Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (34 page)

But, there, barely a mile away, was Calleva. Sections of the ramparts were illuminated by blazing faggots that the defenders had hurled down on to the ground in front of the town in an attempt to reveal the presence of any enemies lurking nearby. Even as Cato watched a few more blazing bundles of kindling were raised above the ramparts by tiny figures wielding pitchforks. Then the faggots were thrown over in bright flaring arcs and burst on the ground in showers of sparks.

The position of some of the attackers was obvious from several small fires ringing the main gate. Every so often a fire arrow would rise up, curve gracefully over the ramparts and disappear amongst the huts beyond. Dull red smudges behind the ramparts showed where a number of small blazes had already been started.

The situation looked desperate, and Cato briefly considered what he must do. The Second Legion was at least two days’ march away. Too far, perhaps, to arrive in time to save Calleva, and the legion’s supply depot. There was an infantry cohort a day’s march away in the opposite direction, guarding a river crossing, but they would be too few to make a difference. Besides, with the Durotrigans in the area, the centurion would have to make sure he stayed out of sight as much as possible, and that could double the length of time it would take to reach the nearest help.

There was no alternative, he realised. He must find a way back into Calleva and do what he could to help organise the defence of the Atrebatan capital. If Macro was dead then the command of the survivors of the two cohorts would fall to him. If Tincommius was dead then, with Verica barely alive, the Atrebatans would be leaderless. Cato had to get back as quickly as possible.

Crouching low, sword held tightly in his hand, he moved off in the direction of the main gate. A light breeze was blowing, rustling the tall grass and the leaves of the stunted trees that dotted the small plain. The strain of creeping forwards, muscles tensed for instant attack or flight, senses straining to detect any hint of movement or sound of the enemy, told on the young centurion, and after half a mile he stopped and rested a moment. Between him and the gate, their dark shapes rising above the grass, the Durotrigans extended in a loose screen, barring access to the town from any survivors of the two cohorts still lurking nearby. As Cato watched, one of the enemy moved closer to a comrade and the harsh laughter of their voices was clearly audible. Rising to his feet but keeping bent over, Cato quickly made for the gap in the screen and quietly slipped through, glancing both ways to make sure that he had not been spotted. No alarm was given and he pressed on. A short distance beyond was one of the small campfires lit by the Durotrigans. It was ringed by the dark forms of men sleeping under their cloaks, resting in preparation for the next day’s assault on Calleva. One man stood guard, warming himself by the fire, the shaft of his spear resting against his shoulder.

The loom of the fire spread across a wide area and Cato realised that in skirting it he might well be seen by one of the men in the screen he had just passed through. Directly beyond the fire was the gate, barely a few hundred paces distant. With a last glance round to make sure he had not yet been seen, Cato rose up from the grass and started to run forward, picking up speed as he approached the fire. Then the first of the sleeping Durotrigans was at his feet. Cato leaped over him, and the next one, and sprinted straight for the man standing in front of the fire. The warrior glanced over his shoulder, his eyes instantly widening as he caught sight of the savage expression on the face of the Roman hurtling towards him. He fumbled for the shaft of his spear, but it was too late. Cato slammed into the man’s back and thrust the enemy warrior, sprawling, right on top of the fire. As Cato rolled to one side, back on to his feet, and sprinted for the gate, a terrible shrieking from the warrior split the night. At once the men sleeping on the ground stirred and ran to help their comrade. Cato did not look back, but ran as fast as he could for the gate. Behind him there was a shout as he was seen, and more shouts as the alarm spread.

Cato had a good start, but already he was aware of dark shapes on either side, angling in towards him as they converged on the entrance to Calleva. Cato could see faces on the wall turning towards him. Someone drew an arrow to his bow and loosed a quick shot at the approaching figure. Cato sidestepped and there was a whirr close by in the darkness as he ran on.

‘Don’t shoot!’ he cried out in Latin, before he remembered the most recent password. ‘Boiled asparagus! Boiled asparagus! Don’t shoot!’

Another arrow whipped close by, this time from behind, and Cato flinched as he forced every last effort out of his tired legs.

‘Open the gate!’ he shouted, as he raced up to the defence ditch surrounding the town.

‘It’s the centurion!’ a voice shouted from the ramparts. ‘Get the fucking gate open!’

Cato ran up to the thick timbers and desperately struck his sword against the unyielding wood.

‘Open up! Open up!’ he screamed.

There was a deep groan from the far side of the gate as the locking bar was slid out of its heavy bracket. Cato turned to look back at his pursuers. He was terrified to see several figures burst out of the darkness into the glow of the burning faggots thrown down in front of the gate. One of them stopped, only twenty paces away, and threw a spear. It was a good throw and would have skewered Cato had he not seen it coming. He threw himself to the ground. An instant later the iron head struck the gate with a splintering crack and shivered a moment. Cato scrambled back to his feet and hammered on the gate

‘For fuck’s sake, open up!’

With a deep grinding grumble the gate began to swing inwards. Cato desperately pushed against it, and then some sixth sense made him glance over his shoulder. Right behind him, no more than six feet away, a Durotrigan warrior was drawing back his spear arm, ready to make a killing thrust into Cato’s back. A feral snarl of triumph twisted his features. Then, suddenly, there was a soft thud. The man froze, and Cato noticed the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from the top of his head. As the man toppled back, Cato thrust himself through the narrow opening that had appeared at the edge of the gate, and collapsed on the ground inside. At once the defenders threw themselves against the back of the gate and heaved it into position, just as a few of the Durotrigans slammed into the far side. But they were too few to make a difference and moments later the locking bar was eased back into its bracket and the gate was secured again. Cato stayed on his hands and knees, head bent forward between his arms as he gasped for breath.

A dark shape leaned over him.

‘You are in a sorry state, lad,’ Macro chuckled. ‘Where’ve you been all the bloody day?’

Cato drew a deep breath before he could reply. ‘Glad to see you too . . . Tincommius?’

‘No sign of him. Here, let me help you.’

Macro took a firm grip under Cato’s shoulders and heaved him onto his feet. By the flickering light of a nearby torch Cato saw that Macro was as filthy as himself, and had a large blood-soaked dressing on his thigh.

‘You all right?’

Macro was touched by the concern on his young companion’s face. ‘It’s nothing. Some bugger thought he’d try and slow me down by having a swipe at my leg.’

‘Bad?’

‘You should see the other fellow.’ Macro laughed. ‘Won’t be going very far without his head. Can’t say that you’ve picked a particularly good time to join us.’

‘How many have got back?’

‘Most of the legionaries. Figulus was the first.’

‘And the cohorts?’

Macro shook his head. ‘Not good. So far, barely two hundred. There’ll be some more, but not many now. They dumped most of the equipment when they ran. Except your standard bearer.’

‘Mandrax?’

‘That’s the lad. Came in shortly before you did, still carrying the standard. Could do with a few more like him. Anyway, I’ve had Silva pull some more equipment out of the depot stores. He’s over there, by that cart. You’d better get some replacement kit. Somehow, I think you’ll need it. I’ll be up on the palisade.’

As Macro strode off towards the ramp Cato glanced round and took in the situation. A number of houses had caught fire in the streets close to the gate and small clusters of townspeople were hurriedly trying to smother or douse the flames before they flared out of control. Silva, the veteran quartermaster, was distributing equipment to the most recently arrived survivors of the Wolves and the Boars. He waved a greeting as he saw Cato approaching.

‘Centurion! Heard we’d lost you. Thought you were going for the record.’

‘Record?’

‘For the legion’s shortest ever career in the centurionate.’

‘Very funny. I need some equipment.’

‘What do you want?’

‘All of it. Except the sword.’

‘Whatever happened to returning with your shield or on it?’ Silva muttered.

‘Sometimes living to fight another day takes precedence.’ Cato peered into the cart and saw that it had been roughly loaded with helmets, swords, daggers, belts, javelins, shields and anything else that came to hand. ‘You have any chain mail?’

‘Sorry. All gone. Only thing left is this.’ He tapped a set of the new segmented armour that was beginning to find favour in the legions. ‘Take it, or leave it, sir.’

‘All right then.’ Cato took the armour and worked it over his tunic. Silva helped lace it up while the centurion tied a rag round his head to replace the felt liner he had lost.

‘There.’ Silva stepped back. ‘Ever worn one of these before, sir?’

‘No.’

‘You’ll find it comfortable enough. The only drawback is that it makes throwing a javelin a bit of a chore. Otherwise, it’s fine, and cheaper too. I’ll add it to your mess bill. Together with the other items.’

Cato looked at him closely. ‘You are joking?’

‘Of course not, sir. All this has got to be accounted for.’

‘Right . . .’ Cato fastened the buckle of his sword-belt and, pulling the standard issue sword from the scabbard, he tossed it into the cart and sheathed his own blade in its place.

‘Make sure I only get charged for the scabbard.’

He grabbed a helmet and shield and turned away as Silva quickly noted on a large wax tablet the items the centurion had been issued.

Trotting up on to the parapet, Cato sought out Macro. The walkway over the gate was blocked by men preparing to heave over the next faggot. While four of them held the tight bundle of kindling wood up in the air on the end of pitchforks, a fifth man thrust a torch up into the bundle from beneath. The kindling caught fire quickly, cracking and sparking amid the licking flames. When it was well alight the order was given and the bundle was swung out over the rampart with as much force as possible. It thudded down beyond the rampart and rolled a short distance further, revealing a handful of the enemy bowmen.

‘There they are!’ one of the Atrebatans shouted, and a mixed volley of arrows, slingshots and javelins lashed down on the enemy, knocking several men to the ground, where they writhed and screamed in the orange glow of the burning faggot.

‘Good work!’ shouted Macro, reinforcing his praise to the natives with a thumbs-up. He caught sight of Cato and beckoned to him. ‘You tell ‘em next time! It’ll sound better in Celtic.’

‘I’m sure they got the message,’ Cato smiled. ‘What’s our situation?’

‘All right for now. I’ve got men posted all the way round in case they try to surprise us somewhere else, but they’ve not made any attempt to rush the ramparts. They’ve even stopped lobbing those fire arrows over the walls. Fuck knows why - they had us running around all over the place trying to put ‘em out.’

‘Has anyone seen the tribune?’ asked Cato.

‘Oh yes!’ Macro laughed bitterly. ‘He stopped by the gateway before he rode away. Stopped just long enough to shout something about going for help. Then he bolted. Silva told me.’

‘Think he’s really going to look for help?’

‘Well, he’s certainly going to look for somewhere safer than here.’

‘Not difficult.’

‘No.’

‘Think we’ll keep them out?’ Cato asked quietly.

Macro thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. We have to count on them getting in at some point. There’s not enough of us to hold the entire wall. And I don’t think we can rely on any of the townsfolk coming to our aid - they’re in no fit state to fight.’

‘In that case . . .’ Cato cast a map of Calleva into his mind’s eye. ‘In that case, we’ll have to fall back on the depot when the time comes. The depot, or the royal enclosure.’

‘Not the enclosure,’ said Macro. ‘Too close to the rest of the town. We’d never see them coming until the last instant. Besides, there’s plenty of supplies we can draw on in the depot. It’s our best chance.’

‘I suppose.’

‘Cato! Macro!’ a voice called out from the darkness beyond the wall. The two centurions looked warily over the palisade.

‘Cato! Macro!’

‘Who the hell’s that?’ muttered Macro. He turned to a group of bowmen crouching nearby on the walkway, and mimed stringing an arrow. ‘Get ready!’

The voice called out again, closer this time.

‘I don’t like this,’ said Macro. ‘It’s bound to be some kind of a trick. Well, we’ll be ready for the bastards!’