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.'

'I don't think I can eat anything right now.'

'Course you can. You'd better,' Macro said seriously. 'Make sure the men see you eat. You let them know how nervous you really are and they'll lose what little heart they have left for this fight. You'll eat your full ration and like it. Understand?'

'What if I'm sick?' The mental image of himself, pale and puking in front of his men filled Cato with dread and shame.

Macro's eyes narrowed. 'The moment you throw up, I'll chuck you over the palisade. I mean it.'

For an instant Cato wondered if his friend was serious, and then the cold, hard expression told him Macro was in deadly earnest. Before Cato could respond, the groaning squeak of a poorly greased axle announced the arrival of Silva and the cart loaded with rations he had fetched from the depot. A pair of stocky mules was harnessed to his cart and Silva steered them towards the legionaries waiting by the gate. Macro licked his lips as he saw several jars of wine and haunches of cured meat in the back of the cart.

'Come on.' Macro nudged Cato. 'Let's eat.'

The two officers joined the legionaries gathering round the cart as Silva hoisted himself up beside the wine jars.

'Easy now, lads. There's plenty for everyone.'

'What about my men?' asked Cato.

'Them?' Silva replied with a trace of disapproval. 'They can take their turn after our boys have finished.'

'They'll have theirs now. Detail some of these men to see to it.'

An expression of distaste flitted across Silva's face before he nodded reluctantly. 'Yes, sir.'

While Silva carried out the order Macro pushed his way through to the cart, and used his dagger to hack off two chunks of cured pork. He tossed one to Cato, and the younger centurion nearly fumbled the catch. Macro laughed, tore off a strip of the meat with his teeth and began to chew.

'Come on, Centurion Cato,' he spluttered. 'Eat up! Might be the last meal you ever eat in this world!'

Cato's stomach still felt tight and twisted, and the prospect of eating the cold meat made the bile rise in his throat. He grimaced, but Macro shot him a warning glance and Cato raised the meat to his lips and bared his teeth.

A distant brass note sounded beyond the ramparts. At once it was taken up by several other war horns. Macro threw his meat down into the churned mud at the rear of the cart, and spat out the half-chewed pork.

'Get to your positions!' he roared. 'They're coming!'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves