The Eagle and the Wolves

Vespasian ignored the tribune as he wheeled his horse round and raised his arm. 'Halt!'

The vanguard cohort pulled up and the order was swiftly conveyed down the column. Each century stopped marching and the wagons grumbled to a standstill, then nothing moved on the track. The legate was already assessing the surrounding landscape, and fixed his gaze on the small hillock to their right. He had already decided that the column's best chance of survival was a static defence. If they tried to continue they would be worn down and cut to pieces long before they came in sight of the rest of the legion. If they could inflict enough damage on their enemies they might just demoralise them enough to withdraw so that the column might still reach the legion's fortified camp… Fat chance of that happening, he mused.

Vespasian drew a breath before he gave the order that would commit him and his men to action.

'Column… deploy to the right!'

'Sir?' Quintillus urged his horse alongside Vespasian's. 'What are you doing?'

'We're making a stand, Tribune. What else can we do?'

'Making a stand?' Quintillus raised his finely plucked brows. 'That's madness. They'll kill us all.'

'Very likely.'

'But, sir! There must be something else we can do… Anything?'

'What do you suggest? You can't ride for help this time, Quintillus. Not unless you want to chance your arm with that lot ahead of us and make a break for it.'

The tribune blushed at the barely concealed charge of cowardice, and shook his head slowly. 'I'm staying.'

'Good man. Now make yourself useful. Ride to the top of that hill and keep watch for Caratacus. Also…' Vespasian wondered how far he should trust to luck after the fates had led him into this trap. 'Also, keep an eye out for that other force the scouts reported. They might be ours.'

'Yes, sir!' Quintillus turned his horse up the slope and galloped towards the brow of the hill.

The First Cohort, twice the size of the legion's other cohorts, was marching past Vespasian, following the colour party up the grassy slope. Behind them the rest of the column rippled forward. Century by century they moved along the track until they reached the legate's position, and then turned abruptly to their right. Vespasian was watching Caratacus's blocking force for any sign of movement, but the enemy was content simply to deny the Romans passage along the vale, and sat on their chariots and horses watching the Romans climb up the hill. A more enterprising commander, Vespasian reflected, would have tried to occupy the hill ahead of the Romans, but the Britons' lack of self-control was a defining feature of the way they waged war, and the British commander was probably wise to have his men stand their ground.

As the wagons turned up the slope their drivers urged their lumbering oxen on with shouts and sharp blows from their canes. The legate watched for a moment, conscious of the slow progress of the vehicles, then he shouted an order.

'Centurion Cato!'

'Sir?'

'Set your men to those wagons. I want them on top of the hill as quickly as possible.'

Cato saluted and ordered his men to load their weapons into the wagons. Then with a handful of warriors assigned to the rear of each of the eight wagons, the big Celts heaved and strained to move the wagons up the hill. Cadminius and his men took charge of the wagon provided for Verica and did their best to ensure that their king was not jolted. All the while the legionaries marched past them, until only the rearguard remained, tasked with protecting the wagons until they reached the position the legate had chosen. It was back-breaking work that required as much nerve as strength. Every so often the forward momentum would slacken and the big chocks of wood carried in the back of each wagon would have to be quickly dropped into place behind the wheels to ensure that the wagons did not begin to roll back down the slope. Once that started it was almost impossible to stop, and men might be crushed, vehicles might collide and the oxen, harnessed to the wagons would be sent sprawling with a very real chance of breaking their legs. And all under the merciless glare of the midday sun. By the time the incline of the slope began to even out Cato and his men were running with sweat and slumped down beside the vehicles, chests heaving as they struggled to catch their breath.

'What the hell are you doing? On your feet!' Vespasian shouted at them as he rode up to the wagons. 'Centurion, get your men formed up! I want these wagons drawn up in the centre. Make sure that the king is well protected. I'm holding you responsible for his safety.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato drew himself up and licked his lips, dry – like his throat – from all his exertions. Then, using a combination of orders and harsh curses he ordered his men to manoeuvre the wagons into a dense mass, before the chocks were pounded tightly against the wheels. The sharp smell of the oxen was made worse by the baking heat, but only when the work was finished did the centurion allow his men a small measure from their waterskins. Around them curved the lines of the cohorts, drawn up in a tight circle about the crest of the hill. Down in the vale the Britons had not moved and sat watching the Romans, as still and silent as before. Away along the track towards Calleva, a dark column of infantry was marching towards the hill, throwing up a thin haze of dust that obscured the full extent of their numbers. Still further in the distance was a smudge on the horizon that might be a thin band of cloud, or another force of men on the move.

Vespasian passed the order for the men to rest and eat their rations. The coming fight might well be their last, but men fought best on full stomachs and the legate was determined to wring every advantage that was available to him out of the situation. They had the high ground, clear lines of visibility and the best training and equipment of any army in the known world. In all this, Vespasian was content. But three and half thousand men, no matter what their quality, would not prevail against many times that number, and every moment that passed revealed more and more of the enemy's strength as their column crept over a distant ridge and headed relentlessly towards the tight ring of legionaries defending the top of the hillock. There seemed to be no end to the enemy forces spilling across the landscape, and the Romans viewed it all with quiet resignation as they chewed on strips of salted pork drawn from their haversacks.

Macro came over to see Cato, and pulled himself up on to the driver's bench beside his friend.

Macro nodded towards Verica's wagon. 'How's the king doing?'

'Well enough. I looked in on him a while back. He's sitting up and complaining about being bumped about.'

'Think he'll recover?'

'Does it matter?' Cato nodded towards the approaching enemy column.

'No,' Macro conceded. 'Not now.'

'After all that fighting back in Calleva, we end up here,' Cato grumbled.

'That's the army for you,' replied Macro, straining his tired eyes as he stared in the same direction as Cato. 'Any idea who that second lot are yet?'

'No. Too far. Moving quickly, though. Few more hours and they'll be up with us.'

'Knowing our luck, they'll just be more of those bastards.' Macro pointed towards the enemy column approaching the hill. 'Don't know where they all come from. Thought we'd destroyed their army last summer. Caratacus must have found himself some new allies.'

'With people like Tribune Quintillus handling the diplomatic side of things, it's a wonder the entire island isn't against us.'

'Right.' Both centurions turned their heads to look down the slope a short distance to where Vespasian and his senior officers were conferring. The tribune was talking in an animated fashion and pointed back in the direction of Calleva.

'I expect he's trying to persuade the legate to make a break for it.'