Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (4 page)

Cato leaned over the palisade to watch the wagons pass beneath the gatehouse, each one laden with stacks of amphorae packed in straw. A small quantity of grain and oil would be saved, then. But that was all. As he looked up he saw that the last two wagons had fallen into British hands, their drivers and handlers lying slaughtered beside them. Only one last wagon was contested, and as Cato watched, the Britons began to drive the Romans back from it.

‘Look there!’ said Macro, pointing away from the mêlée. The British chieftain had gathered most of his chariots about him and was leading them wide round the fighting, clearly aiming to crash into the rear of the Roman line. ‘If that lot catches them before they can reach the gate, the lads will break.’

‘Break?’ Cato snorted. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces . . . If only they see the danger in time.’

The Roman line was giving ground steadily under the weight of the Britons’ attack. The men in the front rank thrust and blocked, wholly concerned with killing the enemy immediately to their front, while their comrades behind them were glancing nervously over their shoulders and edging back towards the safety of the gate. With a wild shout of triumph the charioteers suddenly whipped their ponies on, charging towards the narrow gap between the legionaries and the gatehouse. Even where he stood Cato could feel the walkway tremble beneath his feet as the ponies’ hoofs and the chariot wheels shook the ground.

The centurion commanding the garrison glanced towards the chariots and bellowed a warning. At once the legionaries and auxiliaries broke away from their enemy and ran for the gateway, Vespasian amongst them. On the gatehouse Verica cupped his hands and shouted an order to the men lining the palisade. Throwing spears were snatched up and arrows notched to prepare a covering barrage for the fleeing Romans. Already they were streaming in through the gates, but some were not going to make it. The oldest soldiers, struggling pitifully with their heavy equipment, were falling behind. Most had cast their shields and swords aside and threw themselves on, glancing to their right as the chariots closed in, the manes of the ponies whipping out as their nostrils flared and their mouths foamed; above them the savage expressions of the drivers and the spearmen, exulting in the imminent destruction of the Romans.

Centurion Veranius, true to his kind, still carried his shield and sword, and trotted along with the last of his men, shouting at them to keep moving. When the chariots were no more than twenty paces from him he realised he was a dead man. Veranius stopped, turned towards the chariots and raised his shield, holding his sword level at his waist. As Cato watched, feeling sick in his guts, the centurion glanced up at the gatehouse and smiled grimly. He nodded a salute at the line of faces witnessing his final stand, and turned his face towards the enemy.

There was a scream, abruptly cut off as the chariots rode down the first of the stragglers, and Cato watched as the chain-mailed bodies of the legionaries were crushed to a pulp by hoofs and wheels. Veranius charged forward, stabbing his sword into the chest of a lead pony, then he was knocked down and disappeared under the confusion of harnessed horse-flesh and the wicker superstructures of the chariots.

With a grinding thud the gates were heaved back together and the locking bar crashed back into its receiving sockets. The chariots slewed to a halt in front of the gate and then the air was filled with shouts and shrill agonised whinnies as the javelins and arrows of Verica’s men on the palisade rained on to the dense mass below. The Britons answered with their own missiles and a slingshot cracked against the palisade just below Cato. He grabbed Macro by the shoulder and drew him back towards the ladder leading down to the inside of the ramparts.

‘There’s nothing we can do here. We’re just in the way.’

Macro nodded, and followed him down the ladder.

As they emerged into the rutted open area just inside the gate they saw the confused tangle of wagons, oxen and the survivors of the escort and garrison. Men sat slumped on the ground, chests heaving. Those on foot supported themselves on their spears or bent double, gasping for breath. Many were heedless of their wounds, and blood dripped on to the ground around them. Vespasian stood to one side, leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees, gasping for breath. Macro shook his head slowly.

‘What a complete fucking shambles . . .’

Chapter Three

The sounds of battle quickly died away as the Durotrigans fell back from the ramparts of Calleva. Even though they had just given the Romans and their despised Atrebatan allies a bloody nose, they realised that any attempt to scale the ramparts would be a waste of lives. With loud taunting cheers they ran back beyond slingshot range and continued their triumphant tirade of insults until dusk. As darkness thickened about them, the Durotrigans melted away; only the faint rumbling of chariot wheels lingered for a while, and then Calleva was surrounded by silent shadows.

The natives manning the gatehouse and the ramparts either side stood down and slumped wearily on the walkway. Only a few sentries remained standing, eyes and ears straining for any sign that the Durotrigans were merely playing a trick, and would slip back under cover of night. As Verica emerged from the gatehouse he looked tired, and his thin frame moved uncertainly. He rested a hand on the shoulder of one his bodyguards. In the flickering glare of a single torch the small party slowly made its way down the main thoroughfare towards the high thatched roofs of the royal enclosure. Along the route small groups of townspeople fell silent as their king passed by; sullen resentment filled every face illuminated by the wavering orange glow of the torch. While Verica and his nobles were well fed, his people were growing hungry. Most of their grain pits were empty and only a few pigs and sheep were left within the ramparts. Outside Calleva many farms lay abandoned, or in blackened ruin; their inhabitants either dead or sheltering within the town.

The alliance with Rome had brought none of the benefits that Verica had promised them. Far from being protected by the legions the Atrebatans had, it seemed, drawn upon themselves the wrath of every tribe loyal to Caratacus. Small columns of raiders from the lands of the Durotrigans, the Dubonnians, the Catuvellaunians and even the wild Silurans swept between the advancing legions and raided deep behind their lines. Not only were the Atrebatans deprived of their own supplies of food, they were being denied the grain promised to them by Rome as the convoys were hunted down and destroyed by Caratacus’ warriors. What little survived the journey from Rutupiae was added to the stockpile in the Second Legion’s supply depot, and the people of Calleva whispered rumours of the legionaries growing fat as their Atrebatan allies were forced to eat ever shrinking rations of barley gruel.

The resentment was not lost on Cato and Macro as they sat on a crude log bench just outside the depot gates. A wine trader from Narbonensis had set up a stall as close to his legionary customers as possible and had erected a bench each side of his leather tent with its trestle counter. Macro had bought cups of cheap mulsum, and the two centurions cradled the leather vessels on their laps as they watched the king of the Atrebatans and his bodyguard pass by. The guards on the gate stood to attention, but Verica only flashed them a cold glance and stumbled on towards his enclosure.

‘Not the most grateful of allies,’ Macro grumbled.

‘Can you blame him? His own people seem to hate him even more than the enemy. He was forced on them by Rome, and now he’s brought the Atrebatans nothing but suffering, and there’s not much we can do to help him. No wonder he’s bitter towards us.’

‘Still reckon the bastard should show a little more gratitude. Goes running to the Emperor, whining that the Catuvellaunians have kicked him off his throne. Claudius ups and invades Britain and the first thing he does is return Verica’s kingdom to him. Can’t ask for more than that.’

Cato looked down into his cup for a moment before responding. As usual Macro was seeing things in the most simplistic light. While it was true that Verica had benefited from his appeal to Rome it was equally certain that the old king’s plight was just the opportunity that Emperor Claudius and the imperial staff were looking for in their search for a handy military adventure. The new Emperor needed a triumph, and the legions needed a diversion from their dangerous appetite for politics. The conquest of Britain had preyed on the mind of every policy maker in Rome ever since Caesar had first attempted to extend the limits of Rome’s glory across the sea and into the misty islands. Here was Claudius’ chance to make a name for himself, to be worthy of the great deeds of his predecessors. Forget the fact that Britain was no longer quite the mysterious land that Caesar, with his eye forever on any chance to enhance his posterity, had vividly written about in his commentaries. Even in Augustus’ reign the length and breadth of Britain had been traversed by merchants and travellers from across the Empire. It was only a matter of time before this last bastion of the Celts and the druids would be conquered and added to the provincial inventory of the Caesars.

Verica had unwittingly brought about the end of this island’s proud and defiant tradition of independence from Rome. Cato found himself feeling sorry for Verica and, more importantly, for all his people. They were caught between the irresistible force of the legions advancing beneath their golden eagles, and the grim desperation of Caratacus and his loose confederation of British tribes, prepared to go to any lengths to dislodge the men of Rome from these shores.

‘That Vespasian’s a mad one!’ Macro chuckled as he gently shook his head. ‘It’s a wonder he’s still alive. Did you see him? Going at ‘em like he was a bloody gladiator. The man’s mad.’

‘Yes, not quite the approved form of behaviour for senatorial types,’ Cato mused.

‘Then what’s he up to?’

‘I imagine he feels he’s got something to prove. He and his brother are the first of their family to make it into the senatorial class - quite different from the usual run of aristocrats who serve their time as legates.’ Cato looked around at Macro. ‘That must come as quite a refreshing change.’

‘You said it. Most of the senators I’ve served under think that fighting barbarian hordes is beneath them.’

‘But not our legate.’

‘Not him,’ agreed Macro, and emptied his cup. ‘Not that it’s going to do him much good. Without supplies the Second Legion’s campaign is going to be finished for the year. And you know what happens to legates who can’t cut it. Poor sod’ll end up as governor of some flea-bitten backwater in Africa. That’s the way it goes.’

‘Maybe. But I dare say there’ll be other legates sharing the same fate unless something’s done about these raids on our supply lines.’

Both men fell silent for a moment, pondering the implications of the enemy’s switch in strategy. For Macro it meant the inconvenience of reduced rations and the frustration of losing ground, as the legions would have to retreat and construct more thorough defences of their communication lines before taking the offensive once more. Worse still, General Plautius’ legions would have to set about the ruthless destruction of the tribes one at a time. The conquest would therefore proceed at snail’s pace; he and Cato would have died of old age before the multifarious tribes of this benighted island were finally subdued.

Cato’s thoughts skated over similar ground to his comrade’s, but swiftly moved on to a more strategic level. This particular extension to the Empire might well have been ill-judged. Of course there were short-term benefits for the Emperor in that it had shored up his uncertain popularity back in Rome. But despite Caratacus’ capital, Camulodunum, falling into Roman hands, the enemy had shown no great hurry to negotiate, let alone surrender. Indeed, their resolve seemed to have stiffened: under the single-minded leadership of Caratacus every effort was bent towards frustrating the advance of the Eagles. The whole enterprise was proving to be far costlier than the imperial general staff could ever have anticipated. It was clear to Cato that the logical thing to do was to exact a tribute and a promise of alliance from the British tribes and quit the island.

But that would not happen, not while the Emperor’s credibility was at stake. The legions, and their auxiliary cohorts would never be permitted to withdraw. At the same time reinforcements would be drip-fed into the campaign - just enough to keep up a marginal momentum over the natives. As ever, politics overrode all other imperatives. Cato sighed.

‘Heads up,’ Macro hissed, nodding towards the depot gateway.

In the flickering glow of the braziers each side of the track a small body of men marched out into the street. First came four legionaries, then Vespasian, and then another four legionaries. The small party turned in the direction of Verica’s enclosure and tramped off into the darkness, watched by the two centurions.

‘Wonder what that’s all about,’ muttered Cato.

‘Courtesy call?’

‘I doubt the legate will get a warm reception.’

Macro shrugged with an evident lack of concern about the cordiality of Rome’s relations with one of the very few tribes prepared to ally themselves to Claudius. He concentrated on a far more pressing issue.

‘Another drink? My treat.’

Cato shook his head. ‘Better not. I’m tired. Best get back to the hospital, before some bloody orderly decides to reallocate our beds.’

Chapter Four

Despite the thrill of having survived the desperate skirmish outside the gates of Calleva, Vespasian was in a foul mood as he marched up the stinking thoroughfare towards Verica’s enclosure. And not just because he resented the curt summons he had received from the king of the Atrebatans. As soon as he had recovered his breath after entering Calleva Vespasian marched the survivors of the convoy, and the last of his scouts, to the depot. Every spare man had been placed on the walls in case the Durotrigans decided to chance a more ambitious assault on their enemy. At the depot the legate had to deal with a stream of junior officers jostling for his attention. Taking over the small office of the late Centurion Veranius, Vespasian dealt with them one at a time. The hospital was filled with casualties, and the legion’s chief surgeon was demanding more men to set up a new ward. The centurion in command of the convoy requested a cohort of the Second Legion be placed at his disposal to guard his wagons on the journey back to the base on the Tamesis.