The position of some of the attackers was obvious from several small fires ringing the main gate. Every so often a fire arrow would rise up, curve gracefully over the ramparts and disappear amongst the huts beyond. Dull red smudges behind the ramparts showed where a number of small blazes had already been started.
The situation looked desperate, and Cato briefly considered what he must do. The Second Legion was at least two days' march away. Too far, perhaps, to arrive in time to save Calleva, and the legion's supply depot. There was an infantry cohort a day's march away in the opposite direction, guarding a river crossing, but they would be too few to make a difference. Besides, with the Durotrigans in the area, the centurion would have to make sure he stayed out of sight as much as possible, and that could double the length of time it would take to reach the nearest help.
There was no alternative, he realised. He must find a way back into Calleva and do what he could to help organise the defence of the Atrebatan capital. If Macro was dead then the command of the survivors of the two cohorts would fall to him. If Tincommius was dead then, with Verica barely alive, the Atrebatans would be leaderless. Cato had to get back as quickly as possible.
Crouching low, sword held tightly in his hand, he moved off in the direction of the main gate. A light breeze was blowing, rustling the tall grass and the leaves of the stunted trees that dotted the small plain. The strain of creeping forwards, muscles tensed for instant attack or flight, senses straining to detect any hint of movement or sound of the enemy, told on the young centurion, and after half a mile he stopped and rested a moment. Between him and the gate, their dark shapes rising above the grass, the Durotrigans extended in a loose screen, barring access to the town from any survivors of the two cohorts still lurking nearby. As Cato watched, one of the enemy moved closer to a comrade and the harsh laughter of their voices was clearly audible. Rising to his feet but keeping bent over, Cato quickly made for the gap in the screen and quietly slipped through, glancing both ways to make sure that he had not been spotted. No alarm was given and he pressed on. A short distance beyond was one of the small campfires lit by the Durotrigans. It was ringed by the dark forms of men sleeping under their cloaks, resting in preparation for the next day's assault on Calleva. One man stood guard, warming himself by the fire, the shaft of his spear resting against his shoulder.
The loom of the fire spread across a wide area and Cato realised that in skirting it he might well be seen by one of the men in the screen he had just passed through. Directly beyond the fire was the gate, barely a few hundred paces distant. With a last glance round to make sure he had not yet been seen, Cato rose up from the grass and started to run forward, picking up speed as he approached the fire. Then the first of the sleeping Durotrigans was at his feet. Cato leaped over him, and the next one, and sprinted straight for the man standing in front of the fire. The warrior glanced over his shoulder, his eyes instantly widening as he caught sight of the savage expression on the face of the Roman hurtling towards him. He fumbled for the shaft of his spear, but it was too late. Cato slammed into the man's back and thrust the enemy warrior, sprawling, right on top of the fire. As Cato rolled to one side, back on to his feet, and sprinted for the gate, a terrible shrieking from the warrior split the night. At once the men sleeping on the ground stirred and ran to help their comrade. Cato did not look back, but ran as fast as he could for the gate. Behind him there was a shout as he was seen, and more shouts as the alarm spread.
Cato had a good start, but already he was aware of dark shapes on either side, angling in towards him as they converged on the entrance to Calleva. Cato could see faces on the wall turning towards him. Someone drew an arrow to his bow and loosed a quick shot at the approaching figure. Cato sidestepped and there was a whirr close by in the darkness as he ran on.
'Don't shoot!' he cried out in Latin, before he remembered the most recent password. 'Boiled asparagus! Boiled asparagus! Don't shoot!'
Another arrow whipped close by, this time from behind, and Cato flinched as he forced every last effort out of his tired legs.
'Open the gate!' he shouted, as he raced up to the defence ditch surrounding the town.
'It's the centurion!' a voice shouted from the ramparts. 'Get the fucking gate open!'
Cato ran up to the thick timbers and desperately struck his sword against the unyielding wood.
'Open up! Open up!' he screamed.
There was a deep groan from the far side of the gate as the locking bar was slid out of its heavy bracket. Cato turned to look back at his pursuers. He was terrified to see several figures burst out of the darkness into the glow of the burning faggots thrown down in front of the gate. One of them stopped, only twenty paces away, and threw a spear. It was a good throw and would have skewered Cato had he not seen it coming. He threw himself to the ground. An instant later the iron head struck the gate with a splintering crack and shivered a moment. Cato scrambled back to his feet and hammered on the gate
'For fuck's sake, open up!'
With a deep grinding grumble the gate began to swing inwards. Cato desperately pushed against it, and then some sixth sense made him glance over his shoulder. Right behind him, no more than six feet away, a Durotrigan warrior was drawing back his spear arm, ready to make a killing thrust into Cato's back. A feral snarl of triumph twisted his features. Then, suddenly, there was a soft thud. The man froze, and Cato noticed the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from the top of his head. As the man toppled back, Cato thrust himself through the narrow opening that had appeared at the edge of the gate, and collapsed on the ground inside. At once the defenders threw themselves against the back of the gate and heaved it into position, just as a few of the Durotrigans slammed into the far side. But they were too few to make a difference and moments later the locking bar was eased back into its bracket and the gate was secured again. Cato stayed on his hands and knees, head bent forward between his arms as he gasped for breath.
A dark shape leaned over him.
'You are in a sorry state, lad,' Macro chuckled. 'Where've you been all the bloody day?'
Cato drew a deep breath before he could reply. 'Glad to see you too… Tincommius?'
'No sign of him. Here, let me help you.'
Macro took a firm grip under Cato's shoulders and heaved him onto his feet. By the flickering light of a nearby torch Cato saw that Macro was as filthy as himself, and had a large blood-soaked dressing on his thigh.
'You all right?'
Macro was touched by the concern on his young companion's face. 'It's nothing. Some bugger thought he'd try and slow me down by having a swipe at my leg.'
'Bad?'
'You should see the other fellow.' Macro laughed. 'Won't be going very far without his head. Can't say that you've picked a particularly good time to join us.'
'How many have got back?'
'Most of the legionaries. Figulus was the first.'
'And the cohorts?'
Macro shook his head. 'Not good. So far, barely two hundred. There'll be some more, but not many now. They dumped most of the equipment when they ran. Except your standard bearer.'
'Mandrax?'
'That's the lad. Came in shortly before you did, still carrying the standard. Could do with a few more like him. Anyway, I've had Silva pull some more equipment out of the depot stores. He's over there, by that cart. You'd better get some replacement kit. Somehow, I think you'll need it. I'll be up on the palisade.'