04 The Eagle and the Wolves, page 31
From the Roman ranks Macro shouted an order for the rear two lines to break formation and man the palisade. The men trotted past the sides of the Wolves and hurried up on to the narrow sentry walk either side of the gate. The Roman line, thinner now, gave way more easily under the pressure of the Durotrigan horde, and Cato feared it might cave in before Macro and his men reached them. The enemy saw the opportunity as well, and threw themselves forward in a renewed frenzy of hacking and slashing blades. As the legionaries reached the enclosure they were no longer able to maintain formation and stumbled back from the screaming mob. Then they were passing through the gate, exhausted and gasping for breath, but aware enough to keep clear of Cato’s men. There was Macro, in a small knot of legionaries, cursing and shouting his defiance into the faces of his enemies as he thrust his blade at them, legs poised for balance as he carefully backed towards the safety of the enclosure.
With a quick rearward glance, Macro sized up the position and after a final savage roar at the Durotrigans he shouted to the last of his men, ‘Run for it!’
They turned and sprinted through the gate as Cato ordered his spearmen forward. At the sight of the wicked iron javelin points protruding over the wall of oval auxiliary shields the Durotrigans instinctively shrank back.
‘Close the gate!’ Cato shouted, throwing his shoulder to the timbers as Cadminius and his warriors quickly heaved the gate into place. Suddenly the gate shivered and started to swing back as the Durotrigans recovered and charged forwards again.
‘Help! Help here!’ Cato cried out, and the Wolves surged forward, adding their weight to those desperately trying to seal the entrance. For a moment the gate was still, caught between the two straining forces, then Cato felt his boots sliding backwards.
‘Heave! Come on, you bastards! Heave!’
More men joined them, Macro and his legionaries among them, and the gate was held still again, no more than a foot from the timber frame and locking bracket. Macro drew back and looked up to the men on the palisade.
‘Use your daggers! Hit ‘em with anything you’ve got. Throw your fucking swords at them, if you have to!’
As the men drew their daggers and hurled them down into the dense mass straining at the gate, the enemy’s attention was distracted for a crucial moment, and with one last effort the defenders closed the gate and slammed the locking bar home.
While some of the men slumped to the ground or bent double as they struggled to catch their breath Cato forced himself to stand upright. He picked up his shield, pushed his way through the men and climbed the short ladder up to the palisade. Keeping his shield raised he looked down and saw that the Durotrigans were already melting away from the enclosure, until only a small handful still hammered away at the timbers with their swords and spears.
‘Keep hitting ‘em,’ Cato shouted to the men beside him, then leaned back to the men inside the entrance. ‘Get every javelin up here, now!’
As soon as the iron-headed shafts began to strike down amongst them, even the most resolute of the Durotrigans recognised that their rage was useless, and they ran back from the gate, down the street and out of range. Cato nodded his satisfaction, and then dropped down into the enclosure to find Macro. His friend was sitting on the ground, bare-headed as he examined a dent on the top of his helmet. He ran his fingers tenderly across the scar on his scalp.
‘You all right, Macro?’
The centurion nodded, and blinked his eyes. ‘I’ll be fine. Just a bit dizzy. Some bastard whacked me right above that injury . . . Give us a hand.’
Cato grasped his arm and heaved the other man to his feet. He looked round the exhausted faces inside the gate. ‘Where’s Figulus?’
‘He was knocked over back there.’
‘Dead?’
‘I didn’t see.’
Cato nodded once, then turned towards the gate. ‘Our friends have gone, for the moment.’
Macro nodded, then looked up at the sky. It was near sunset, and a brilliant orange spread across the horizon.
‘It’ll be dark soon.’ Macro looked at Cato. ‘We’d better get some torches lit. Somehow I don’t think Tincommius and his pals are going to give us an easy night.’
04 The Eagle and the Wolves
Chapter Thirty-Five
A strange silence settled over Calleva once night had fallen. In the royal enclosure Macro had ordered most of the men to rest. After the enemy had pulled back Macro had thrown his men into constructing an inner redoubt around the entrance of the great hall. All the spare wagons and carts had been heaved together to form a small semi-circle backing on to the stout stone walls of the hall. Wicker baskets were filled with soil and crammed beneath the wagons to reinforce them and hold them in position, and benches were brought from inside the hall to provide the defenders with a breastwork to fight behind. If the outer wall fell, which it must, thanks to its being little more than a glorified fence, then everyone would retreat to this last redoubt, and after that a last stand inside the great hall, guarding the king’s bedchamber.
Once the work was complete Macro told his men to rest. They lay across the ground, dark shapes curled up by their weapons in the flickering glow of the torches that were ranged along the palisade. Verica’s household slaves had been sent to bring the exhausted defenders food and drink from the royal kitchen, and the king’s bodyguards were keeping watch for any signs of the enemy. Beyond the enclosure, the huddled mass of thatched roofs was silent, there were no cries for mercy, or the usual horrified shrieks that accompanied the fall of a town. Macro sat with his head cocked towards the burned-out remains of the town’s gate. The only noises that rose up in the distance were the periodic choruses of dogs barking, and once in a while a shouted order from the enemy.
After a while Macro gave up and nudged Cato, who had fallen asleep shortly before.
‘You hear anything?’
Cato struggled up on one elbow, blinking away the ache in his eyes, fearful that Macro had detected the approach of the enemy.
‘What? What is it?’
‘Shhh! Listen . . .’
Cato sat up and strained his ears, but all was quiet. ‘I can’t hear anything.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Macro. ‘There should be more noise. They’ve taken the town; they should be enjoying the spoils.’
Cato shook his head. ‘They’re trying to win the Atrebatans over. I doubt Tincommius is going to permit them even the smallest amount of rape and pillage. Not if he’s as bright as he needs to be.’
Macro looked at Cato, his features barely visible in the dark. ‘You admire him?’
‘No. No, I don’t. He’s a fool. If he succeeds in turning the Atrebatans, one way or another they’ll be slaughtered. That’s the kind of king people really don’t need.’
‘No . . .’ Macro looked away. ‘There’s something else that worries me.’
‘Oh?’
‘Tincommius said that Caratacus was coming.’
‘Yes. So?’ Cato rubbed his eyes. ‘I doubt it’ll make much difference. We’re not going to be around that long.’
‘Maybe. But what if Quintillus has found the legion?’
‘I doubt the tribune made it. They must have caught him.’
‘What if they didn’t? What if he reached the legion and Vespasian sends a relief force?’
Cato was silent for a moment before he replied, ‘We can only hope he didn’t make it. Best lose a few hundred of us than a few thousand.’
‘True. We can see that, but Vespasian can’t. Far as he knows the only opposition he’ll face is the force that ambushed us. Even that coward Quintillus will find it hard to overestimate their strength enough to keep the legate away. If Vespasian comes, he’ll bring most of the legion with him, right into the path of Caratacus.’
Cato paused as he contemplated this awful possibility. He looked at Macro. ‘Then we’ve got to warn him, assuming Tincommius was telling the truth.’
‘How?’ Macro responded sourly. ‘We’re surrounded. The moment anyone tries to make a break for it they’ll be bagged and killed on the spot, if they’re lucky.’
‘Somebody has to try,’ Cato said quietly. ‘If there’s a chance that the legate might attempt to save us.’
‘No. It’s pointless. We need every man right here.’
‘What difference does it make?’ Cato persisted. ‘We’re all dead in the end. Let me go.’
‘No. You stay. That’s an order. I’ll not send any man on a bloody stupid suicide mission. As I said, there won’t be a relief force sent to us. All that’s left is to hold on, and take as many of the buggers with us as we can.’
‘Or surrender and take our chances.’
‘Some chances!’ Macro laughed harshly. ‘Oh, they might spare our native lads, and they might even let Verica live long enough to die from his wounds. But not us. They’ll have something special sorted out for us. You can count on it.’
‘All right then,’ Cato conceded, ‘but they might spare the Wolves, and Cadminius and his men. We could offer terms for their surrender and fight on ourselves.’
Macro stared at him, but in the dark Cato could not read his expression and he continued his line of argument. ‘There’s no point in more deaths than necessary. If the Wolves and the bodyguards are spared because we were seen to save them, it might count for something in the longer term. It might leave some sympathy for Rome.’
‘It might. Then it might not. If they die with us, then their kin might blame the Durotrigans for their deaths. Better still, blame that bastard Tincommius.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Cato replied quietly. He was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Should we talk it over with Cadminius and the others?’
‘No,’ Macro said firmly. ‘The moment we start giving in, the fight will go out of our lads. Think about it, Cato. Think about how you’d feel watching the natives marching out of here and leaving us to die. Not the best way of keeping your pecker up, is it? And what guarantee do we have that they’d let the native lads live? You’d trust their lives to Tincommius? He’d have their heads on the ends of stakes in a trice.’
‘Which might well have a useful impact on the loyalty of the Atrebatans, from our point of view,’ Cato replied coldly.
‘Cynic!’ Macro laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder.
Cato smiled. ‘But you’re right. We can’t trust Tincommius with their lives. I guess they’ll have to take their chances with us. I doubt they’ll protest. The bodyguards aren’t very fond of Tincommius - even the ones who think we might have had a hand in that attack on Verica.’
‘They seriously believe that?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Hard to say. I’ve heard some of them muttering about it, and I get the odd suspicious glance. Seems that Tincommius’ words might have had some effect after all. The only one who can convince them of the truth is Verica.’
‘Have you heard anything about him?’
‘No. But I think we should find out. If there’s a chance that he can recover enough to confirm that he was attacked by Tincommius, it might help.’
‘All right then, you go and see. But don’t be long. Our friends might try something.’
‘Do you really think they will?’
‘No . . . They must be as exhausted as we are. They’ll want a rest. I doubt they’ll be in any great hurry. We’re bottled up in here with no way of escape, and they’ve got Caratacus and his whole bloody army on the way to help them out. I think they can wait until dawn before making the next move.’
‘I hope so.’ Cato yawned as he struggled back on to his feet. The short rest seemed to have made him feel more tired than ever. Every limb ached and felt stiff and heavy, and the night air seemed too cold for summer. His head ached and his eyes stung and for a moment he let his mind indulge itself in a vision of sleep in his warm comfortable bed back at the depot. The fantasy was so alluring that he felt a warm ripple flow through his body and he allowed himself to surrender to it.
‘Oi! Watch it!’ Macro called out, bracing Cato with his arm. ‘You nearly fell on me.’
‘Sorry.’ Cato was now wide awake, ashamed of his weakness and afraid that it might happen again. He stretched his shoulders and walked over to a water trough, removed his helmet and swept the strands of hay covering the surface to one side before ducking his head in, rocking his face from side to side as the cool water quickened his senses. Then he stood up, not bothered by the drops of water cascading down his face and on to his segmented armour and tunic. With a last stretch, and rubbing his eyes Cato set off for the great hall. He climbed through the gap between two of the wagons and dropped down into the redoubt.
Cadminius and some of the bodyguards sat by the entrance to the hall, talking quietly and drinking from some wine jars in the glow of a small fire. They looked up as Cato strode across to them. The centurion was frowning. He beckoned to Cadminius and entered the hall. Cadminius took his time finishing off the wine in his cup, and then rose slowly and followed Cato inside.
‘Drinking? Is that wise?’ Cato asked with a look of contempt. ‘You’ll hardly be in a fit state to defend your king tomorrow.’
‘Roman, drink is our way of life.’
‘Fine, but it can ruin a good death. Is that how you want to die tomorrow? A drunken rabble so pissed you can hardly strike a straight blow.’
Cadminius raised his fist and for a moment Cato felt sure the warrior would hit him. But Cadminius slowly relaxed his expression and muttered, ‘We’ll be all right. I give you my word.’
‘I’m counting on it. Now, I must see the king.’
‘No point. He’s just the same.’
‘Nevertheless, I must see him. Macro has ordered me to report on his condition.’ Cato did not give Cadminius any chance to protest further. He swung round and marched towards the door leading into the king’s private quarters. A sole guard stood on duty, and he pushed his back away from the wall and reached for his spear, but Cadminius waved him aside.
The royal bedchamber was brightly lit by oil lamps and torches, and stank of smoke. A small crowd of nobles sat and stood about the king’s table, talking in muted tones. Verica was almost impossible to see, swathed in fur covers up to his chin. Above them, his white hair flowed over a purple bolster. The king’s skin was almost as white as his hair and the faint rasp of his breathing was audible even from the doorway. The surgeon from the depot hospital looked up as Cato entered and smiled.
‘The king stirred briefly a few moments ago.’
‘He regained consciousness?’ asked Cato as he joined the surgeon at the bedside and looked down at the frail old man.
‘Not exactly. He opened his eyes, muttered a few words and was unconscious again.’
‘Words? What words? What’d he say?’
‘Nothing I could make out, except Tincommius’ name. The king seemed a bit agitated.’
‘That’s it? Nothing more?’ The surgeon shook his head, and Cato’s lips briefly tightened in frustration. ‘If there’s any change, either way, you send for me at once. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato took a last look at the king and was turning to leave when the surgeon grasped his arm.
‘Has anyone made it from the hospital?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’ The surgeon looked Cato in the eye. ‘What are our chances, sir?’
‘Not good. Just do your duty, for as long as you can.’
‘And when the end comes . . .?’
‘Protect the king. That’s all.’
Once he had reported back to Macro, Cato made a quick round of the palisade to make sure that the men were awake and watching for any sign of the enemy. With so few of the defenders left, even one unobservant sentry could lead to the death of them all. Then, satisfied that there was no more he could do, Cato found himself a place close to the gate, leaned back against a support post and almost at once fell into a deep sleep. He did not wake when the guard was changed, and it was only the urge to urinate that finally woke him, shortly before dawn. Consciousness returned quickly, and an instant fear that he had slept far too long. At once Cato tried to clamber up on to his feet. The stiffness of his muscles and the aching heaviness of total exhaustion almost denied him the ability to stand, and he groaned as he forced himself to straighten up.
Although it was still dark and gloomy overhead, away in the east the horizon was lit by the pearly grey of the coming dawn. The air was cool and the breath of the few men stirring around the royal enclosure came in faint wisps. There was a peculiar stillness in the air, and the sky was overcast, promising rain later on, or more likely the depressing drizzle that was so much a feature of this island’s climate. It saddened Cato to think that the drama of his death would unfold against such a dour backdrop. A paltry skirmish in some dark corner of a crude collection of barbarian hovels that scarcely dignified its description as a town. That’s where he, Macro, Silva and the others would find their graves - in obscure, uncivilised and backward Calleva. No place in the history books for them.
Stretching his back and shoulders Cato walked stiffly over to a small fire in the centre of the enclosure. Macro was supervising a small party of kitchen slaves as they cut a pig up into portions. The aroma of roast pork made Cato realise how hungry he was and this time he willingly helped himself to a hunk of meat with plenty of crackling on it. He nodded a greeting to Macro.
‘You’ll break your teeth on that,’ Macro smiled.
‘What good is life if we can’t enjoy it?’ Cato replied. ‘Any bread going?’
‘There, in that basket.’
Cato squatted down beside the fire and began to eat, chewing slowly and relishing the taste of every mouthful of pork and the king’s finest bread. It felt strange to enjoy his food so much, and Cato realised that in ordinary circumstances he had had to bolt his meal down in order to get on with all the duties of the day. Today, by contrast, there was nothing to rush. Breakfast could go on for as long as he wanted, or at least for as long as the Durotrigans permitted.
