Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (44 page)

Cato swung round to Mandrax. ‘Get the rest of the prisoners up! Make sure you don’t leave behind whatever’s left of Tincommius!’

Mandrax grinned. ‘Yes, Centurion.’

Leaving the men to carry out his orders, Cato trotted further down the street, round the corner that led towards Calleva’s main gate. Then he stopped. Thirty paces away, and stretching all the way down the street were the Durotrigans, resting quietly between the huts that lined the streets. Hundreds of them. Almost at once there was a cry of alarm and one of the warriors jumped to his feet, pointing towards Cato. Others sprang up, reaching for their weapons.

‘Whoops!’ Cato muttered. He spun round and started sprinting back towards the royal enclosure, as the savage cries of his pursuers rang out. The centurion raced round the corner, and saw that most of his men, the prisoners and the surviving victims of the morning’s horror had nearly reached the gate.

‘Move yourselves!’ he screamed. ‘They’re coming!’

The growing roar from down the street was all his men needed to hear, and they rushed the remaining distance up to the enclosure and through the gate, heedless of the added agony they caused the injured men they were dragging. Then it was just Cato left, running towards the safety of the gate, already being swung back into place by its defenders. Not again, he thought wryly. Cato glanced over his shoulder, just as the Durotrigans burst round the corner no more than twenty paces behind, shrieking for his blood. Weighed down by his armour Cato could not hope to outrun them, and threw down his shield as he pounded towards the narrowing gap. Above the gate Macro and the others leaned over, shouting desperate encouragement. Cato jumped over the prone forms of the prisoners who had died from their injuries, head ducked low, nailed boots pounding on the hard packed earth of the street. A dark shadow whipped past his head and a dozen feet ahead, a spear thudded into the ground.

‘Come on, Cato!’ bellowed Macro. ‘They’re right behind you!’

He looked up, saw the gate directly ahead of him, then sensed danger at his shoulder and dodged to one side. A sword blade swished through the air and bit down into the earth as the man who wielded it hissed a curse. Cato threw himself forward through the gap left for him and rolled over inside the gate. Immediately the legionaries heaved it into place, but caught, between the gate and the stout timber of the support post, the shoulder and head of the man who had tried to cut Cato down with his sword. With a dull crack the man’s skull was crushed, a legionary thrust the misshapen mass back through the gap and the gate was barred once more. The thud and clatter of the enemy on the far side testified to their rage and frustration as Cato strained to catch his breath on all fours.

‘Cato!’ Macro called down to him. ‘You all right?’

Cato waved a hand.

‘Good! Then you’d better get up here and deal with this bloody wasps’ nest you’ve gone and stirred up!’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

‘Get the wounded into the hall!’ Cato ordered, heaving himself up the ladder to join Macro. Verica’s bodyguards thrust themselves in front of the king as Cadminius eased the old man back on to his litter.

‘What about him, sir?’ asked Mandrax, nodding towards the bloody and bruised Atrebatan prince groaning on the ground at the foot of the Wolf standard.

Cato glanced over his shoulder. ‘Take Tincommius into the hall. Make sure he’s tied up. He’s not to be harmed, understand?’

Mandrax, looking disappointed, prodded Tincommius with the end of the standard. ‘On your feet, you.’

Cato spared the traitor no more thought as he pushed his way past the bodyguards to the palisade. On either side legionaries and natives from the Wolf Cohort were hurling anything to hand on to the Durotrigans packed into the street below. There were only a few missiles thrown in return as the heaving mass of warriors made it difficult for any man trying to cast a spear or stone back at the defenders, and far more men were being struck down before the gateway than on it.

‘They never learn,’ Macro shouted into his ear.

‘Yes they do,’ Cato replied breathlessly, still blown from his run back to the gate. He raised his arm and pointed. ‘Look there!’

A short distance down the street were a number of small alleys leading off into the maze of huts clustered about the royal enclosure. The Durotrigans were streaming into the alleys and disappearing from view. Macro turned to Cato. ‘I’ll take care of things here. You find out where those alleys lead and make sure that you cover any approaches to the wall.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Cato turned round and grabbed the nearest native warrior. ‘Do any alleys pass close to the walls of the enclosure?’

‘Some might do, sir.’

‘Might?’ Cato eyed him coldly, biting back on his temper. ‘All right, then, get some men, anyone who’s not on the gate, and send them up on to the wall. I want them evenly spaced. There must be no blind spots. Understand?’

‘I - I think so, sir.’ The man was exhausted.

Cato grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted into his face. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Go!’

As the warrior ran off to carry out his orders, Cato turned and pushed his way along the narrow walkway until he was clear of the gate and began to run round the circumference of the enclosure. He had walked the perimeter a few hours earlier, as a diversion from Tincommius’ display, to ensure that his sentries were alert to any dangers. An indirect approach to the walls of the enclosure was no mere possibility; it was a certainty. Now that Tincommius’ final effort to achieve a quick surrender had failed the Durotrigans had no choice but to launch a bloody assault. Somewhere amongst the tangled outlines of thatched roofs the enemy was groping for a way through to the wall.

As Cato hurried along the walkway he saw that most of the huts did not back directly on to the royal enclosure and left a gap of perhaps five or six paces between their daubed walls and the line of timbers stretching round the great hall. But, as with all things Celtic, after a while the rule was gradually ignored and newer buildings and extensions to old ones had encroached on the wall. The defensive ditch had long ago been filled in with rubbish, and bones and shards of pottery poked through the foul-smelling topsoil. Many of the huts were attached to small enclosures of their own, fenced in wicker, with empty pens in which animals had been kept before food ran short. It would not take the enemy long to cut a path through to the wall, and wherever they emerged, the defenders would be hard-pressed to meet the threat in time to prevent the Durotrigans scaling the low walls. If they managed to attack in several places at once there would be no stopping them, Cato realised. The Durotrigans would stream over the wall and flood across the enclosure before the defenders could react. The Romans and the Wolves would be cut to pieces, unless they managed to reach the redoubt at the entrance to the great hall. After that there was no further retreat, and there they would fight to the end.

Cato stepped aside as Mandrax trotted past with a small party of warriors. The standard bearer quickly posted a man and the remainder ran on. The centurion glanced round and saw that they could muster only a pitiful screen to keep out the enemy. Over at the gate Macro and his legionaries were holding their own for now. The Durotrigans had brought up ladders, and as he watched, Cato saw the parallel shafts swing forward against the wall, only to be desperately shoved back by the defenders.

‘Here they come!’

Cato turned and saw one of the Wolves close by, pointing over the palisade. Below him a mob of Durotrigans had burst through a pig sty and charged up to the wall. Already one man was being hoisted up by his comrades, and his hands were reaching for the top of the wall. Then, a short distance beyond, more of the enemy emerged from the huts and ran towards the wall.

‘Wolves! To me!’ Cato cried out, drawing his sword. ‘To me!’

He sprinted along the walkway towards the sentry who had raised the alarm. Some of his men were hurrying from the other direction. The first of the Durotrigans had reached the top of the palisade and was straining to lift his body over the wall. Before he could swing his leg across, the sentry thrust a spear through his throat and the man toppled back, clutching at his neck with both hands as blood sprayed out in a crimson shower over his comrades. Revenge was almost instantaneous as several javelins flew up towards the sentry. He raised his shield to protect his face and warded off the first missile, but in doing so bared his midriff, and two javelins struck him in the stomach simultaneously, the impact driving him back off the walkway and down into the enclosure. Before any of the defenders could reach the spot another enemy warrior was climbing over the palisade and at once he was on his feet, shield up and sword raised to strike.

He glanced to both sides and, seeing that Cato was nearest, bellowed a war cry and threw himself at the centurion. As the man rushed towards him, time seemed to slow and Cato was able to register every mud-stained crease in the man’s fearsome expression. He was young and built like a bull, but with too much fat on his frame. The timbers of the walkway thudded and creaked under his weight as he charged the Roman. Cato gritted his teeth and made himself run faster. The differences in their height and weight were firmly in the warrior’s favour and his teeth bared in a savage grin as he braced himself for the impact. At the very last moment Cato threw himself against the palisade, angling his shield as the man thundered towards him. Unable to shift his direction quickly enough, the man glanced heavily off Cato’s shield and lost his footing on the edge of the walkway. For an instant he swayed, sword arm waving in an attempt to recover his balance. Cato thrust his blade into the man’s back and, bracing his foot against the bare, sweating flesh, he kicked the warrior off the walkway. The collision had knocked the breath out of Cato and as he turned back, gasping for air, he saw two more men had clambered over the palisade, one facing Cato, the other running towards the small party of Wolves rushing at him. Beyond his men Cato glimpsed more of the defenders fighting off a second group of Durotrigans, thrusting their swords at any man foolhardy enough to try to haul himself up the wall.

Cato fixed his eyes on his new foe - a swarthy Celt, older and more wary than his blood-crazed companion. He approached the centurion with a measured stride and then lowered his lithe body into a crouch, poised on the balls of his feet, sword held up and to the side, ready for an overhead blow or a cut to the body. This man, Cato realised, was not going to fall for the same trick as his friend. When the centurion was no more than ten paces away he suddenly shouted with rage and charged home.

The warrior had been expecting a more subtle, calculated attack and the savage rush took the man by surprise. Cato’s heavy legionary shield drove into his foe and knocked him off his feet. Cato stamped down on his face as he ran across his enemy and jabbed his sword into the man’s chest. It was not a fatal blow, but one that might keep him out of the fight for a vital instant. The Durotrigan warrior grunted as the sword stuck in his ribs and winded him. Then he was gone, dropping behind Cato as the centurion turned on the next man to cross the wall. He was still stretching down for his spear when Cato attacked him and only had time to register a surprised expression before the tip of the short sword struck him in the eye and crunched through the skull into his brain. Cato whipped the blade back and, leaning forward, hacked at the next pair of arms reaching up for the top of the palisade. His sword bit deep into a shoulder and the man fell away. No one else moved forward to take his place and others further back raised javelins to throw at the centurion. Cato just managed to duck his head in time as the dark shafts arced over the wall.

Four of his men, bent double, came scuttling along the walkway behind Cato.

‘Finish that one off.’ Cato pointed to the older enemy, clutching at the wound in his chest. A sword flickered out and opened the man’s throat. He died with a gulping choking sound, slowly slumping to the ground where he struggled feebly to rise for a moment before the dregs of life flowed from him. Cato watched him die, forced to stay down as the enemy continued to throw missiles over the wall.

‘Sir!’

‘What?’ Cato started guiltily and looked up from the dead man. One of the native warriors was pointing over the centurion’s shoulder.

‘There, sir!’

Cato glanced round and saw a hand reach over the palisade twenty paces further along the wall. Having distracted Cato and his men with the barrage of missiles, the attackers had simply shifted their assault further along the wall.

‘Come on!’ said Cato, crouching low as he hurried to deal with the new threat. But it was already too late. Glancing ahead, Cato saw that a number of enemy warriors were already over the wall between himself and Mandrax’s party. Three men were on the walkway, and then they dropped down into the enclosure, and more streamed over the palisade. Cato saw that three ladders were leaning against the wall, all the time disgorging more men. The fight for the wall was over then. He stopped and turned back to his men, grabbing the shoulder of the nearest.

‘You! Get back to Macro. Tell him . . . Just show him where they’re crossing the wall. He’ll know what to do then.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The warrior brushed past his comrades and scurried back along the wall towards the gate.

‘Let’s go,’ Cato said to the others, and leaped down from the walkway. He ordered the Wolves to make for the redoubt, and as they dashed off across the enclosure towards the great hall Cato ran towards the Durotrigans gathering below the point where they crossed the wall. One of them saw the centurion and shouted a warning to his companions. Cato stopped and called out over their heads.