The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Thirty-Two

The palisade above the gate was suddenly deluged with slingshot and arrows; the slingshot striking the timbers with sharp smacks, punctuating the splintering thuds of arrow strikes. Above this din came the cries and screams as some of the missiles found their targets amongst Macro's small command. As he looked round there were already six men sprawled on the walkway. Still their comrades hurled javelins down on to the wicker screens below, desperately trying to pierce them and reach the enemy sheltering beneath, or at least make them unwieldy under the weight of the javelins embedded in the tight weave of willow. They were having little effect, Macro decided as yet another man fell back from the palisade, clutching at an arrow shaft that had pierced his throwing arm.

'Take cover!' Macro shouted. 'Get down!'

The legionaries heeded the order at once, crouching behind the palisade. Silva and his clerks scurried up the rampart and bent double as they carried away the injured. The fusillade of enemy missiles quickly subsided as the Durotrigans saw that there were no targets for them. But when Macro rose to take a quick look at the enemy, he drew an immediate response and ducked down as half a dozen arrows whirred over the palisade and arced down amongst the thatched roofs beyond. There was nothing for it but to keep down. He had seen a number of ladders in the enemy ranks, so some men would be needed on the palisade. The rest would have to defend the entrance the moment the gates gave way. Every so often the gateway shook with the impact of the ram, and the dust and earth shimmied amongst the timbers as small pieces of grit, shaken loose, pattered down under the walkway.

'First two sections, stay here! Rest of you, follow me!'

Macro, bent over, scurried to the ramp and, followed by the remainder of his force, made his way down to the open area behind the gate. As he reached the street another blow landed on the gates, and a small fissure opened between two timbers, letting a shaft of light filter through into the dust falling from the walkway.

'Silva!' Macro bellowed.

'Sir?'

'You and your men, off the wagon now!'

'But, sir, the wounded…' Silva gestured to the men lying on the wagon bed.

'Take 'em out. Carry them to the depot. Move it!

As soon as the injured had been unloaded Macro ordered his men to down shields and put their shoulders to the thick wooden wheels. Macro, with two other men grabbed the yoke and pulled it round towards the gate.

'Right then, heave! Heave, you bastards!'

The men strained at the dead weight of the big supply wagon, gasping for air through gritted teeth. Then, with a drawn-out groan from the axle, the wagon rumbled forward.

'Keep her moving!' Macro grunted as he pulled on the yoke, thrusting his feet down and dragging the smooth-worn yoke towards the gateway. 'Come on!'

Another blow landed on the gate, and the fissure widened into a gap through which the nearest of the enemy could be glimpsed, swinging the ram back ready for the next run at the gate. At the last moment Macro nodded to the other men on the yoke and they pulled it sharply to the side, knocking over a small brazier still smoldering from the night before. The wagon slewed round and rumbled across the entrance to the gate, blocking the way into Calleva.

'Clear the wagon. Get everything out, except the javelins. Then stuff the gap underneath with thatch. Move yourselves!'

The legionaries desperately prepared the makeshift defences, while the ram continued to batter away at the gates, the timbers splintering with every blow. As Macro watched, the very next strike shattered the locking bar, which sprang out of one of its holding brackets, and the end thudded down on the ground between the gates and the wagon.

'This is it!' Macro grabbed his shield and drew his sword, turning to his men. 'This section with me in the wagon. Figulus, your section behind the wagon. Anyone tries to squeeze under, or past the ends – kill 'em.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Rest of you – and you lot on the rampart! Get back to the depot and prepare for us. We'll hold here for a short while and then make a run for it. Go!'

As most of the legionaries ran in a loose pack up the street in the direction of the depot Macro and his rearguard readied themselves for the one-sided fight. The centurion hauled himself up into the wagon and snatched up a javelin. The surviving five men of the section took position either side of him, shields raised and javelins held ready to thrust into the faces of the enemy once they forced their way inside. The ram struck again and, with no locking bar to hold the gates in place, they burst open with a protesting groan, dragging the end of the bar across the packed earth in a short arc. At once the Durotrigans let out a roar of triumph. Dropping the ram, they unslung their shields, snatched up their weapons and thrust their way inside. The broken timbers lay at odd angles with splintered ends, which the first men through were forced on to by the press behind them. Two men howled in agony as they failed to struggle clear of the jagged ends and were impaled, then crushed down by their comrades, thirsting to get at the Romans.

As the front rank of the Durotrigans clambered over the warriors writhing on the bloody shafts of wood, Macro hefted his javelin and thrust it into the face of the nearest man. The warrior jerked to one side and rolled under the wagon. Macro ignored him and fixed his aim on the next enemy, stabbing him through the shoulder, wrenching the iron tip free of flesh and bone, and thrusting again into the sea of savage expressions heaving in front of him. On either side the legionaries were blocking the sword slashes and spear thrusts with their broad shields, then stabbing back at the enemy. Their faces were fixed in the grim desperation of those fighting overwhelming odds. A hand grabbed at the side of the wagon in front of Macro and the centurion quickly hurled his javelin into the solid mass pressing through the ruined gates. He snatched at his sword and hacked down on the hand, slicing off the fingers. The man crumpled down beside the wagon cradling the bloody knuckles to his chest. But on either side Macro could see more of the enemy scrambling in under the reach of the javelins and trying to heave themselves into the wagon.

'Draw swords! Draw swords!'

The men threw down their javelins and there was the rasping of blades hurriedly drawn from scabbards, then the small group of legionaries thrust and hacked at the enemy, who were now so close to them that the distinctive smell of the Celts filled every breath they snatched. Behind them Figulus and his section thrust their javelins at any man who tried to work his way round or under the wagon.

There was a cry of terror from one of the men close to Macro, and with a quick glance he saw a legionary pulled bodily over the side of the wagon. He crashed on to the ground and was quickly cut to pieces under a rain of frenzied blows from the Durotrigans. Macro leaned forward and thrust his blade into an exposed throat, then pulled back, shouting over his shoulder.

'Figulus!'

'Sir?'

'Set fire to the thatch! Then get your section out of here!' Macro held his ground with increasing fury, stabbing and hacking at his enemies, face fixed in a snarl. He sensed a strange energy flowing through him, and an inner calmness. This was what he lived for. This was what he was best at, the one thing in life that was an unproblematic verity; he was born to fight. And even with violent death so close, he was content and happy.

'Come on, you wankers!' Macro, eyes wide with glee, shouted into the upraised faces of the Durotrigans. 'Is this the best you can fucking do? Tossers!'

The legionary next to him spared his centurion an anxious glance.

'What you looking at?' Macro snapped as he slashed his sword across an enemy's face, the skin splitting like an overripe watermelon. 'Get into the spirit of things!'

'Sir!' The legionary backed away from the enemy. 'Look! Fire!'

Thin tendrils of smoke were rising up from between the boards on the bottom of the wagon, where a hazy red glow was visible. More smoke curled up around the sides of the wagon, and one of the legionaries swung his leg over the rear of the wagon.

'Stay where you are!' Macro roared. 'Nobody jumps for it until I say!'

The guilty man turned back, hurriedly stabbing an enemy warrior, who tumbled over the side at his feet. Beneath them the dry thatch crackled as the flames quickly spread, and the smoke thickened around the wagon in a choking acrid cloud. Macro's eyes stung and watered so badly he could barely keep them open. And yet, incredibly, the Durotrigans still threw themselves forward, through the yellow flames licking up from under the wagon, then up the sides of the wagon, choking as they tried to shout their defiant war cries into the faces of their Roman enemies. The smoke was orange- and red-hued all about Macro, and his legionaries were no more than vague shapes, silhouetted against the flares raging up on all sides. His feet and legs were suddenly searing hot and Macro glanced down and saw that the flames were beginning to burn through the floor of the wagon.

'Get out! Out! Back to depot! Go!'

The legionaries turned, mounted the side of the wagon and leaped clear of the flames into the street on the far side. Macro shifted to a spot where the flames were not so intense and took a quick look round to make sure the enemy could not follow them through the fire. Then he turned, threw his shield and sword into the street and dived after them. He crashed on to the ground and rolled awkwardly to one side, the breath driven from his body. For a moment he could not breathe and when he did gasp at the air the smoke made his chest seize up. As Macro retched, someone grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. He blinked to clear the tears from his eyes and saw Figulus.

'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.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves