Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (39 page)

‘Come on, sir!’

Macro’s sword and shield were pressed back into his hands and then Figulus pulled him away from the blazing wagon.

‘You’re supposed . . . to be with . . . your men,’ Macro wheezed.

‘They’re all right, sir. Sent them on ahead.’

‘Wait!’ Macro looked back towards the gate. The wagon was well ablaze and brilliant red torrents of flame crackled and roared upwards, firing the ramparts above. The centurion nodded his satisfaction. The gateway had been denied to the enemy, for now at least. But it would not take them long to scale the walls instead; Macro’s actions had only bought the defenders a brief interval. ‘Let’s go.’

As soon as Cato heard the battering ram crash through the gates he gave the order to fall back. Mandrax hoisted the standard above his head and slowly swung it from side to side. All along the ramparts the men of the Wolf Cohort fell back from the palisade and ran through the streets towards the depot. Taking one last glance to ensure that every man had seen and understood the signal, Cato beckoned to Mandrax and clambered down the reverse slope of the rampart into the ten-pace gap that ran round the inside of Calleva’s defences. They made for an opening between two clusters of native huts. A narrow winding street led them into the heart of the town. As they ran Cato noticed anxious faces peering at them from doorways as they pounded past. The people of Calleva would discover the worst soon enough, but there was nothing he could do for them now; nothing he could say that would be of the smallest comfort. And so he ignored them as he and Mandrax ran for the safety of the last line of defence against the Durotrigans. Once inside the depot, they would hold off the enemy for as long as possible and then die.

Cato was surprised at how calmly he accepted the prospect of his imminent death. He had thought there would be more to fear. He had been terrified that fear would paralyse him and unman him at the very end. But for now all that concerned Cato was defying Tincommius and the Durotrigans for as long as possible.

The narrow street suddenly opened out on to a wider thoroughfare that Cato recognised as the main route leading from the gate towards the royal enclosure. Several men from his cohort ran past and he and Mandrax joined them. A little further on a street branched off towards the depot and they turned into it and saw that the way ahead was filled with legionaries and native troops also streaming towards the depot. Nearly all still carried their shields and weapons, Cato noted with pride. Despite the appearance of a rout the men were falling back and once in their new position they would be armed and ready to turn on their enemy once more. Amongst them were the last few legionaries returning from the gates of Calleva.

‘Anyone seen Macro?’ Cato called out. One of the legionaries turned towards him, and Cato pointed at the man. ‘You there! Where’s Macro?’

‘Dunno, sir. Last I saw, he was with a few lads defending the gate.’

‘You left him there?’

‘He told us to go!’ the legionary replied angrily. ‘Said he’d follow on, sir.’

‘Right . . . Get inside and form up with the others.’

Cato looked down the street that led to the main gate. Two figures burst round the side of a native hut a hundred paces away. Figulus, taller and leaner, had a short lead over Macro, whose thick, muscular legs pumped hard as he struggled to keep up. Moments later they drew up beside Cato and bent over as they gasped for breath.

‘You all right?’ asked Cato.

Macro looked up, chest heaving. His face was blackened and the hairs on his arms and legs were singed. The sharp tang of burned hair still clung to him and Cato made a face.

‘You should see the other man . . .’ Macro chuckled and then burst into a raucous cough. He doubled up for a moment, and then as the coughing fit ended he looked round at Figulus.

‘Nearly forgot . . . You’re on a charge, sunshine. Disobey an order again . . . and I’ll have you flogged.’

‘Yes, sir. I was only-’

A distant roar of voices sounded from beyond the depot gate.

Something was wrong. The entrance to the depot was filled with men trying to force their way out of the gate and up the street and the two opposed flows of humanity melded into a hopeless tangle. Cries of anger and desperation rose from the throng.

Cato pushed his way forwards. ‘Silence! Silence there!’ he roared out. Most tongues were stilled as faces turned towards him.

‘What’s going on? Somebody make a report!’

‘They’re in!’ someone shouted. ‘The bastards have got into the depot!’

Over the heads of the dense mass of men blocking the gate, Cato looked through the arch and beyond the administration block, towards the grain dump at the rear of the depot. Beyond that, swarming over the rampart, came the Durotrigans. Several bodies in red tunics lay by the palisade and a handful of others were being cut down as they tried to stem the onrush. Already, some of the fainter-hearted of the legion’s noncombatants had thrown down their weapons and were fleeing back across the depot, desperate to escape the howling mass of enemy warriors, already spreading out across the parade ground, and racing towards the remaining defenders by the gate.

Chapter Thirty-Three

‘If you know what’s good for you, you’d better let me see the legate right now.’ The stranger glared at the optio, who was standing between two legionaries. They looked like the kind of hardy veterans even the toughest criminals back in Rome would cross the street to avoid. Consequently the optio showed only the slightest concern in the face of the mud-stained individual in a filthy tunic who had presented himself at the camp gate as dusk closed in. The small measure of doubt was due to the stranger’s patrician accent. Only a small fortune could have paid for enunciation like that, unless, of course, the man was an actor.

‘Who do you think you are, mate?’ asked the optio.

‘All right then.’ The man spoke with elaborate calm. ‘I am Tribune Caius Quintillus.’

‘Don’t look much like a tribune to me.’

‘That’s because I’ve ridden through the night and today to get here.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s something of an emergency back at Calleva.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Yes. The garrison is under attack and I’d rather like the legate to know, so that he can send help to Centurion Macro.’

‘Macro? Oh, well, that’s different. If Macro’s in trouble you’d better come in.’ The optio turned to one of his men. ‘Take him to headquarters.’

Quintillus clamped his mouth shut as he followed the legionary through the gateway of the Second Legion’s marching camp, and up the main thoroughfare towards the complex of tents where the legate had his headquarters. There would be time enough to humiliate that wretched optio later. Right now Quintillus needed to warn Vespasian of the danger to Calleva while there still might be a chance of saving the Atrebatans’ capital. Then the tribune might yet salvage some political capital from the situation. After all, he had risked his life to get the message to Vespasian. Not that he had run into any of the enemy in his desperate ride for help, but he might have. Courage, he reminded himself, consists of action in the knowledge of the probability of peril. He had acted, and was therefore due his portion of admiration. That made him feel far better, and by the time they reached headquarters the tribune was bathing in the warm glow of high self-regard.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Vespasian snapped, once the man was admitted to his quarters. The legate was sitting behind his desk, preparing, by the faint light of the setting sun, the orders for the next phase of the campaign. In two days’ time the Second Legion would be moving west once more, to destroy a string of hillforts along the northern frontier of the Durotrigans’ lands. After that the legion would strike south, laying waste everything in its path until it reached the coast. By then, the Durotrigans must sue for peace, and there would be one less tribe allied to Caratacus.

Vespasian had just finished reading a report on the condition of the legion’s catapults and had started on a light supper of cold chicken and wine before resuming his work. He continued chewing as the unwelcome visitor introduced himself.

‘Tribune Caius Quintillus, sir. Attached to General Plautius’ staff.’

‘Never heard of you.’

‘I only arrived in Britain a month ago, sir. Replacement.’

‘Misplacement, more like.’ Vespasian arched an eyebrow. ‘Bit out of your way, Tribune. Don’t tell me you went out hunting and got lost.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, then?’

‘I was sent by the general to assess the situation in Calleva, sir.’

‘I see.’ Vespasian looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. He was uncomfortable about the idea of Aulus Plautius being concerned about a town within the Second Legion’s operational area. Immediately Vespasian wondered if there was something he had overlooked. As far as he could recall, Centurion Macro had made no mention of trouble brewing up amongst the Atrebatans. Yet here was this man, claiming to be a tribune, stating that the general had deemed it necessary to send a senior officer to report back on the situation. Something was amiss, and Vespasian realised he must tread lightly until the precise nature of the general’s anxiety became apparent. He smiled faintly at the tribune. ‘And the situation will meet with the general’s satisfaction, I trust.’

‘Hardly.’ Quintiullus looked drained. ‘When I left the town the Durotrigans were about to attack it. Sir, if we don’t act soon, Calleva must fall into enemy hands.’

Vespasian had been reaching for his wine, but now his hand froze halfway across the desk.

‘What did you say?’

‘Calleva’s under attack, sir. Or at least it probably is, given what happened yesterday.’

Vespasian withdrew his hand and leaned back into his campaign chair, forcing himself to remain composed. ‘And what exactly happened yesterday?’

Tribune Quintillus briefly described the destruction of the two native cohorts, the flight back to Calleva, and his hurried orders for the town’s defence. He went on, in as modest a tone as he could manage, to relate how he had volunteered himself to ride through enemy lines to find the Second Legion, and bring help to the remains of the garrison holding on back in Calleva. When he finished, Quintillus casually rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn on the back of his hand.

‘That’s quite a tale,’ Vespasian said evenly. ‘You must be exhausted. I’ll have some food brought for you. Then you can rest.’

‘Yes, sir. But the garrison . . . we must help them at once.’

‘Quite. Verica needs our support.’

‘Verica? Verica’s been wounded. Badly. Last time I saw him he looked pretty close to death.’

‘You let the king ride into this ambush?’ Vespasian said in an icy tone.

‘No, sir,’ Quintillus replied quickly. ‘He was attacked by one of his noblemen.’

Vespasian bit back on his growing anger. Every time the young tribune opened his mouth the situation got worse. ‘I hope there’s nothing else to tell me.’

The tribune shook his head and then pointed to a chair beside Vespasian’s table. ‘May I sit down, sir?’

‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’

While the tribune eased his saddle-sore body down into the campaign chair Vespasian’s mind was racing as he reacted to the news of the disaster facing not only the men at Calleva, but his own legion as well. The campaign in the west would be stalled.

‘How strong was the enemy force?’

‘A thousand, maybe two thousand,’ Quintillus guessed.

‘But no more than that?’

‘No, sir.’

Vespasian’s mood lightened slightly. ‘Right then, we can cope with that. It’s a pain in the arse, and it’ll delay my advance, but that can’t be helped. We’ll deal with the Durotrigans first.’

‘Ah . . .’ Quintillus looked up with an anxious expression. ‘I’m afraid there’s a little complication, sir.’

Vespasian’s lips compressed into a thin, tight line for a moment as he resisted the impulse to give the tribune a stiff bollocking. Then he said quietly, ‘What kind of a complication would that be, Tribune?’

‘There’s a small element amongst the Atrebatans that want to side with the enemy, and take the tribe with them. They’re the ones behind the attack on Verica.’

‘I see.’ The situation was far worse then. Even if Calleva had fallen to the Durotrigans they would be swiftly ousted by Vespasian’s legion, and the situation stabilised. But if the entire tribe could be persuaded to turn against Rome then not only would the Second Legion be in grave danger, but also General Plautius and the other three legions.

Vespasian silently cursed this tribune. Unless he acted at once, to defeat the Durotrigans and remove those Atrebatan noblemen conspiring against Rome, there was every chance that the Emperor would lose nearly twenty thousand legionaries, and as many auxiliary troops. Augustus had managed to survive the loss of General Varus and three legions. Just. But Augustus had firmly established his grip on the legions and the empire. Claudius enjoyed no such legitimacy, and would almost certainly be swept from power in the aftermath of such a terrible military defeat. What future could there be for Rome then? Vespasian felt himself in the cold grip of dark fears at such a prospect . . .

He suddenly realised that he had not heard the tribune’s last words. ‘Pardon?’