Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (40 page)

‘I said, we’ll need to deal with them as well, sir - the Atrebatan traitors.’

‘No doubt.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘If Verica dies, who’s to succeed him?’

‘Well, there’s another problem, sir.’

This time there was no concealing his frustration and Vespasian slammed his hand down on the desk. He glared at Quintillus, gently rapping his knuckles on the wood. With forced equanimity he nodded at the tribune. ‘Go on.’

‘The nobleman who attacked him - Artax - was Verica’s heir.’

‘This Artax, he’s taken the throne?’

‘No, sir. He was discovered in the act by Centurion Macro and Centurion Cato. He was killed on the spot.’

‘So the succession to Verica is open, then?’ said Vespasian. ‘Who’d be best suited to succeed him from our point of view?’

The tribune answered directly. ‘Verica’s nephew seems the best bet; Tincommius. I persuaded the king’s council to choose him to be Verica’s heir after Artax was killed. ‘

‘What’s this Tincommius like?’

‘Young, but smart. He knows we’ll win. We can count on him, sure enough. He’ll be loyal to Rome.’

‘He’d better be, for his tribe’s sake. If he can’t keep control of his people once I’ve settled things, then I won’t take any more chances with our supplies. The Atrebatan kingdom will have to come to an end. I’ll annex it in the name of Rome, disarm the tribe and leave a permanent garrison in Calleva.’

Quintillus smiled; the legate was playing into his hands and unwittingly helping Quintillus into a position where he would have the chance to wield his procuratorial powers. ‘That would seem to be the wisest course of action, sir.’

Vespasian leaned back in his seat and shouted for his chief clerk. Moments later the man hurried through the tent flap, wax notebook in hand.

‘I want my senior officers in here now.’

‘All of them, sir?’

‘Every one. Wait there.’ Vespasian quickly shuffled through his papers until he found the most recent strength returns. He read them quickly before continuing. ‘I want the following cohorts assembled and ready to march: Labeo’s, Genialis’, Pedius’, Pollio’s, Veiento’s and Hortensius’. Six cohorts should be enough. They’re to carry arms and equipment, water bottles and light rations. Nothing else, understand? It’ll be a forced march and the cohort commanders are to make sure that they leave behind any man they have doubts about. There will be no stragglers.’

The clerk could not hide his surprise or alarm at these instructions, but Vespasian refused to enlighten him. It would be most unseemly for a legion’s commander to be seen to explain his orders to a lesser rank. He was determined to remain as detached from his men as possible. It had been hard work, often undone in the thoughtlessness of unguarded moments, which tormented him for many days afterwards.

‘Anything else, sir?’ the clerk asked.

‘No. Get to it, man!’

A thin crescent moon rose even as the last rays of the dying sun shrank away beyond the horizon. There was a brief period of darkness before the eye grew used to the pale light of the moon, and then the landscape resolved into a monochrome patchwork of fields, forests and rolling hills. From the eastern gate of the marching camp a long column of men snaked down the track that led towards Calleva, some thirty miles away. Nearly three thousand legionaries tramped along the track in loose ranks, the chinking of their equipment all but drowned out by the thud of iron-studded boots on the dry earth. Vespasian rode behind the lead cohort, a few staff officers and Quintillus spread out behind him.

If he pushed the men hard, Vespasian calculated that they might reach Calleva by the end of the next day. There might be a hard fight after the march for his tired men, but they were legionaries, trained to a superb level of fitness. Tired or not, they would be more than a match for a few thousand Durotrigans.

Chapter Thirty-Four

‘How the hell . . .?’ Cato muttered.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Macro snapped back at him. ‘We have to get out of here.’

‘Get out of here?’ Cato looked at him in astonishment. ‘And go where?’

‘Royal enclosure. It’s all that’s left now.’

‘But what about our injured?’ Cato waved at the hospital block. ‘We can’t leave them.’

‘There’s nothing we can do for those lads,’ Macro said firmly. ‘Nothing. Now get your cohort formed up. Close ranks and follow right behind my century.’

Macro steered Cato towards the survivors of the Wolf Cohort and then called his men to attention. ‘Close ranks. Form column of fours in front of the gate. Move!’

As the legionaries ran forward and jostled into formation, Cato began to shout out his orders in Celtic. Driven on by the shouts of the section leaders the two units formed up on the track behind the gate, and closed ranks until they became a compact column, shield to shield along the front and left side. Macro looked round for Figulus.

‘Optio! Since you’re so bloody keen on hanging back, you’ve got command of the rearguard. Take two sections. Keep ‘em tight and don’t let one of the bastards get by you.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Figulus trotted back to take up position.

As soon as he saw that the formation was ready, Macro pushed his way through into the front rank.

‘Column!’ He called out the preparatory order, and waited until he heard Cato repeat it to his natives, then: ‘Advance!’

The shields, helmets and javelin tips rippled forward, and the tramp of iron-shod boots echoed under the tower as the legionaries moved forward. Behind them came the Wolves, lighter-armoured, and not quite able to march in step with their legionary comrades. Cato had positioned himself near the rear of his men, and looked back at the Durotrigans, running at full tilt towards the legionary rearguard formed up across the inside of the depot gate. There was no need to issue an order to loose javelins: the men hurled the weapons as soon as the enemy were within close range, and several of them were struck down, pierced through by the heavy iron points. But the instant their bodies fell to the ground they disappeared from sight as the men behind surged on, desperate to hurl themselves upon the small column edging up the street in the direction of the royal enclosure.

‘Form up across the street!’ Macro bellowed from the front, waving his sword to hurry his men into position, so that a wall of shields extended across the gap between the huts on either side. Behind this barrier the head of the column trudged forward once again. Before the rearguard made it out of the depot the first of the Durotrigans slammed into them, slashing at the rectangular shields with their long swords. Both sides fought in silence; the Durotrigans, breathless from their run across the depot, the Romans from grim desperation. The clash of swords and thud of blades on shields sounded to Cato more like a weapons drill than the pitiless fury of battle. Only the cries of the wounded told of the deadly intent with which warrior and legionary fought. The rearguard knew their job well, and kept moving back, fending off blows and only striking when an enemy showed more recklessness than sense, and paid the price.

Ahead of Macro, the Durotrigans who had managed to climb the walls either side of the burning town gate spilled across the street, clashing their spears against their shields, and shouting out their war cries.

‘Keep the formation tight!’ Macro bellowed above the din, raising his shield so that he could just see above the rim. His sword rose to the horizontal, arm bent and braced to deliver the first thrust. The distance between the column and the howling mass of the Durotrigans narrowed at a measured pace. When there was no more than twenty feet between them, the nearest Durotrigan raised his spear and charged the shield wall. Immediately the rest roared out their battle cry and ran after their comrade.

‘Don’t stop!’ Macro shouted as the man to his left faltered. ‘Move forwards. Don’t stop for anything.’

The column met the Durotrigans on a narrow front and there was no room for the enemy’s weight of numbers to pin the legionaries down. Macro and the other men at the front slammed their shields forwards, thrust, recovered and advanced before repeating the sequence, an automatic rhythm they had practised hundreds of times. The Durotrigans attacked with ferocity and courage, but were no match for the Romans. They were forced back or cut down and then crushed by the column as it marched over them.

Here and there, a lucky spear thrust or sword blow found a gap in the shield wall and thudded home into the flesh of the man behind. Any legionary too badly wounded to continue marching fell to the ground and his place was quickly filled from the dwindling ranks of reserves to keep the shield wall intact. The wounded were left behind as the column passed on, and each man who marched by met the eyes of his wounded comrades and registered a last farewell. As the rearguard approached the injured covered their bodies with their shields and prepared to fight on as best they could before being killed. It was pitiless, thought Cato, quite pitiless. Yet he knew that if he fell he could not expect his men to risk their lives to save him, or any other injured man. That way all of them would die.

The rearguard steadily gave ground as the enemy pressed through the gateway and battered the end of the column, desperately trying to breach the line of shields and cut the small Roman force to pieces. Figulus, taller and broader than most legionaries, held his ground in the centre of the line and kept his men together with steady commands as he deflected blows off his shield and thrust his sword into the enemy massing behind the column.

Step by step the legionaries and the Wolves forced their way up the street towards the junction with the road that led from Calleva’s main gate to the royal enclosure. The hard earth beneath their boots quickly became slick and muddy with the gore of the dead and injured, and the cloying smell of blood mixed with the sharper smell of disturbed soil. From his position in the middle of the column, detached from the intensity of the hand-to-hand fighting, Cato could see that they had reached the broad street that cut through the centre of Calleva.

‘Cato! Cato!’ Macro’s voice rose above the din of battle.

‘Sir?’

‘Soon as we clear the junction take your men and clear the way towards the royal enclosure.’

‘Yes, sir!’

The legionaries slowly fought their way across the junction until the column had passed into the route leading up to the gates of the royal enclosure, cutting off a small group of the enemy.

‘Now, Cato!’ Macro shouted.

‘Follow me!’ Cato called to his men, and charged up the street.

A few of the Durotigans, those with cool heads, tried to stand their ground. But they were quickly overwhelmed and cut down. The rest broke and ran down the street to the right, ducking into the shelter of any side alleys, casting terrified looks back at their pursuers as the Wolves chased after them.

Cato drew up and looked round, wide-eyed and breathing hard through clenched teeth. Mandrax was behind him, standard in one hand and blood-smeared sword in the other. The Atrebatan warrior grinned at the centurion, thrust his standard into the ground and snatched up the grey locks of a man Cato had knocked down. Mandrax yanked his head up and swept his sword back to cut the man’s head off.

‘No!’ Cato shouted. ‘Not now. Leave the heads till later. There’s no time.’

With a look of disgust Mandrax released the man’s hair and snatched up his standard. Then Cato saw that some of the rest of his cohort had already taken a few heads, and others were busy looking for more.

‘Drop those!’ Cato shouted in Celtic. ‘Drop ‘em, I said! Form up!’

Reluctantly, the men obeyed, hurriedly forming a solid block across the street that ran up to the gates of the royal enclosure. As soon as the Wolves were ready, Cato ordered them to move forward fifty paces, halt and wait for orders. Then he ran back to the junction. The legionaries were easily holding off the main body of the enemy that filled the street in the direction of Calleva’s main gate for as far as Cato could see.

Macro suddenly appeared, shoving his way through the rear ranks of his men. He saw Cato and nodded grudgingly.

‘Nice work . . . Take your men forward and make sure the route to the enclosure is kept open.’

‘Right.’

‘As my lot get close to the gate, you get yours inside. Be ready to close it the instant the last man passes through.’

Cato smiled faintly. ‘That wouldn’t be you, by any chance?’

‘Get going.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato trotted back to his men and ordered them forward. They met no further resistance from the Durotrigans who had been separated from the main body of the enemy, and the only ones they saw quickly ran off at the sight of Cato and his men. Then the street widened slightly as it turned a corner and there was the entrance to the royal enclosure. The gates were open and several of the king’s bodyguard, fully armed, were standing along the palisade on either side. Cadminius stood in the entrance and beckoned to Cato and his men as they approached. Cato ran over to him.

‘Macro and the last of our men are not far behind. We’ll have to keep the gate open for them.’

‘Keep it open?’ Cadminius shook his head. ‘Can’t risk it. Get your men in and Macro’ll have to take his chances.’

‘No,’ Cato said firmly. ‘The gate stays open until I say.’

Cadminius opened his mouth to protest, but there was a ruthless gleam in Cato’s eyes, and the Atrebatan looked away and nodded.