Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (38 page)

‘You want the town? Come and get it, you wanker!’ Macro cupped his hands and blew a loud raspberry to make sure the Durotrigans and the Atrebatan traitors got the point. The legionaries inside the gate cheered the centurion.

Tincommius listened a moment, then waved a hand dismissively as he stepped back behind the wicker screens. The gap closed, an order was shouted and the line moved forward towards the gate.

Cato turned away from the gate and hurried back to the Wolf standard.

‘What did the traitor want, sir?’ asked Mandrax.

‘Told us to surrender. He’ll let the Romans leave unharmed if we let him have Calleva.’

‘What did Centurion Macro say?’

‘You heard him.’ Cato blew a loud raspberry and the men around him roared with laughter. One even went as far as slapping the young centurion on the back. Cato indulged their mood for a moment before he gave his orders. He took a quick glance at the small knots of men dispersed along the ramparts and made a quick calculation.

‘I want one man every thirty paces. When the main gate falls, everyone makes for the depot. Macro wants us all there. That’s where we’ll make a stand.’

‘Our last stand?’ asked one of the warriors, an older man. Cato noticed the wedding torc on the man’s wrist and guessed that he must have family.

‘I hope not. The tribune has gone for help. We may have to hold out a few days before a relief force arrives.’ Cato nodded. ‘We can do it.’

The man gave him an uncertain smile, then looked down and gently stroked his torc. Cato stared at him a moment, moved by the gesture.

‘I don’t recognise you. You must have been with the Boars. What’s your name?’

‘Veragus, sir.’

‘You don’t want to fight with us, Veragus?’

The man looked round at his comrades, searching their expressions for any sign of contempt, then he slowly nodded. Cato gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Although he needed every man who could hold a weapon to the enemy, he also needed to be sure that any man who fought at his side would stay there, and not run.

‘All right then, go and join your family. There’s no place here for any man whose heart is not in this. We may well be dead before the day is over, and I don’t want any more blood on my hands than is necessary. Mandrax!’

‘Sir?’

‘Pass the message on. Volunteers only back at the depot. Any more like Veragus can drop their weapons and equipment and get back to their families. Tell them they have my permission and wish them luck. They’ll need it soon enough if Tincommius seizes the throne.’

Mandrax trotted off along the rampart to pass Cato’s orders on. There was an awkward silence as the remaining men and their centurion faced Veragus. The Briton fought back tears of shame and thrust his hand out towards Cato. The centurion took the man’s hand and grasped it firmly.

‘It’s all right,’ Cato said softly. ‘I understand. Now go. Take what time is left to you.’

Veragus nodded, released his grip and laid his spear and shield down on the rampart. He fumbled with the strap of his auxiliary helmet and then placed that with the rest of the equipment he had been issued only weeks before. He stared at the gear briefly, nodded to Cato and then scrambled down the inside of the rampart and ran off into the maze of thatched huts. Cato looked round the remaining men.

‘Anyone else?’

No one moved.

‘Fine. Then pass the word to the rest of the cohort. Mandrax, you’re with me.’

As the centurion watched his men spread out along the rampart he could hear Macro bellowing orders from the main gate. Cato glanced back and saw the legionaries hurling more javelins down on the enemy force renewing their assault on the entrance to Calleva. But this time there was the distinct thud of the battering ram striking home as the enemy tried to smash their way in, under the shelter of their wicker screens.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The palisade above the gate was suddenly deluged with slingshot and arrows; the slingshot striking the timbers with sharp smacks, punctuating the splintering thuds of arrow strikes. Above this din came the cries and screams as some of the missiles found their targets amongst Macro’s small command. As he looked round there were already six men sprawled on the walkway. Still their comrades hurled javelins down on to the wicker screens below, desperately trying to pierce them and reach the enemy sheltering beneath, or at least make them unwieldy under the weight of the javelins embedded in the tight weave of willow. They were having little effect, Macro decided as yet another man fell back from the palisade, clutching at an arrow shaft that had pierced his throwing arm.

‘Take cover!’ Macro shouted. ‘Get down!’

The legionaries heeded the order at once, crouching behind the palisade. Silva and his clerks scurried up the rampart and bent double as they carried away the injured. The fusillade of enemy missiles quickly subsided as the Durotrigans saw that there were no targets for them. But when Macro rose to take a quick look at the enemy, he drew an immediate response and ducked down as half a dozen arrows whirred over the palisade and arced down amongst the thatched roofs beyond. There was nothing for it but to keep down. He had seen a number of ladders in the enemy ranks, so some men would be needed on the palisade. The rest would have to defend the entrance the moment the gates gave way. Every so often the gateway shook with the impact of the ram, and the dust and earth shimmied amongst the timbers as small pieces of grit, shaken loose, pattered down under the walkway.

‘First two sections, stay here! Rest of you, follow me!’

Macro, bent over, scurried to the ramp and, followed by the remainder of his force, made his way down to the open area behind the gate. As he reached the street another blow landed on the gates, and a small fissure opened between two timbers, letting a shaft of light filter through into the dust falling from the walkway.

‘Silva!’ Macro bellowed.

‘Sir?’

‘You and your men, off the wagon now!’

‘But, sir, the wounded . . .’ Silva gestured to the men lying on the wagon bed.

‘Take ‘em out. Carry them to the depot. Move it!

As soon as the injured had been unloaded Macro ordered his men to down shields and put their shoulders to the thick wooden wheels. Macro, with two other men grabbed the yoke and pulled it round towards the gate.

‘Right then, heave! Heave, you bastards!’

The men strained at the dead weight of the big supply wagon, gasping for air through gritted teeth. Then, with a drawn-out groan from the axle, the wagon rumbled forward.

‘Keep her moving!’ Macro grunted as he pulled on the yoke, thrusting his feet down and dragging the smooth-worn yoke towards the gateway. ‘Come on!’

Another blow landed on the gate, and the fissure widened into a gap through which the nearest of the enemy could be glimpsed, swinging the ram back ready for the next run at the gate. At the last moment Macro nodded to the other men on the yoke and they pulled it sharply to the side, knocking over a small brazier still smoldering from the night before. The wagon slewed round and rumbled across the entrance to the gate, blocking the way into Calleva.

‘Clear the wagon. Get everything out, except the javelins. Then stuff the gap underneath with thatch. Move yourselves!’

The legionaries desperately prepared the makeshift defences, while the ram continued to batter away at the gates, the timbers splintering with every blow. As Macro watched, the very next strike shattered the locking bar, which sprang out of one of its holding brackets, and the end thudded down on the ground between the gates and the wagon.

‘This is it!’ Macro grabbed his shield and drew his sword, turning to his men. ‘This section with me in the wagon. Figulus, your section behind the wagon. Anyone tries to squeeze under, or past the ends - kill ‘em.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Rest of you - and you lot on the rampart! Get back to the depot and prepare for us. We’ll hold here for a short while and then make a run for it. Go!’

As most of the legionaries ran in a loose pack up the street in the direction of the depot Macro and his rearguard readied themselves for the one-sided fight. The centurion hauled himself up into the wagon and snatched up a javelin. The surviving five men of the section took position either side of him, shields raised and javelins held ready to thrust into the faces of the enemy once they forced their way inside. The ram struck again and, with no locking bar to hold the gates in place, they burst open with a protesting groan, dragging the end of the bar across the packed earth in a short arc. At once the Durotrigans let out a roar of triumph. Dropping the ram, they unslung their shields, snatched up their weapons and thrust their way inside. The broken timbers lay at odd angles with splintered ends, which the first men through were forced on to by the press behind them. Two men howled in agony as they failed to struggle clear of the jagged ends and were impaled, then crushed down by their comrades, thirsting to get at the Romans.

As the front rank of the Durotrigans clambered over the warriors writhing on the bloody shafts of wood, Macro hefted his javelin and thrust it into the face of the nearest man. The warrior jerked to one side and rolled under the wagon. Macro ignored him and fixed his aim on the next enemy, stabbing him through the shoulder, wrenching the iron tip free of flesh and bone, and thrusting again into the sea of savage expressions heaving in front of him. On either side the legionaries were blocking the sword slashes and spear thrusts with their broad shields, then stabbing back at the enemy. Their faces were fixed in the grim desperation of those fighting overwhelming odds. A hand grabbed at the side of the wagon in front of Macro and the centurion quickly hurled his javelin into the solid mass pressing through the ruined gates. He snatched at his sword and hacked down on the hand, slicing off the fingers. The man crumpled down beside the wagon cradling the bloody knuckles to his chest. But on either side Macro could see more of the enemy scrambling in under the reach of the javelins and trying to heave themselves into the wagon.

‘Draw swords! Draw swords!’

The men threw down their javelins and there was the rasping of blades hurriedly drawn from scabbards, then the small group of legionaries thrust and hacked at the enemy, who were now so close to them that the distinctive smell of the Celts filled every breath they snatched. Behind them Figulus and his section thrust their javelins at any man who tried to work his way round or under the wagon.

There was a cry of terror from one of the men close to Macro, and with a quick glance he saw a legionary pulled bodily over the side of the wagon. He crashed on to the ground and was quickly cut to pieces under a rain of frenzied blows from the Durotrigans. Macro leaned forward and thrust his blade into an exposed throat, then pulled back, shouting over his shoulder.

‘Figulus!’

‘Sir?’

‘Set fire to the thatch! Then get your section out of here!’ Macro held his ground with increasing fury, stabbing and hacking at his enemies, face fixed in a snarl. He sensed a strange energy flowing through him, and an inner calmness. This was what he lived for. This was what he was best at, the one thing in life that was an unproblematic verity; he was born to fight. And even with violent death so close, he was content and happy.

‘Come on, you wankers!’ Macro, eyes wide with glee, shouted into the upraised faces of the Durotrigans. ‘Is this the best you can fucking do? Tossers!’

The legionary next to him spared his centurion an anxious glance.

‘What you looking at?’ Macro snapped as he slashed his sword across an enemy’s face, the skin splitting like an overripe watermelon. ‘Get into the spirit of things!’

‘Sir!’ The legionary backed away from the enemy. ‘Look! Fire!’

Thin tendrils of smoke were rising up from between the boards on the bottom of the wagon, where a hazy red glow was visible. More smoke curled up around the sides of the wagon, and one of the legionaries swung his leg over the rear of the wagon.

‘Stay where you are!’ Macro roared. ‘Nobody jumps for it until I say!’

The guilty man turned back, hurriedly stabbing an enemy warrior, who tumbled over the side at his feet. Beneath them the dry thatch crackled as the flames quickly spread, and the smoke thickened around the wagon in a choking acrid cloud. Macro’s eyes stung and watered so badly he could barely keep them open. And yet, incredibly, the Durotrigans still threw themselves forward, through the yellow flames licking up from under the wagon, then up the sides of the wagon, choking as they tried to shout their defiant war cries into the faces of their Roman enemies. The smoke was orange- and red-hued all about Macro, and his legionaries were no more than vague shapes, silhouetted against the flares raging up on all sides. His feet and legs were suddenly searing hot and Macro glanced down and saw that the flames were beginning to burn through the floor of the wagon.

‘Get out! Out! Back to depot! Go!’

The legionaries turned, mounted the side of the wagon and leaped clear of the flames into the street on the far side. Macro shifted to a spot where the flames were not so intense and took a quick look round to make sure the enemy could not follow them through the fire. Then he turned, threw his shield and sword into the street and dived after them. He crashed on to the ground and rolled awkwardly to one side, the breath driven from his body. For a moment he could not breathe and when he did gasp at the air the smoke made his chest seize up. As Macro retched, someone grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. He blinked to clear the tears from his eyes and saw Figulus.