Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (32 page)

Cato shrugged and decided to keep his concerns to himself.

The Wolves and the Boars continued down the track, heading towards the thinning smoke. They had covered just over three miles, according to Cato’s estimate, when the tribune and Tincommius returned. Macro halted the column and moments later the two riders reined in their mounts and slid to the ground, breathless and excited.

‘Round the next hill,’ Quintillus panted. ‘Small supply column. All dead, all the wagons burned. The raiders are still there, picking over the bodies. We’ve got them! Macro, send the scouts and two of your centuries round the back of the hill to cut them off. The rest will form a line at the base of the hill. Then we’ll advance and catch them in a trap. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now, Tincommius, rejoin your cohort, and try to stay out of trouble.’

‘Of course, Tribune.’ Tincommius grinned.

‘I mean it. I went to a great deal of effort making sure you succeed Verica. Get yourself killed and you’ll have me to answer to.’

Tincommius chuckled nervously. The tribune turned towards Cato and muttered. ‘Keep an eye on him. He’s to stay out of harm’s way. I’ll hold you personally responsible for his safety, Centurion.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘Good.’

‘Sir?’ said Cato, as the tribune turned back towards his pony.

‘What is it?’

‘The enemy, sir. How many of them are there?’

Quintillus quickly estimated. ‘Two hundred, two hundred and fifty. That’s all. Why? Is that too many for you?’

‘No, sir,’ Cato replied tonelessly. ‘I’m just surprised that they haven’t made off yet. Particularly since there are so few of them. They must know we’d send a force out to investigate. Why take the risk?’

‘Who knows, Centurion? Who cares? All that matters is that they’re there and we’ve got the chance to put them in the bag. Now, you have your instructions. See to them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted.

Macro had already run off to issue his orders and the first two centuries of the Boars doubled away from the main body, moving obliquely in the direction of the near side of the hill that Quintillus had indicated. The tribune galloped to the nearest slope and headed up towards the crest. By the time that Cato had prepared his men the tribune had ground-tethered his pony and was creeping forwards, bent double and moving carefully through the long grass.

‘At least he’s doing that properly,’ muttered Cato.

‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ asked Tincommius.

‘No. Not much. There’s little his kind won’t do to grab whatever glory is going.’

‘And I thought the Celts were bad enough.’

Cato turned towards his Atrebatan companion. ‘Tincommius, you don’t know the half of it. Anyway, you heard the tribune - keep out of it today. No heroics. That’s my order.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Tincommius smiled. ‘I know my duty.’

‘Good.’

The century commanders were taking no chances, and passed down the lines of their men to give orders in unaccustomed low voices. The Wolves formed a line two deep to the left of the track, and Macro’s remaining centuries formed up to the right. Ahead of them Cato could see that there was a steep slope beyond the hill that concealed the ravaged supply convoy and its attackers. With luck the enemy would be neatly caught, with no way out of the small vale, except by hacking a path through the Atrebatan lines. It looked like Quintillus would have his slice of glory after all.

As soon as the two cohorts were in position, Macro drew his sword and swept it forward. The Wolves and the Boars advanced through the long grass, still wet with the morning dew. The men rested the iron heads of the javelins on their shoulders as they rustled forward and began to sweep round the edge of the hill. Macro stayed in position on the extreme right of the line, its most vulnerable point, with the first century of his cohort - handpicked men who could be trusted to fight hard and not yield.

Cato trotted to the left-hand flank, anxious to get the first possible sighting of the ground ahead of them in the vale. Far off, to the right, the two centuries dispatched to close the trap on the raiders were disappearing round the edge of the hill. With a little luck they would be able to get in position quickly enough to compel the enemy to surrender the moment they realised there was no way out for them. If the Atrebatans spared them, the best they could expect was a lifetime of slavery. From his recent experience of fighting the Durotrigans, Cato doubted whether they would surrender. The Durotrigans were being driven to resist the legions by druid fanatics, who promised their warriors that the very finest rewards the afterlife had to offer were reserved for the men who died fighting Rome.

As the line began to swing round the base of the hill Cato caught sight of the supply column. The charred remains of eight wagons came into view, flames still licking up from some of them. Bodies in red tunics were sprawled on the ground around the wagons. Close by were the raiders, a small party of men herding the supply column’s draught animals together. One man leaned against the serpent banner of the Durotrigans, while a handful of others picked over the bodies lying on the ground. As yet none of them appeared to have spotted the Wolf Cohort marching steadily towards them, and for the first time Cato thought that the tribune’s hasty plan might come off. Still, the raiders must be a dozy lot not to have detected the approaching danger. Cato found it hard to believe that they had not posted a lookout, at least.

The two cohorts had almost blocked the end of the vale before the alarm was raised. Cato saw the serpent standard bearer suddenly stand upright, then turn and shout a warning to his companions. Instantly the raiders sprang to their weapons and turned to face the Wolves and the Boars.

‘Won’t be much of a fight,’ Figulus muttered beside Cato. ‘We must outnumber them five or six to one. No contest.’

‘No.’

But still the Durotrigans prepared themselves to meet the enemy. Clustering together in a shallow crescent, they raised their shields and shook their spears. A movement, away to the right, drew Cato’s attention, and he saw Quintillus galloping his horse down the slope. He tore round the back of the advancing cohorts and took up a position just behind the centre of the line, drew his sword and shouted encouragement to the native troops.

‘Wasting his bloody breath,’ said Figulus. ‘They don’t understand much Latin.’

‘No, but it might make him feel good.’

The distance between the two forces closed quickly, then the Durotrigans began to give ground, moving back past the burned wagons towards the far end of the vale, where the gap between the steep sides of both hills was narrow and offered better defence than the open floor where the Atrebatans would easily overrun them through sheer weight of numbers.

‘That’s not going to do them much good, not when Macro’s lads come up on them.’

‘Figulus?’

‘Sir?’

‘Just shut up for the moment. I don’t need the running commentary.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The two cohorts continued to pursue the enemy up the vale and began to pass by the burned-out supply column. Cato spared the charred wagons a quick look, and frowned. There was something about them that did not look right. The axles were far too thin and the light wheels and wicker-frame sides bore little resemblance to the heavy transport carts of the legions. As he stepped over one of the bodies Cato was aware of a faint putrid smell and he saw the blotchy skin on the corpse. The man must have died some days ago. The next body he came across was the same. All at once a dreadful doubt chilled his blood and he glanced anxiously at the trees that sprawled down the slopes of the hills on either side. Cato looked towards the tribune, but Quintillus had his gaze fixed on the small band of raiders directly ahead and was still shouting his encouragement. Cato drew a deep breath and threw up his arm.

‘Cohort! Halt!’

The Wolves stumbled to a halt, some warriors not quite understanding the order, or not willing to obey it immediately. The result was a straggling line spread across the floor of the vale. After a moment’s hesitation Macro echoed the order to halt and started running across towards Cato.

‘Dress your lines!’ Cato bellowed out to his men and the century commanders immediately started to shove and kick their men into order. A pounding of hoofbeats announced the arrival of the tribune.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing, Centurion? Get your men forward!’

‘Sir, there’s something wrong about this.’

‘Get your men forward! That’s an order! You want that lot to escape?’

‘Sir, the wagons. Look at them.’

‘Wagons?’ Quintillus glared at him. ‘What about the bloody wagons?’ He thrust the point of his sword towards Cato. ‘Get forward, I say!’

‘Those aren’t wagons,’ Cato insisted. ‘Look at them. They’re chariots.’

‘Chariots? What bloody nonsense is this?’

‘Chariots tied back to back, to look like wagons,’ Cato explained quickly, and stepped over to one of the bodies. ‘And these men, dead long before the chariots were set alight.’

Macro came running up, breathless and angry. ‘What’s going on? Why’d you call a halt?’

Before Cato could reply, there came the distant roar of a war cry. The raiders at the end of the vale had seen their pursuers stop. Now they turned and were charging back towards the Atrebatans, screaming like madmen.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Quintillus said softly. ‘They’re attacking us.’

Cato tore his gaze away from the enemy bearing down on them, and swept his eyes over the hillsides.

‘There! There’s your reason,’ he said bitterly, thrusting an arm towards the trees on the hill to their left. Durotrigan warriors were pouring out from the shadows beyond the trees and forming up in a dense mass barely two hundred paces from where they were standing. Cato turned to the other hill. ‘And there!’

For an instant the tribune’s well-mannered façade crumbled as the deadly nature of the situation he had led the two cohorts into was thrust before his eyes. ‘Oh, shit . . .’

‘Wolves!’ Cato quickly turned to his men, hand cupped to his mouth. ‘Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Centuries! Refuse the left flank!’

As Macro sprinted off to join his men, the three centuries at the extreme left of the Atrebatan line folded back to face the Durotrigans massing on the slope above them. Unlike the natives in the two cohorts, the enemy were heavily armed, many with chain mail protecting their bodies. Already Cato could see that the Atrebatans were outnumbered; the tables had been completely turned on them and their Roman commanders. Cato spared their enemy an instant of grudging admiration before he turned to Tincommius and spoke to him in Latin.

‘Get out of here! Get back to Calleva, as fast you can. We won’t be able to hold them for long.’

‘No,’ Tincommius replied. ‘I’ll stay here. I’d never make it.’

‘You’ll go.’

Tincommius shook his head and Cato turned towards the tribune.

‘Sir! Take him. Get him out of here!’

Quintillus quickly nodded and reached down for the hand of the Atrebatan prince, but Tincommius shook his head and, stepping back, he drew his sword.

‘Quick, you fool!’ shouted Quintillus. ‘There’s no time for heroics. You heard the centurion! Give me your hand!’

‘No!’

For a moment the three men froze, each glancing anxiously at the others, then the tribune withdrew his hand and took a firm grasp of the reins.

‘Very well. You had your chance. Centurion, carry on. I’m going for help.’

‘Help?’ Cato angrily turned on the tribune, but Quintillus ignored him. Savagely yanking the beast’s head round, he kicked his heels and spurred the pony back towards Calleva, leaving Cato staring after him, lips pressed together in cold contempt and fury.

‘Help?’ Figulus snorted. ‘How fucking thick does he think we are?’

Before Cato could reply there was a blast on a war horn to their left, immediately joined by another from the right. With a triumphant roar the Durotrigans poured down the slope towards the ordered lines of the Wolves and the Boars. Even as he glanced round his men Cato saw that some of them were already stepping back from their position in the line. He must keep them in hand, before the line started to crumble.

‘Hold your position there!’ he roared at the nearest unsteady man, who guiltily jumped back into place. Cato cupped his hands. ‘Cohort! Ready javelins!’

The second line took a pace back while the men in front changed their grip on the javelins and braced their feet apart, ready to throw the deadly missiles into the wildly charging ranks of the enemy. Cato glanced to the left and then straight down the vale. The small group they had seen initially, no more than thirty paces away, would reach them first.

‘First, Second and Third Centuries . . . release!’

With a collective grunt of effort the men threw their arms forward and hurled their javelins. The volley was more ragged than that of fully trained legionaries, Cato noted, but it achieved nearly the same terrible effect. The dark shafts arced up into the sky and then dropped down on the Durotrigans, who tried to take cover from the volley. It was instinctive, but quite useless. Those who managed to raise shields to protect themselves were almost as effectively skewered as those who did not as the heavy iron heads punched through the shields and tore into the flesh beneath. There were nearly two javelins for each man in the small charge, and after the crash and clatter of the volley only half continued on towards the Wolves, leaving their comrades dead or screaming in the long grass. The survivors would be easily dealt with and Cato turned his attention to the much larger band of Durotrigans charging down the slope towards the other three centuries.