The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Thirty-Four

'How the hell…?' Cato muttered.

'Doesn't matter,' Macro snapped back at him. 'We have to get out of here.'

'Get out of here?' Cato looked at him in astonishment. 'And go where?'

'Royal enclosure. It's all that's left now.'

'But what about our injured?' Cato waved at the hospital block. 'We can't leave them.'

'There's nothing we can do for those lads,' Macro said firmly. 'Nothing. Now get your cohort formed up. Close ranks and follow right behind my century.'

Macro steered Cato towards the survivors of the Wolf Cohort and then called his men to attention. 'Close ranks. Form column of fours in front of the gate. Move!'

As the legionaries ran forward and jostled into formation, Cato began to shout out his orders in Celtic. Driven on by the shouts of the section leaders the two units formed up on the track behind the gate, and closed ranks until they became a compact column, shield to shield along the front and left side. Macro looked round for Figulus.

'Optio! Since you're so bloody keen on hanging back, you've got command of the rearguard. Take two sections. Keep 'em tight and don't let one of the bastards get by you.'

'Yes, sir!' Figulus trotted back to take up position.

As soon as he saw that the formation was ready, Macro pushed his way through into the front rank.

'Column!' He called out the preparatory order, and waited until he heard Cato repeat it to his natives, then: 'Advance!'

The shields, helmets and javelin tips rippled forward, and the tramp of iron-shod boots echoed under the tower as the legionaries moved forward. Behind them came the Wolves, lighter-armoured, and not quite able to march in step with their legionary comrades. Cato had positioned himself near the rear of his men, and looked back at the Durotrigans, running at full tilt towards the legionary rearguard formed up across the inside of the depot gate. There was no need to issue an order to loose javelins: the men hurled the weapons as soon as the enemy were within close range, and several of them were struck down, pierced through by the heavy iron points. But the instant their bodies fell to the ground they disappeared from sight as the men behind surged on, desperate to hurl themselves upon the small column edging up the street in the direction of the royal enclosure.

'Form up across the street!' Macro bellowed from the front, waving his sword to hurry his men into position, so that a wall of shields extended across the gap between the huts on either side. Behind this barrier the head of the column trudged forward once again. Before the rearguard made it out of the depot the first of the Durotrigans slammed into them, slashing at the rectangular shields with their long swords. Both sides fought in silence; the Durotrigans, breathless from their run across the depot, the Romans from grim desperation. The clash of swords and thud of blades on shields sounded to Cato more like a weapons drill than the pitiless fury of battle. Only the cries of the wounded told of the deadly intent with which warrior and legionary fought. The rearguard knew their job well, and kept moving back, fending off blows and only striking when an enemy showed more recklessness than sense, and paid the price.

Ahead of Macro, the Durotrigans who had managed to climb the walls either side of the burning town gate spilled across the street, clashing their spears against their shields, and shouting out their war cries.

'Keep the formation tight!' Macro bellowed above the din, raising his shield so that he could just see above the rim. His sword rose to the horizontal, arm bent and braced to deliver the first thrust. The distance between the column and the howling mass of the Durotrigans narrowed at a measured pace. When there was no more than twenty feet between them, the nearest Durotrigan raised his spear and charged the shield wall. Immediately the rest roared out their battle cry and ran after their comrade.

'Don't stop!' Macro shouted as the man to his left faltered. 'Move forwards. Don't stop for anything.'

The column met the Durotrigans on a narrow front and there was no room for the enemy's weight of numbers to pin the legionaries down. Macro and the other men at the front slammed their shields forwards, thrust, recovered and advanced before repeating the sequence, an automatic rhythm they had practised hundreds of times. The Durotrigans attacked with ferocity and courage, but were no match for the Romans. They were forced back or cut down and then crushed by the column as it marched over them.

Here and there, a lucky spear thrust or sword blow found a gap in the shield wall and thudded home into the flesh of the man behind. Any legionary too badly wounded to continue marching fell to the ground and his place was quickly filled from the dwindling ranks of reserves to keep the shield wall intact. The wounded were left behind as the column passed on, and each man who marched by met the eyes of his wounded comrades and registered a last farewell. As the rearguard approached the injured covered their bodies with their shields and prepared to fight on as best they could before being killed. It was pitiless, thought Cato, quite pitiless. Yet he knew that if he fell he could not expect his men to risk their lives to save him, or any other injured man. That way all of them would die.

The rearguard steadily gave ground as the enemy pressed through the gateway and battered the end of the column, desperately trying to breach the line of shields and cut the small Roman force to pieces. Figulus, taller and broader than most legionaries, held his ground in the centre of the line and kept his men together with steady commands as he deflected blows off his shield and thrust his sword into the enemy massing behind the column.

Step by step the legionaries and the Wolves forced their way up the street towards the junction with the road that led from Calleva's main gate to the royal enclosure. The hard earth beneath their boots quickly became slick and muddy with the gore of the dead and injured, and the cloying smell of blood mixed with the sharper smell of disturbed soil. From his position in the middle of the column, detached from the intensity of the hand-to-hand fighting, Cato could see that they had reached the broad street that cut through the centre of Calleva.

'Cato! Cato!' Macro's voice rose above the din of battle.

'Sir?'

'Soon as we clear the junction take your men and clear the way towards the royal enclosure.'

'Yes, sir!'

The legionaries slowly fought their way across the junction until the column had passed into the route leading up to the gates of the royal enclosure, cutting off a small group of the enemy.

'Now, Cato!' Macro shouted.

'Follow me!' Cato called to his men, and charged up the street.

A few of the Durotigans, those with cool heads, tried to stand their ground. But they were quickly overwhelmed and cut down. The rest broke and ran down the street to the right, ducking into the shelter of any side alleys, casting terrified looks back at their pursuers as the Wolves chased after them.

Cato drew up and looked round, wide-eyed and breathing hard through clenched teeth. Mandrax was behind him, standard in one hand and blood-smeared sword in the other. The Atrebatan warrior grinned at the centurion, thrust his standard into the ground and snatched up the grey locks of a man Cato had knocked down. Mandrax yanked his head up and swept his sword back to cut the man's head off.

'No!' Cato shouted. 'Not now. Leave the heads till later. There's no time.'

With a look of disgust Mandrax released the man's hair and snatched up his standard. Then Cato saw that some of the rest of his cohort had already taken a few heads, and others were busy looking for more.

'Drop those!' Cato shouted in Celtic. 'Drop 'em, I said! Form up!'

Reluctantly, the men obeyed, hurriedly forming a solid block across the street that ran up to the gates of the royal enclosure. As soon as the Wolves were ready, Cato ordered them to move forward fifty paces, halt and wait for orders. Then he ran back to the junction. The legionaries were easily holding off the main body of the enemy that filled the street in the direction of Calleva's main gate for as far as Cato could see.

Macro suddenly appeared, shoving his way through the rear ranks of his men. He saw Cato and nodded grudgingly.

'Nice work… Take your men forward and make sure the route to the enclosure is kept open.'

'Right.'

'As my lot get close to the gate, you get yours inside. Be ready to close it the instant the last man passes through.'

Cato smiled faintly. 'That wouldn't be you, by any chance?'

'Get going.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato trotted back to his men and ordered them forward. They met no further resistance from the Durotrigans who had been separated from the main body of the enemy, and the only ones they saw quickly ran off at the sight of Cato and his men. Then the street widened slightly as it turned a corner and there was the entrance to the royal enclosure. The gates were open and several of the king's bodyguard, fully armed, were standing along the palisade on either side. Cadminius stood in the entrance and beckoned to Cato and his men as they approached. Cato ran over to him.

'Macro and the last of our men are not far behind. We'll have to keep the gate open for them.'

'Keep it open?' Cadminius shook his head. 'Can't risk it. Get your men in and Macro'll have to take his chances.'

'No,' Cato said firmly. 'The gate stays open until I say.'

Cadminius opened his mouth to protest, but there was a ruthless gleam in Cato's eyes, and the Atrebatan looked away and nodded.

'All right… We'll need every man we can get to defend the enclosure.'

'That's right,' Cato replied quietly. He turned back to his men. 'Inside. Behind the gate, close formation.'

As the Wolves marched inside, Cato indicated the position for Mandrax, and the men formed up around their standard, facing back down the street towards the sounds of fighting. They did not have to wait long for the legionaries to appear. Macro's men came into sight, falling back at a steady pace, keeping a tight formation across the street as they fended off the Durotrigan mass desperately trying to force a way through the shields.

'Pass all the javelins to the front!' Cato called out to his men, and the few remaining javelins were thrust forward into the hands of the men of the front rank, who quickly sheathed their swords.

'You'll be using them as spears,' Cato said. 'No throwing. Front rank, close up, overlapping shields! Two paces forward. Thrust over the rims.'

There was a clatter as the men aligned their shields and readied their javelins in a tight overhead grip. This way they would have a longer strike range, and present a more unnerving danger to the Durotrigans as the iron tips stabbed towards their eyes. Then they waited silently, watching through the gateway as their Roman allies retreated towards them. Cato went forward to join Cadminius and a small group of warriors standing ready to close the gate the moment the order was given.

From the Roman ranks Macro shouted an order for the rear two lines to break formation and man the palisade. The men trotted past the sides of the Wolves and hurried up on to the narrow sentry walk either side of the gate. The Roman line, thinner now, gave way more easily under the pressure of the Durotrigan horde, and Cato feared it might cave in before Macro and his men reached them. The enemy saw the opportunity as well, and threw themselves forward in a renewed frenzy of hacking and slashing blades. As the legionaries reached the enclosure they were no longer able to maintain formation and stumbled back from the screaming mob. Then they were passing through the gate, exhausted and gasping for breath, but aware enough to keep clear of Cato's men. There was Macro, in a small knot of legionaries, cursing and shouting his defiance into the faces of his enemies as he thrust his blade at them, legs poised for balance as he carefully backed towards the safety of the enclosure.

With a quick rearward glance, Macro sized up the position and after a final savage roar at the Durotrigans he shouted to the last of his men, 'Run for it!'

They turned and sprinted through the gate as Cato ordered his spearmen forward. At the sight of the wicked iron javelin points protruding over the wall of oval auxiliary shields the Durotrigans instinctively shrank back.

'Close the gate!' Cato shouted, throwing his shoulder to the timbers as Cadminius and his warriors quickly heaved the gate into place. Suddenly the gate shivered and started to swing back as the Durotrigans recovered and charged forwards again.

'Help! Help here!' Cato cried out, and the Wolves surged forward, adding their weight to those desperately trying to seal the entrance. For a moment the gate was still, caught between the two straining forces, then Cato felt his boots sliding backwards.

'Heave! Come on, you bastards! Heave!'

More men joined them, Macro and his legionaries among them, and the gate was held still again, no more than a foot from the timber frame and locking bracket. Macro drew back and looked up to the men on the palisade.

'Use your daggers! Hit 'em with anything you've got. Throw your fucking swords at them, if you have to!'

As the men drew their daggers and hurled them down into the dense mass straining at the gate, the enemy's attention was distracted for a crucial moment, and with one last effort the defenders closed the gate and slammed the locking bar home.

While some of the men slumped to the ground or bent double as they struggled to catch their breath Cato forced himself to stand upright. He picked up his shield, pushed his way through the men and climbed the short ladder up to the palisade. Keeping his shield raised he looked down and saw that the Durotrigans were already melting away from the enclosure, until only a small handful still hammered away at the timbers with their swords and spears.

'Keep hitting 'em,' Cato shouted to the men beside him, then leaned back to the men inside the entrance. 'Get every javelin up here, now!'

As soon as the iron-headed shafts began to strike down amongst them, even the most resolute of the Durotrigans recognised that their rage was useless, and they ran back from the gate, down the street and out of range. Cato nodded his satisfaction, and then dropped down into the enclosure to find Macro. His friend was sitting on the ground, bare-headed as he examined a dent on the top of his helmet. He ran his fingers tenderly across the scar on his scalp.

'You all right, Macro?'

The centurion nodded, and blinked his eyes. 'I'll be fine. Just a bit dizzy. Some bastard whacked me right above that injury… Give us a hand.'

Cato grasped his arm and heaved the other man to his feet. He looked round the exhausted faces inside the gate. 'Where's Figulus?'

'He was knocked over back there.'

'Dead?'

'I didn't see.'

Cato nodded once, then turned towards the gate. 'Our friends have gone, for the moment.'

Macro nodded, then looked up at the sky. It was near sunset, and a brilliant orange spread across the horizon.

'It'll be dark soon.' Macro looked at Cato. 'We'd better get some torches lit. Somehow I don't think Tincommius and his pals are going to give us an easy night.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves