Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (3 page)

Cato nodded. The situation was serious. General Plautius had already been forced to leave a string of forts to protect the columns of slow-moving supply wagons. With the establishment of every new garrison, his strike force was shrinking and in its enfeebled condition must eventually prove an irresistible target for Caratacus.

The two centurions walked quickly down the track towards the depot gate where the fort’s small garrison was hurriedly forming up. Men fiddled with straps and belts while Centurion Veranius, commander of the garrison, screamed abuse into the entrances of the barracks, swiping at the tardy few stumbling towards their comrades as they struggled with their equipment. Macro exchanged a knowing look with Cato. The garrison had been made up from the dregs of the Second Legion, the sort of men Vespasian could not afford to take with him on his lightning campaign into the heartlands of the Durotrigans. The soldiers’ poor quality was readily apparent to an experienced eye, and mortally offended Macro’s professionalism.

‘Fuck knows what the locals make of this mess. One word of this gets out of Calleva, and Caratacus will realise he can walk in here any time he wants to, and kick Verica out on his arse.’

Verica, the aged king of the Atrebatans, had been allied to the Romans since the legions had landed in Britain a year earlier. Not that he had any choice in the matter. He had agreed to an alliance in return for being restored to power over the Atrebatans even before the legions had advanced on Caratacus’ capital at Camulodunum. Once the campaign had extended to the hostile tribes of the south-west Verica had eagerly offered Calleva to General Plautius as a base of operations. So the depot had been constructed. Besides winning the goodwill of Rome, Verica had provided himself with a readily accessible bolt hole should the Atrebatans succumb to the appeals from the tribes still resisting the invaders, to change sides and turn on the Roman invaders.

The two centurions made their way down to the gateway leading through the rampart and into Calleva. Although Vespasian had left a mere two centuries of legionaries, under one officer, to defend the depot, the area enclosed by its ramparts was large enough to hold several cohorts. Beyond the parade ground was the hospital and headquarters buildings. To one side of them stood a few rows of timber barracks. Beyond that stretched the granaries and other stores, which the Second Legion needed to draw on as they marched west. The Britons’ leader, Caratacus, had laid waste to the land before the advance of Plautius’ legions, hence the Roman columns’ dependence on long lines of communication leading all the way to the vast supply base at Rutupiae, where the legions had first set foot in Britain.

The contrast between the ordered interior of the depot and the disorganised jumble of huts, barns, cattle byres and narrow, muddy thoroughfares of Calleva struck Cato once again. The tribal capital was home to nearly six thousand people in normal times, but with the enemy raiding supply convoys and farms across the kingdom, the population of Calleva had swelled to nearly twice the size. Packed into the crude hovels inside Calleva’s walls, the people grew more hungry and desperate by the day.

Despite its ideal location on top of a gently sloping hill, there had been no attempt to create an adequate drainage system, and the deeply rutted streets, if they could be dignified by such a word, were covered with dung. Foul-smelling puddles formed wherever the ground was so saturated that nothing drained away, and Cato felt a wave of disgust at the sight of two children making ‘mud’ pies at the side of a waterlogged wagon rut.

By the time the two centurions reached Calleva’s main gateway a mixed crowd of natives and Romans was packed on to the turf ramparts to watch the desperate drama on the slope below. Aside from the men from the garrison, the Empire was represented by the first wave of merchants, slave traders and land agents out to make a quick killing before the new province became settled enough for the natives to get wise to their profiteering ways.

Now they jostled with the Atrebatans for the best view as the remnants of the supply column struggled towards the safety of Calleva. Cato caught the eye of the optio in command of the legionaries manning the gatehouse, and raised his vine cane to indicate his rank. The optio immediately ordered a handful of his men to clear a path for the two centurions and they went about the task with the usual insensitivity of soldiers. Shield bosses slammed into native bodies without regard for their age or sex, and howls of anger quickly swelled above any cries of surprise and pain.

‘Easy there!’ Cato shouted above the din, cracking his vine cane down on the nearest legionary’s shield. ‘Go easy, I said! These people are the allies of Rome! They’re not bloody animals. Understand?’

The legionary snapped to attention in front of his superior, and glared at a fixed point over Cato’s shoulder. ‘Yes, sir!’

‘If I catch you, or any others laying into the locals again, I’ll have you on latrine cleaning duties for the rest of the year.’ Cato leaned closer to the legionary, and continued softly, ‘Then you’ll really be in the shit, won’t you?’

The man tried not to smile and Cato nodded. ‘Carry on.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As the legionary led the way through the crowd the protests of the natives died away, now that the soldiers’ heavy-handedness had been seen to be punished.

Macro nudged Cato. ‘What was that all about? The boy was only doing his job.’

‘It’ll take him a few moments to get over his wounded pride. It takes a lot longer to build good relations between us and the Atrebatans. And almost no time to break them.’

‘Maybe,’ Macro said grudgingly, then recalled the legionary’s smirk at Cato’s final remark to him. The touch of humour had eased the man’s resentment considerably. ‘Anyway, it was neatly done.’

Cato shrugged.

They entered the shaded interior of the gatehouse and climbed the ladder to the deck above the thick timbers of the town gates. Emerging from the narrow hatchway Cato saw Verica and a handful of his bodyguards standing to one side. Cato saluted the king as he crossed the boarded floor towards the palisade and looked down the track that wound its way north, towards the river Tamesis. Half a mile away six large wagons, each drawn by teams of four oxen, crawled along the track. Around them marched a thin screen of auxiliary troops, with a small group of the legion’s mounted scouts forming a rearguard. Sunlight glinted off a breastplate and Cato squinted at a figure on horseback, halfway along the column.

‘Isn’t that the legate?’

‘How should I know?’ Macro replied. ‘Your eyes are better than mine. You tell me.’

Cato stared a little longer. ‘Yes! It’s him all right.’

‘What the hell’s he doing here?’ Macro was genuinely surprised. ‘He’s supposed to be with the legion, kicking the stuffing out of those bloody hillforts.’

‘I expect,’ Cato reflected, ‘he’s come to find out where his supplies have got to. Must have fallen in with the wagons.’

‘That’s our bloody Vespasian all right!’ Macro laughed. ‘Can’t help getting himself into a fight.’

Shadowing the column were several knots of enemy troops, accompanied by a number of the fast-moving chariots still favoured by many British tribes. A steady barrage of arrows, slingshot and spears was maintained on the Roman column. As Cato watched, one of the auxiliaries was struck in the leg by a spear and sprawled to the ground, his shield falling to one side. The man behind him, stepped round his wounded comrade, and continued forward, hunched behind his oval shield, without a backward glance.

‘That’s tough,’ said Macro.

‘Yes . . .’

Both men were frustrated by their inability to help their comrades. While they were under medical care, they were mere supernumeraries in the depot. Besides, the centurion in command of the garrison would take a dim view if they interfered with his command in any way.

Before the column had completely passed by the injured man, one of the animal handlers broke away from his pair of oxen and ran over to the auxiliary struggling to free himself of the spear. As the crowd on Calleva’s gatehouse watched, the handler grasped the spear and wrenched it free. Then with the handler supporting his wounded comrade the pair staggered towards the rear of the last wagon.

‘They won’t make it,’ said Cato.

The wagons trundled forward towards the safety of the town’s ramparts, driven on by desperate lashes from the drivers’ whips, and the gap between the rearmost vehicle and the two men steadily widened until they disappeared amid the ranks of the mounted rearguard. Cato strained his eyes for any further sign of them.

‘Should have left him,’ Macro commented sourly. ‘Stupid sod’s only wasted another life.’

‘There they are!’

Macro looked beyond the legion’s scouts and saw the pair still struggling after the supply column. Then he saw the nearest group of Britons racing in towards them for an easy kill. The handler looked over his shoulder and abruptly stopped. Pausing only for a moment, he pulled himself free of the wounded man and sprinted for safety. The auxiliary slumped to his knees and stretched a hand out towards the handler as the enemy closed in on him. He disappeared beneath a wave of woad-painted bodies with white limed hair. Some of the Britons sprinted on, intent on running down the handler. Younger, fitter and faster, they closed the distance rapidly and he was brought down with a spear thrust into the small of his back. Then he too disappeared under the savage blows of the British warriors.

‘Too bad.’ Macro shook his head.

‘Looks like the rest of them are going to make a move.’ Cato was watching the largest group of chariots where the tall figure in the lead was waving his spear above his head to attract attention. Then, with a swift stabbing motion he pointed the tip towards the remains of the supply column and the Britons roared their war cry and charged home. The auxiliaries closed ranks, forming a pitifully thin line between the Durotrigans and the wagons. The legate had rejoined his mounted scouts, and they quickly fanned out, screening the rear of the supply column and preparing to charge.

‘What the hell does he think he’s doing?’ asked Cato, astonished. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces.’

‘They might buy just enough time for the rest.’ Macro turned and looked back towards the ramparts of the depot. ‘Where’s the garrison?’

The distant thrum of hoofbeats and a thin defiant cry of ‘Augusta!’ announced the charge of the mounted scouts. Cato and Macro watched with sickening dread as the handful of horsemen swept over the sunlit grassland towards the screaming wave of Britons. For a moment the two sides were distinct forces, Roman against Briton, and then there was just a swirling chaos of men and horses, their war cries and screams of pain carrying clearly to those watching helplessly from the ramparts of Calleva. A handful of the mounted men broke free of the enemy and pelted back towards the wagons.

‘Is the legate with ‘em?’ asked Macro.

‘Yes.’

The sacrifice of the scouts only delayed their enemy for a short while, by which time the wagons and their escorting infantry were only two hundred paces from the gateway. Those on the wall shouted encouragement and wildly beckoned to them.

On came the Durotrigans, a seething mass of men and chariots, closing with their prey. The auxiliaries prepared to receive the charge. The dark slivers of the remaining javelins curved through the air and lanced down into the enemy. Cato saw one strike the head of a chariot horse and the animal reared up and spun to one side, dragging the chariot over and crushing its driver and spearman. The Britons swept past, unheeding, and threw themselves on the shields and swords of the auxiliaries, pushing them back on the retreating wagons.

Cato heard the steady tramp of marching boots from behind and turned to see the head of the garrison emerge from the heart of Calleva and march up to the gate. Below the wooden flooring of the gatehouse tower Cato heard the graunch of the heavy timbers of the gates as they were heaved open ahead of the legionaries.

‘About bloody time!’ Macro grumbled.

‘You think they’ll make a difference?’

Macro watched the desperate fighting engulfing the rear of the supply column and shrugged. The sight of the legionaries might just make the Britons pause in their onslaught. Over the last two years the natives had come to fear the men behind the crimson shields, and with good reason. However, these were the oldest of the veterans, lame men no longer able to keep up with their comrades, and those malingerers who could no longer be trusted to stand their ground in pitched battle. The instant the enemy realised the true calibre of the men they were facing all would be lost.

The first ranks of the garrison emerged from beneath the gatehouse. The centurion barked an order and the column changed formation, men spilling out on either side of the track to create a line four deep. As soon as the manoeuvre was complete the line moved forward towards the embattled supply column. The rearmost ranks of the Britons turned to face the new danger and slingers and archers loosed their missiles against the Romans. The barrage rattled harmlessly off the shields and then the noise ceased as the enemy infantry stepped forward to meet the legionaries. There was no wild charge from either side: the two lines simply came together in a rising clatter of ringing blades and dull thuds of shields. The legionaries pushed towards the first wagon, remorselessly carving a path through the Durotrigans.

The century continued to fight its way forward, but it was evident to those on the gatehouse that the pace was slackening. Even so, they reached the oxen of the first wagon and forced enough of a gap through the swirling ranks of the enemy to permit the wagon to drive through, rumbling free of the mêlée towards the open gates. The second and third wagons followed, and the surviving auxiliaries struggled to form up with their legionary companions. Vespasian dismounted and threw himself into the fight alongside his men. For a moment Cato felt a pang of anxiety as he lost sight of his legate; then the distinctive red crest atop Vespasian’s helmet appeared amid the wild, shimmering mass of gleaming helmets and bloodied weapons.