The Eagle and the Wolves

'That was close,' Cato said hoarsely as Macro handed out the instruments to the confused legionaries.

'Not out of the woods yet, lad,' Macro replied, thrusting a trumpet into the hands of one of his men. The legionary looked aghast, as if someone had just thrust a venomous snake into his hands.

'Don't just bloody gawp at it!' Macro screamed into his face. 'Stick your laughing gear round that and blow for all you're worth. But you start slacking on me and I'll ram it so far down your throat you'll be farting tunes out of it!… Make myself clear?'

'Yes, sir!'

'Right, start playing then.'

The legionaries began to raise up a braying, nerve-rending cacophony into the night sky, and totally drowned out the cries of Tincommius.

'Good!' Macro nodded, hands on hips. 'Keep it up for a while, then have a rest. If the enemy starts his yacking up again, you start blowing. Understood? Carry on.'

He turned to Cato, leaning close to be heard over the din. 'Get the Atrebatans down from the wall. Tell 'em to rest. They'll need all their strength when the morning comes.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Thirty

At first light Macro passed the order for every able-bodied man to stand to. Cato was to take all the remaining natives into the Wolf Cohort, and Macro gathered a scratch force of legionaries from the depot and assembled them immediately behind the gate as a reserve. Cato sent a man to bring the royal bodyguard down to the gate, and while Macro briefed his men Cato walked round the entire circuit of Calleva's ramparts. The appeals by Tincommius, made throughout the night, had had their effect, and by the time the centurion had returned to the main gate it was clear that upwards of fifty men had quietly slipped over the wall to join the enemy. A thin mist had aided their flight from Calleva, and even now the milky grey wreathed the ground lying beyond the defence ditch. Cato was gratified that few of those who had deserted had been men of the Wolf Cohort. His attempt to learn their tongue and to be more familiar with their ways had paid dividends. It was a shame, he briefly reflected, that Roman policy makers rarely, if ever, learned from such examples. So much bloodshed might be prevented, and the Empire would win a far larger pool of recruits for its far-flung cohorts.

'How many left?' Macro asked, as Cato joined him in the watchtower.

'Apart from the eighty effectives from the legionaries at the depot, there's a hundred and ten left from the Wolves and sixtyfive from your cohort. Plus the king's bodyguard, that's another fifty or so.'

'Can we count on them?'

Cato nodded. 'Their loyalty is to Verica. They swore a blood oath to protect him.'

Macro's mouth moved in a wry smile. 'Tincommius' oath didn't seem to trouble him unduly. Can we trust Cadminius?'

'I think so.'

'Then where is he?'

'He won't leave the royal enclosure. Or let any of his men.'

'Why not?'

'He says they must guard the king.'

'Guard the king?' Macro slammed his fist down on the rail. 'They'd be far more fucking use guarding him out here!'

Cato waited a moment, before speaking quietly. 'I tried to explain that to Cadminius, but he wouldn't budge.'

Macro quickly glanced round the ramparts, surveying the solitary figures spread out along the palisade. 'Barely half a cohort all told… Not enough. Not nearly enough.'

Cato gazed round at the enemy preparations. 'Must be thousands of them out there. And some of our own lads.'

'And there's more to come. Some cavalry turned up while you were gone. Came in from the north-west.'

'We don't have a chance.'

'Thanks for that morale-boosting opinion.'

Cato bit back on the rush of anger that filled his head. Macro was right. He should keep such thoughts to himself. Centurions had no right to contemplate defeat openly. That's what Macro had told him nearly two years ago, when they first met. So the young centurion forced himself to breathe deeply and calm his raging doubts.

'I suppose we'll just have to hold on until some relief arrives. Quintillus should reach the legion by the end of the day. Take them a little while to get here. We'll just have to hold them off until then.'

Macro turned and studied Cato's expression for a moment. 'That's more like it, lad. Never say die, eh? Goes with the job.'

'Some job.'

'Oh, come on! It's not so bad. Good pay, decent quarters, first dibs on the booty and a chance to shout all you like. Who could ask for more?'

Cato laughed despite himself, and was profoundly grateful that Macro was here at his side. Nothing ever seemed to shake him. Only women, Cato reminded himself with a faint grin.

'What's so bloody funny?'

'Nothing. Really, nothing.'

'Then wipe that stupid look off your face. Tincommius and his mates won't be coming for a while yet. Tell our lads to stand down. Then go and tell your native chums to do the same. And get some rest yourself. You look done in.'

Cato paused on the ladder at the back of the watchtower. 'What about you?'

'I'll rest when it's all over.'

'When do you think they'll attack?'

'How should I know?' Macro glanced round the enemy lines. 'But when they do, they'll rush us from several directions at once. Most of the attacks will be feints, trying to commit all our men before the real assault goes in. We'll have to watch for that.'

Macro stared across the plain towards the scene of the previous day's disaster. The two hills on either side of the vale rose clear of the mist, like islands on a pearly sea. It was fortunate that the mist covered the hundreds of Atrebatan bodies and concealed them from the men on the ramparts, whose spirits were low enough already. When the mist cleared they would see their fallen comrades scattered across the plain. They would also see the size of the force opposed to them, and Macro knew there would be even more desertions once the natives had had a chance to weigh the odds. There were few enough men as it was. He turned towards the rows of thatched roofs behind the town's defences. Not a soul had stirred from the huts.

'Shame we can't persuade a few more of the locals to fight for us.'

'Can you blame them?' Cato replied. 'They're not stupid. They know we don't have much hope.'

The young centurion realised that he was trembling in the cool dawn air and remembered that he had not eaten since the previous dawn, nor had he rested properly for days. He crossed his arms and rubbed his shoulders.

Macro eyed him curiously. 'Afraid?'

For a moment Cato thought about denying it, then realised he would not fool Macro, and simply nodded.

Macro smiled wearily. 'Me too.'

Once the mutual admission had been made there was an awkward silence before Cato spoke again.

'You know, it's possible that the tribune might get help to us in time.'

'Possible? Only if we can hold out for a few days yet.'

'We might.'

'No,' Macro replied, lowering his voice to make quite sure that he was not overheard by any of his men. 'Once they get over the wall – and they will – then we'll have to fall back on the depot. And once they break into the depot it's all over… Just hope I get a chance to take that bastard Tincommius with me before I'm finished…' Macro's vengeful train of thought was interrupted by a loud rumble from his stomach. '… Which reminds me, I'm hungry. I sent Silva to the depot to draw some rations. Should have been back long ago.'