The Eagle and the Wolves

As Macro strode off towards the ramp Cato glanced round and took in the situation. A number of houses had caught fire in the streets close to the gate and small clusters of townspeople were hurriedly trying to smother or douse the flames before they flared out of control. Silva, the veteran quartermaster, was distributing equipment to the most recently arrived survivors of the Wolves and the Boars. He waved a greeting as he saw Cato approaching.

'Centurion! Heard we'd lost you. Thought you were going for the record.'

'Record?'

'For the legion's shortest ever career in the centurionate.'

'Very funny. I need some equipment.'

'What do you want?'

'All of it. Except the sword.'

'Whatever happened to returning with your shield or on it?' Silva muttered.

'Sometimes living to fight another day takes precedence.' Cato peered into the cart and saw that it had been roughly loaded with helmets, swords, daggers, belts, javelins, shields and anything else that came to hand. 'You have any chain mail?'

'Sorry. All gone. Only thing left is this.' He tapped a set of the new segmented armour that was beginning to find favour in the legions. 'Take it, or leave it, sir.'

'All right then.' Cato took the armour and worked it over his tunic. Silva helped lace it up while the centurion tied a rag round his head to replace the felt liner he had lost.

'There.' Silva stepped back. 'Ever worn one of these before, sir?'

'No.'

'You'll find it comfortable enough. The only drawback is that it makes throwing a javelin a bit of a chore. Otherwise, it's fine, and cheaper too. I'll add it to your mess bill. Together with the other items.'

Cato looked at him closely. 'You are joking?'

'Of course not, sir. All this has got to be accounted for.'

'Right…' Cato fastened the buckle of his sword-belt and, pulling the standard issue sword from the scabbard, he tossed it into the cart and sheathed his own blade in its place.

'Make sure I only get charged for the scabbard.'

He grabbed a helmet and shield and turned away as Silva quickly noted on a large wax tablet the items the centurion had been issued.

Trotting up on to the parapet, Cato sought out Macro. The walkway over the gate was blocked by men preparing to heave over the next faggot. While four of them held the tight bundle of kindling wood up in the air on the end of pitchforks, a fifth man thrust a torch up into the bundle from beneath. The kindling caught fire quickly, cracking and sparking amid the licking flames. When it was well alight the order was given and the bundle was swung out over the rampart with as much force as possible. It thudded down beyond the rampart and rolled a short distance further, revealing a handful of the enemy bowmen.

'There they are!' one of the Atrebatans shouted, and a mixed volley of arrows, slingshots and javelins lashed down on the enemy, knocking several men to the ground, where they writhed and screamed in the orange glow of the burning faggot.

'Good work!' shouted Macro, reinforcing his praise to the natives with a thumbs-up. He caught sight of Cato and beckoned to him. 'You tell 'em next time! It'll sound better in Celtic.'

'I'm sure they got the message,' Cato smiled. 'What's our situation?'

'All right for now. I've got men posted all the way round in case they try to surprise us somewhere else, but they've not made any attempt to rush the ramparts. They've even stopped lobbing those fire arrows over the walls. Fuck knows why – they had us running around all over the place trying to put 'em out.'

'Has anyone seen the tribune?' asked Cato.

'Oh yes!' Macro laughed bitterly. 'He stopped by the gateway before he rode away. Stopped just long enough to shout something about going for help. Then he bolted. Silva told me.'

'Think he's really going to look for help?'

'Well, he's certainly going to look for somewhere safer than here.'

'Not difficult.'

'No.'

'Think we'll keep them out?' Cato asked quietly.

Macro thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. 'No. We have to count on them getting in at some point. There's not enough of us to hold the entire wall. And I don't think we can rely on any of the townsfolk coming to our aid – they're in no fit state to fight.'

'In that case…' Cato cast a map of Calleva into his mind's eye. 'In that case, we'll have to fall back on the depot when the time comes. The depot, or the royal enclosure.'

'Not the enclosure,' said Macro. 'Too close to the rest of the town. We'd never see them coming until the last instant. Besides, there's plenty of supplies we can draw on in the depot. It's our best chance.'

'I suppose.'

'Cato! Macro!' a voice called out from the darkness beyond the wall. The two centurions looked warily over the palisade.

'Cato! Macro!'

'Who the hell's that?' muttered Macro. He turned to a group of bowmen crouching nearby on the walkway, and mimed stringing an arrow. 'Get ready!'

The voice called out again, closer this time.

'I don't like this,' said Macro. 'It's bound to be some kind of a trick. Well, we'll be ready for the bastards!'

Cato peered into the night, straining his eyes towards the direction of the voice. Then, it came again, closer and clearer – and now he was certain.

'It's Tincommius.'

'Tincommius?' Macro shook his head. 'Bollocks! It's a trick.'

'It's Tincommius, I tell you… Look there!'

In the red wavering light from the dying flames of the last faggot to be hurled over the wall, a figure emerged from the darkness. He paused a moment, indistinct and shimmering beyond the heated night air.

'Cato! Macro!' he called again.

'Step into the light where we can see you,' Macro bellowed. 'Slowly now! Any tricks and you'll be dead before you can even turn round!'

'All right! No tricks!' the man called back. 'I'm coming closer.'

He picked his way round the faggot and slowly approached the gate, one arm raised to show that he carried no weapon. In the other hand he carried an auxiliary shield, one of those issued to the Wolves and the Boars. He stopped thirty paces from the gate.

'Macro… It's me, Tincommius.'

'Fuck me!' whispered Macro. 'So it is!'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Eight

General Plautius was growing tired of the game being played by Caratacus. For some weeks now the legions had steadily advanced along the north bank of the Tamesis, trying to close with the Britons. But as soon as the Roman army moved forward, Caratacus simply withdrew, abandoning one defensive position after another and leaving the Romans nothing but the warm ashes of his campfires. And all the time the gap between Plautius' army and the smaller force commanded by Vespasian grew dangerously wider, almost inviting a sudden thrust by the enemy should he ever guess at the truth. Plautius had tried to force Caratacus to give battle by ordering his troops to burn every farm and settlement they came across. Every farm animal was to be likewise destroyed. Only a handful of the people would be spared so that their lamentations would ring in the ears of their chiefs, who in turn must beg Caratacus to put an end to Roman despoiling of their lands by turning round and falling upon the legions.

Finally it seemed to have worked.

Plautius stared across the shallow valley towards the fortifications Caratacus had prepared on the far ridge: a shallow ditch and, beyond, a small earth rampart with a crude wooden palisade. It would not present much of a challenge to the first wave of assault troops forming up on the slope in front of the Roman camp. Behind them were arranged several small batteries of bolt-throwers, preparing to lay down a terrible barrage of heavy iron shafts that would smash the flimsy palisade and kill any man standing directly behind it.