attack this month, I think.’ Macro looked towards the orderly. ‘Ain’t that right?’

‘Yes, sir. The third time. Hospital’s getting filled up, and we’re being worked to the bone.’ The last few words were given heavy emphasis and both orderlies edged a step closer to the door. ‘Mind if we get back to our duties, sir?’

‘Not so fast. What’s the full story on the convoy?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I just deal with the casualties. I heard someone say that what was left of the escort was still on the road, a short way off, trying to save the last few wagons. Stupid, if you ask me. Should have left them to the Britons and saved their own skins. Now, sir, do you mind . . .?’

‘What? Oh, yes. Go on, bugger off.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The orderly made a small smile and, shoving his partner ahead of him, he left the cell and closed the door behind him.

The instant the door was shut Macro swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his boots.

‘Where are you going, sir?’ Cato asked drowsily.

‘To the gate, to see what’s happening. Get up. You’re coming too.’

‘I am?’

‘Of course you are. Don’t you want to see what’s going on? Or haven’t you had enough of being shut up in this bloody hospital for the best part of two months? Besides,’ Macro added, as he began to tie his straps, ‘you’ve been asleep most of the day. Fresh air’ll do you good.’

Cato frowned. The reason he slept most of the day was because his room-mate snored so loudly that sleep was almost impossible at night. In truth, he was heartily sick of the hospital and was looking forward to being returned to active duty. But it would be some time before that happened, Cato reflected bitterly. He had only just regained enough strength to get back on his feet. His companion, despite an appalling head wound, was blessed with a tougher constitution and, barring the occasional shattering headache, was almost fit enough for duty.

As Macro looked down at his boot straps Cato gazed at the livid red scar stretching across the top of Macro’s head. The wound had left knotty lumps of skin and no hair grew around it. The surgeon had promised that some of the hair would return eventually, enough of it to hide most of the scars.

‘With my luck,’ Macro had added sourly, ‘that’ll be just in time for me to start going bald.’

Cato smiled at the memory. Then a fresh line of argument that might justify staying in bed occurred to him.

‘Are you sure you should go out, what with you fainting the last time we sat in the hospital yard. Do you really think it’s wise, sir?’

Macro looked up irritably, fingers automatically tying his straps as they had almost every morning for the best part of sixteen years. He shook his head. ‘I keep telling you, it’s not necessary to call me “sir” all the time - only in front of the men, and in formal situations. From now on, it’s “Macro” to you. Got it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cato responded immediately, winced and smacked his forehead. ‘Sorry. It’s all a bit hard to adjust to. I still haven’t got used to the idea of being a centurion. Must be the youngest one in the army.’

‘In the whole bloody Empire, I should think.’

For a moment Macro regretted the remark, and recognised in himself a trace of bitterness. Much as he had been genuinely delighted when Cato had won his promotion, the older man had soon got over his enthusiasm and every so often let slip some remark about a centurion’s need for experience. Or he would offer a few words of advice about how a centurion should conduct himself. It was all a bit rich, Macro chided himself, given that he had been promoted to the centurionate barely a year and a half before Cato himself. Granted he had already served sixteen years with the Eagles, and was a well-respected veteran with a generally good conduct record, but he was almost as new to the rank as his young friend.

As he watched Macro tie his boots Cato was uneasy about his promotion. He could not help believing it had come too soon for him, and felt shamed when he compared himself to Macro, a consummate soldier, if ever there was one. Cato already dreaded the moment when he would have recovered enough to be appointed to the command of his own century. It took very little imagination to anticipate how men far older and more experienced than he would respond to having an eighteen-year-old placed in command of them. Sure, they would see the medals on his harness and know that their centurion was a man of some valour, and that he had won the eye of Vespasian. They might note the scars he bore on his left arm, further proof of Cato’s courage in battle, but none of that changed the fact that he had only just reached manhood, and was younger than some of the sons of the men serving in his century. That would rankle, and Cato knew they would watch him closely, and be utterly unforgiving of any mistakes that he made. Not for the first time he wondered if there was any way he could quietly request being returned to his previous rank, and slip back into the comfortable role of being Macro’s optio.

Macro finished fastening his boot straps, stood up and reached for his scarlet military cloak.

‘Come on, Cato! On your feet. Let’s go.’

Outside the cell, the corridors of the hospital were filled with orderlies and casualties as the wounded continued to arrive. Surgeons pushed through the throng, making quick assessment of the injuries and directing the fatal cases to the small ward on the rear wall where they would be made as comfortable as possible before death claimed them. The rest were crammed in wherever space could be found. With Vespasian continuing his campaign against the hillforts of the Durotrigans, the hospital in Calleva was filled to capacity already, and the construction of a new block was not yet complete. The constant raids on the supply lines of General Plautius’ army were adding yet more patients to the overstretched facilities of the hospital and men were already being accommodated on rough mats along the sides of the main corridors. Fortunately, it was summer and they would not suffer too much discomfort at night.

Macro and Cato made for the main entrance. Wearing only their standard-issue tunics and cloaks, they carried their vine staffs to indicate their rank, and other men respectfully gave way before them. Macro was also wearing his felt helmet liner, partly to conceal his wound - he was tired of the looks of disgust he was getting from the local children - but mostly because exposure to fresh air made his scar ache. Cato carried his vine staff in his right hand and raised his left elbow to protect his injured side from any knocks.

The entrance of the hospital opened on to the main thoroughfare of the fortified depot that Vespasian had constructed to the side of Calleva. Several light carts stood outside the entrance, and the wounded were still being unloaded from the last one to arrive. The beds of the empty carts were a jumble of discarded equipment and dark smears of blood.

‘The other side are getting pretty ambitious,’ said Macro. ‘This isn’t the work of some small group of raiders. Looks like they’re hitting us with a large column. They’re getting bolder all the time. If this carries on, the legions are going to have a real problem keeping up the advance.’