Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (37 page)

‘Don’t just bloody gawp at it!’ Macro screamed into his face. ‘Stick your laughing gear round that and blow for all you’re worth. But you start slacking on me and I’ll ram it so far down your throat you’ll be farting tunes out of it! . . . Make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Right, start playing then.’

The legionaries began to raise up a braying, nerve-rending cacophony into the night sky, and totally drowned out the cries of Tincommius.

‘Good!’ Macro nodded, hands on hips. ‘Keep it up for a while, then have a rest. If the enemy starts his yacking up again, you start blowing. Understood? Carry on.’

He turned to Cato, leaning close to be heard over the din. ‘Get the Atrebatans down from the wall. Tell ‘em to rest. They’ll need all their strength when the morning comes.’

Chapter Thirty

At first light Macro passed the order for every able-bodied man to stand to. Cato was to take all the remaining natives into the Wolf Cohort, and Macro gathered a scratch force of legionaries from the depot and assembled them immediately behind the gate as a reserve. Cato sent a man to bring the royal bodyguard down to the gate, and while Macro briefed his men Cato walked round the entire circuit of Calleva’s ramparts. The appeals by Tincommius, made throughout the night, had had their effect, and by the time the centurion had returned to the main gate it was clear that upwards of fifty men had quietly slipped over the wall to join the enemy. A thin mist had aided their flight from Calleva, and even now the milky grey wreathed the ground lying beyond the defence ditch. Cato was gratified that few of those who had deserted had been men of the Wolf Cohort. His attempt to learn their tongue and to be more familiar with their ways had paid dividends. It was a shame, he briefly reflected, that Roman policy makers rarely, if ever, learned from such examples. So much bloodshed might be prevented, and the Empire would win a far larger pool of recruits for its far-flung cohorts.

‘How many left?’ Macro asked, as Cato joined him in the watchtower.

‘Apart from the eighty effectives from the legionaries at the depot, there’s a hundred and ten left from the Wolves and sixtyfive from your cohort. Plus the king’s bodyguard, that’s another fifty or so.’

‘Can we count on them?’

Cato nodded. ‘Their loyalty is to Verica. They swore a blood oath to protect him.’

Macro’s mouth moved in a wry smile. ‘Tincommius’ oath didn’t seem to trouble him unduly. Can we trust Cadminius?’

‘I think so.’

‘Then where is he?’

‘He won’t leave the royal enclosure. Or let any of his men.’

‘Why not?’

‘He says they must guard the king.’

‘Guard the king?’ Macro slammed his fist down on the rail. ‘They’d be far more fucking use guarding him out here!’

Cato waited a moment, before speaking quietly. ‘I tried to explain that to Cadminius, but he wouldn’t budge.’

Macro quickly glanced round the ramparts, surveying the solitary figures spread out along the palisade. ‘Barely half a cohort all told . . . Not enough. Not nearly enough.’

Cato gazed round at the enemy preparations. ‘Must be thousands of them out there. And some of our own lads.’

‘And there’s more to come. Some cavalry turned up while you were gone. Came in from the north-west.’

‘We don’t have a chance.’

‘Thanks for that morale-boosting opinion.’

Cato bit back on the rush of anger that filled his head. Macro was right. He should keep such thoughts to himself. Centurions had no right to contemplate defeat openly. That’s what Macro had told him nearly two years ago, when they first met. So the young centurion forced himself to breathe deeply and calm his raging doubts.

‘I suppose we’ll just have to hold on until some relief arrives. Quintillus should reach the legion by the end of the day. Take them a little while to get here. We’ll just have to hold them off until then.’

Macro turned and studied Cato’s expression for a moment. ‘That’s more like it, lad. Never say die, eh? Goes with the job.’

‘Some job.’

‘Oh, come on! It’s not so bad. Good pay, decent quarters, first dibs on the booty and a chance to shout all you like. Who could ask for more?’

Cato laughed despite himself, and was profoundly grateful that Macro was here at his side. Nothing ever seemed to shake him. Only women, Cato reminded himself with a faint grin.

‘What’s so bloody funny?’

‘Nothing. Really, nothing.’

‘Then wipe that stupid look off your face. Tincommius and his mates won’t be coming for a while yet. Tell our lads to stand down. Then go and tell your native chums to do the same. And get some rest yourself. You look done in.’

Cato paused on the ladder at the back of the watchtower. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll rest when it’s all over.’

‘When do you think they’ll attack?’

‘How should I know?’ Macro glanced round the enemy lines. ‘But when they do, they’ll rush us from several directions at once. Most of the attacks will be feints, trying to commit all our men before the real assault goes in. We’ll have to watch for that.’

Macro stared across the plain towards the scene of the previous day’s disaster. The two hills on either side of the vale rose clear of the mist, like islands on a pearly sea. It was fortunate that the mist covered the hundreds of Atrebatan bodies and concealed them from the men on the ramparts, whose spirits were low enough already. When the mist cleared they would see their fallen comrades scattered across the plain. They would also see the size of the force opposed to them, and Macro knew there would be even more desertions once the natives had had a chance to weigh the odds. There were few enough men as it was. He turned towards the rows of thatched roofs behind the town’s defences. Not a soul had stirred from the huts.

‘Shame we can’t persuade a few more of the locals to fight for us.’

‘Can you blame them?’ Cato replied. ‘They’re not stupid. They know we don’t have much hope.’

The young centurion realised that he was trembling in the cool dawn air and remembered that he had not eaten since the previous dawn, nor had he rested properly for days. He crossed his arms and rubbed his shoulders.

Macro eyed him curiously. ‘Afraid?’

For a moment Cato thought about denying it, then realised he would not fool Macro, and simply nodded.

Macro smiled wearily. ‘Me too.’

Once the mutual admission had been made there was an awkward silence before Cato spoke again.

‘You know, it’s possible that the tribune might get help to us in time.’

‘Possible? Only if we can hold out for a few days yet.’

‘We might.’

‘No,’ Macro replied, lowering his voice to make quite sure that he was not overheard by any of his men. ‘Once they get over the wall - and they will - then we’ll have to fall back on the depot. And once they break into the depot it’s all over . . . Just hope I get a chance to take that bastard Tincommius with me before I’m finished . . .’ Macro’s vengeful train of thought was interrupted by a loud rumble from his stomach. ‘. . . Which reminds me, I’m hungry. I sent Silva to the depot to draw some rations. Should have been back long ago.’

‘I don’t think I can eat anything right now.’

‘Course you can. You’d better,’ Macro said seriously. ‘Make sure the men see you eat. You let them know how nervous you really are and they’ll lose what little heart they have left for this fight. You’ll eat your full ration and like it. Understand?’

‘What if I’m sick?’ The mental image of himself, pale and puking in front of his men filled Cato with dread and shame.

Macro’s eyes narrowed. ‘The moment you throw up, I’ll chuck you over the palisade. I mean it.’

For an instant Cato wondered if his friend was serious, and then the cold, hard expression told him Macro was in deadly earnest. Before Cato could respond, the groaning squeak of a poorly greased axle announced the arrival of Silva and the cart loaded with rations he had fetched from the depot. A pair of stocky mules was harnessed to his cart and Silva steered them towards the legionaries waiting by the gate. Macro licked his lips as he saw several jars of wine and haunches of cured meat in the back of the cart.

‘Come on.’ Macro nudged Cato. ‘Let’s eat.’

The two officers joined the legionaries gathering round the cart as Silva hoisted himself up beside the wine jars.

‘Easy now, lads. There’s plenty for everyone.’

‘What about my men?’ asked Cato.

‘Them?’ Silva replied with a trace of disapproval. ‘They can take their turn after our boys have finished.’

‘They’ll have theirs now. Detail some of these men to see to it.’

An expression of distaste flitted across Silva’s face before he nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, sir.’

While Silva carried out the order Macro pushed his way through to the cart, and used his dagger to hack off two chunks of cured pork. He tossed one to Cato, and the younger centurion nearly fumbled the catch. Macro laughed, tore off a strip of the meat with his teeth and began to chew.

‘Come on, Centurion Cato,’ he spluttered. ‘Eat up! Might be the last meal you ever eat in this world!’

Cato’s stomach still felt tight and twisted, and the prospect of eating the cold meat made the bile rise in his throat. He grimaced, but Macro shot him a warning glance and Cato raised the meat to his lips and bared his teeth.

A distant brass note sounded beyond the ramparts. At once it was taken up by several other war horns. Macro threw his meat down into the churned mud at the rear of the cart, and spat out the half-chewed pork.

‘Get to your positions!’ he roared. ‘They’re coming!’

Chapter Thirty-One

‘Sir!’ Figulus shouted from the watchtower as he saw Macro and Cato rushing up the ramp. ‘Enemy’s on the move!’

‘Keep an eye on them!’

As they reached the palisade Cato put on his helmet and tied the straps. Macro glanced over the approaches to the main gate, straining to pick out the details in the rapidly thinning mist.

‘Figulus! What are they up to?’

‘Looks like a frontal attack on the gate, sir.’

Cato rubbed his tired eyes as the enemy began to appear. The Durotrigans were advancing behind a long line of crude wicker screens that rippled forward over the flattened grass. Looking round, Cato could not see any sign of movement towards any other section of the town wall.

‘Shall I get some of the Wolves to reinforce the gate?’

Macro’s gaze followed the route Cato’s had just taken and he scratched the stubble on his chin, making a faint rasping noise under his dirty nails. He shook his head. ‘We’re too thinly spread as it is. I’ll have to make do with our lads here. You get back to your standard.’

‘Can’t I fight here?’

‘No.’

Cato thought about protesting, and then nodded. Macro was right. One more Roman on the gate was not going to make much of a difference. He should stay with the natives and keep them ready for any new surprises the Durotrigans might have planned for them. But he couldn’t help wanting to fight, and maybe die, alongside the men of his Second Legion. Cato smiled to himself as he realised that the legion was the nearest thing he had to a family in this world, and the thought of being separated from them when the end came was unbearable. Now, other men looked to him and he saw the Celtic warriors of the Wolf Cohort clustered around Mandrax and his standard, watching their centurion in the distance.

‘See you later, Macro,’ Cato muttered.

Macro nodded, without turning his gaze from the approaching enemy, and Cato strode back along the rampart towards his men. He had a headache and the throbbing in his head was so painful that he was sure that he would throw up, and worse, he realised he had a terrible thirst and cursed himself for not taking a canteen of water from Silva’s supply wagon before heading up on to the rampart. His tongue felt thick and rough and the sensation made the nausea unbearable. Cato bit down on his lip and forced himself to try to think of something else. Anything.

‘Macro!’ a voice cried out, and Cato stopped to look back towards the gate. The Durotrigans had stopped just beyond javelin range, and a small gap had opened in the centre of the line. Tincommius stepped forward cautiously, both hands cupped to his mouth as he called on Macro again.

‘What do you want?’ the centurion shouted back. ‘Come to surrender?’

Cato smiled at Macro’s defiant tone. Tincommius lowered his head for a moment, and even at this distance Cato could read the disappointment in the man’s posture.

The Atrebatan prince looked up and called out in Latin, ‘You can’t hold out much longer, and you know it. I’m afraid I have even more bad news for you. Caratacus is coming in person to seize Calleva. We’ve had word that he’ll be here in two days, with his whole army. Then Calleva must fall.’

‘So why the hurry to take us now? Scared you’ll miss out on the glory? Or is it just that you need something to present to your new master?’

Tincommius shook his head. ‘Don’t be a fool, Centurion. You, your men and those of my people still foolish enough to stand by you are all going to die . . . unless you surrender the town to me.’