The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Forty

As Macro strode off to his century the headquarters trumpeters blasted out the signal to stand to. All across the crest of the hillock men rose wearily to their feet and shuffled into the tight defensive formation that Vespasian hoped would hold off the Britons' assault when it came. The legionaries closed ranks and grounded their javelins and shields in an unbroken ring four ranks deep. Centurions paced along their men, bawling out insults and threats to any man who had committed even the smallest infraction of the rules. An untied helmet or bootstrap, poorly slung sword or dagger – all provided the centurions with an excuse to charge in and give the miscreant the fright of his life. Which was very much to the point. With an enemy massing for the attack, any diversion from thoughts of the coming battle would help steady the legionaries.

Shortly after noon the enemy made their move. Dense blocks of native warriors surrounded the hill, and worked themselves up into a frenzy of excitement around their gaudy serpent banners as they waited for the order to attack the hated Romans. The deafening war cries and braying of long war horns carried up the slope and assaulted the ears of the legionaries waiting silently on the crest. Then, without a discernible word of command, the Britons rippled forward, walking fast, then breaking into a slow trot as they reached the foot of the slope. Vespasian gauged the distance between his men and the enemy carefully, to judge the best moment to issue his first order. As the gradient increased the Britons slowed down, bunching together as they struggled up the hill to close with the legionaries. When they were no more than a hundred paces away, and some of the men began to look round anxiously at their legate, Vespasian cupped a hand to his mouth and filled his lungs with air.

'Shields up!' bellowed the legate, and all round the hilltop the red shields with their ornately painted surfaces rose up; metal trims and polished bronze shield bosses glittering in the sunlight. For a brief moment the shields shimmered as each man aligned himself with his neighbour and then the defensive wall was complete and the Romans peered over the rims with grim expressions.

'Prepare javelins!'

The men in the front rank took a pace forward and braced themselves, right arm drawn back along the length of their javelin shafts.

'Ready!…' Vespasian raised his arm in case the order could not be heard above the din of the enemy.

'Ready!' The centurions relayed the order to their men, and turned back to watch for the legate's next order. Below them, the Britons, howling their war cries and straining every muscle to make sure they smashed into the Roman shields at full pelt, surged forward in a writhing mass of helmets, spiked hair, tattooed bodies and flashing and glinting blades.

'Release!' roared Vespasian, sweeping his arm down. At once the centurions repeated the order and the men hurled their right arms forward; their effort filling the air with a chorus of strained grunts. The dark shafts of the javelins rose up and out like a thin curtain of water thrown up from a rock cast into a pond. Already the centurions were bellowing out orders for the second rank to pass their weapons forward to replenish the front rank. The iron tips of the first volley passed the apex of their trajectory and dipped down towards the Britons. The foremost ranks of the enemy charge faltered as they beheld the peril. Some sprinted forward, hoping to run in under the volley, others covered themselves with their shields and prepared for the impact. The rest – light spearmen and swordsmen with no armour – either went to ground, or gazed upwards, hoping to duck, or dodge any javelin that fell towards them.

The volley crashed down in a rolling clatter and thudding that turned to grunts and screams as the javelins found their targets. Then, as if an invisible hand of some giant god had swept through the front ranks of the Britons, scores of them were bowled over and fell to the ground. Other men tumbled over their fallen comrades and sprawled amid the tangle of limbs, shields and the long shafts of the javelins. Then the men behind them forced a way through and charged on up the hill.

'Javelins!… Ready!… Release!'

Again, a wave of the Britons was taken down, adding to the confusion of those already lying stricken on the slope. Then the third and the fourth volleys swept into the enemy massing about the crest of the hill and added to the ruin of the Britons' first attack. No longer were they screaming out their war cries. Instead, a deep murmur of shock rippled back down the slope, and at that moment the legate decided to press home his temporary advantage. 'Swords out!'

'Swords out!' the centurions shouted, and a sharp metallic rasping echoed round the hilltop.

'Advance!' Vespasian called out, clearly audible in the sudden expectant hush. As the centurions relayed the order the cohorts marched down the slope, shields to the front and swords held at the hip, ready to thrust forward. Before the Britons could recover the legionaries fell upon them, finishing off the enemy injured and then battering their way into the mass of troops milling beyond the carnage caused by the javelins. At first some of the Britons tried to resist, but they were too disorganised to stop the Roman advance. And as soon as they were cut down, or fell back, any spirit to carry the charge up the hill crumbled. The initiative had passed wholly to the defenders, and now it was their turn to attack. The legate ordered his trumpeter to sound the charge. Urged on by the curses and cries of encouragement from the centurions the legionaries threw themselves at their foes, using their broad shields to smash the tribesmen down, and thrusting their short swords into the packed ranks before them.

The enemy broke, turning down the slope in their desperation to get away from Romans and running back into their own lines, adding to the confusion and panic until the entire force was fleeing down the slope. From his vantage point, Vespasian saw in the vale at the base of the hill a small group of richly adorned nobles. As the attack disintegrated, the largest of the nobles, a tall man with fair hair, immediately began to send his companions forward to rally their troops. That, Vespasian decided, must be Caratacus himself, and the legate was surprised that the king of the Catuvellaunians had been foolhardy enough to risk such a frontal assault. It was not his usual carefully considered style of waging war. But there was no time to dwell on the enemy's mistakes, lest the legate should start to make mistakes of his own. The Roman counterattack had done its job and now there was the danger that the legionaries might get carried away.

'Sound the recall!' Vespasian ordered, and shrill brass notes blared down the slopes. Regular battle drills proved their worth as the men pulled up, reformed into their units and began to climb back to their initial positions. The legate glanced round at the bodies littering the crushed grass of the hillside and was relieved to see only a few red tunics amongst them. As the legionaries picked their way back through the tidemark of destruction wrought by their javelins they leaned down to recover any undamaged weapons that might be reused when the enemy dared to attack again. Most of the iron javelin heads had bent on impact, or the wooden pegs that bound them to the rest of the shaft had been shattered. But some were still intact and had to be retrieved to deny them to the enemy. As soon as the six cohorts had returned to their starting points their centurions hurriedly turned them about and reformed the units into an unbroken ring around the wagons on the top of the hill.

Cato had watched the charge with glee, and had, for a mad instant, even dared to hope that the Britons had been beaten. Now he felt like a fool, a raw recruit who had let his excitement overrule his reason. He looked anxiously for any sign of Macro and was relieved to see his friend emerge through the rear rank of his temporary command and shout an order for the legionaries to dress their ranks. Macro glanced round and gave him a quick thumbs-up before hurling a stream of curses at a hapless legionary who had not heard the order. To the front of the unit, Figulus stalked along the line of grounded shields and saw to it that any spare javelins were passed forward to the men closest to the enemy.

Down at the foot of the hill the Britons were already herding their scattered men back into formation around the brightly coloured serpent banners. With no breeze to lift the long tails in the stifling heat, their bearers had to wave the banners in loops to make them visible above the heads of the Britons. The heat wavering in the air made the banners shimmer and writhe like live things.

'Well done, men!' Vespasian called out. 'We taught them a hard lesson that time. But the javelins are spent. It's down to our swords. The fight'll be hand-to-hand from now on. As long as we keep our formation we'll survive this. I swear it!'

'And if you break your vow?' a voice called out, and the men laughed. For a moment Cato saw Vespasian frown. Then the legate saw the morale-boosting effect of the insubordinate remark and made himself play along.

'If I break my vow, then there's an extra issue of wine for every man!'

Even the most laboured of jokes is a welcome distraction in desperate circumstances and the men roared with laughter. Vespasian made himself smile benignly even as he watched the enemy begin to advance up the hill again. In the distance the second column crawled closer, and was now no more than three or four miles away – but still too far for the legate to identify the tiny black figures at the front. A thin screen of cavalry trotted ahead of the column. Down below, Caratacus was watching the approaching column and pointing it out to his nobles but whether from anxiety or jubilation it was impossible for the legate to tell. He turned back to his men and called out an order.

'Shields up!'

The last of the laughter and light-hearted chatter died away as the legionaries braced themselves for the second assault. This time the enemy came on in a more determined manner. There was no wild charge, but a steady approach in tight columns. When the Britons were halfway up the slope, the war horns began to sound, and slowly the enemy found their voice, shouts and war cries swelling up in their throats as they closed in on the Romans. As they reached the point where their first attack had been broken the last few javelins were hurled down from above, but this time they were simply swallowed up in the mass of the enemy and made no perceptible impact on the Britons. When they had advanced a short distance inside javelin range, the war horns gave a shrill blaring chorus to signal the charge and a roar of rage and excitement blasted the ears of the Romans as the warriors hurtled up the slope.

All around Cato there was the thud and crack of weapons striking the broad surfaces of Roman shields, and the sharper clang and clatter of blade on blade. The tight formation of the cohorts, and the advantage of being uphill of their attackers allowed the Romans to hold their ground. Where both sides were most tightly packed together there was little chance to fight, and Briton and Roman alike rammed their boots into the churned earth and heaved their weight behind their shields. In other places there was enough freedom of movement for intense duels to take place between individual legionaries and warriors; feinting and thrusting as each sought for the chance to deliver a lethal blow.

For half an hour the two sides struggled against each other, the Britons aiming for a breakthrough that would shatter the Roman line and turn the fight into an open melee where numbers counted for more than battle-drill and discipline. At length, under such relentless pressure, the Roman line began to buckle and bulge, and the ring of defenders turned into an ellipse, and then gradually into the shapelessness of a casually discarded belt lying on the floor.

When the enemy breakthrough came it was sudden and shocking.

'Centurion!' Mandrax called out, and Cato spun round towards the standard-bearer. Mandrax was jabbing his sword towards a section of the line behind the wagons. As Cato watched, the rearmost men were pushed bodily aside and the Britons burst through the Roman line. These were heavily armed warriors, bearing shields and helmets and many wore chain mail. As they found themselves opposite the wagons they gave a savage roar of triumph and surged forwards.

'Wolves!' Cato cried, snatching up his shield. He drew his sword and ran over to Mandrax, standing in front of the king's wagon with Cadminius at his side. 'On me!'

His men just had time to brace themselves for the impact before the enemy slammed into them. Cato was knocked back against the side of the wagon, the breath driven from him in an explosive gasp. A muscular warrior with a gallic helmet snarled at the centurion, spraying Cato's face with spittle. His arm rose high above and he slashed down at Cato's head. Cato cringed, waiting for his skull to be shattered, but there was only a deep thud as the end of the blade bit deep into the side of the wagon above him. The warrior looked at his sword and then glanced down at Cato, and both broke out in hysterical laughter. Cato recovered first, and kicked his boot into the man's groin. The mad laughter abruptly turned into a groan, and the warrior doubled up and vomited on to the grass. Cato punched the pommel of his sword on to the back of the man's neck and he went out like a lamp. On either side the Wolves were locked in a desperate struggle with the enemy, and a quick glance towards the legate revealed that Vespasian had seen the danger and was anxiously rounding up a small party of officers and men pulled from the rear of one of the cohorts to plug the gap. Cato knew he and his men must hold the enemy back for a few moments yet, if the battle was not to be lost.

Stepping over the body of the man he had knocked out Cato saw an exposed armpit and instinctively drove the tip of his short sword into the man's chest, yanked it back and looked for the next target. Mandrax had lost his sword and was using the Wolf standard like a cross-staff, thrusting with the ends and knocking men down with vicious swipes from the side. Cato kept his distance and turned just in time to see a man rushing at him with a levelled spear. The Centurion threw his shield up and the blade struck the curved surface of the boss and glanced off to the side. Without any warning the warrior let go of the spear and grabbed the rim of Cato's shield, wrenching it from the Roman's grip. Before Cato could react the man's hands were at his throat and the impetus of the warrior's attack drove Cato on to the ground. He felt rough hands tightening their grip, thumbs pressing hard on his windpipe. Cato's right arm was pinned down under his back, the left was too weak to shift the man on its own, and Cato could only flail at his back, grabbing the man's hair and trying to yank his head back.

Suddenly the man lunged forward, teeth bared, as though he were trying to bite Cato on the nose. The centurion yanked his head to one side and caught the man with the edge of his cheek guard. For an instant the grip on his throat relaxed and Cato smashed his helmet up, crushing his enemy's nose with the solid metal brim. The warrior howled, and instinctively reached for his face. As soon as he was free of the stranglehold Cato grabbed the handle of his dagger and ripped the short broad blade from his scabbard. Raising it behind the man's back he thrust the tip into the base of the Briton's skull.

The man stiffened, muscles suddenly rigid, then he started trembling. Cato let go of the dagger handle and heaved the body to one side as he scrambled back to his feet.

He snatched up his sword and saw that several of the enemy were surrounding the end of Verica's wagon. The royal bodyguard had died defending their king and now only Cadminius remained on his feet, his kite shield held out in front of him as he dared his foes to attack, sword held to the side ready to swing at the first man foolhardy enough to challenge him. Even as Cato watched, an enemy warrior howled and threw himself forward. But the captain of the king's bodyguard had won his position because he could best any other fighter in the Atrebatan nation, and the sword blade flickered round to meet the attack faster than Cato would have believed possible. The point went right through the stomach of the enemy warrior and burst out of his back. At once Cadminius jerked the blade free and with a snarl of contempt shouted a challenge to the rest of the men ringed about him.

But the odds facing him were just too great, and as one man feinted, Cadminius turned to meet the threat before he realised it was a trick. The blade of a spear thudded into his shoulder, causing him to drop his shield as his fingers spasmed. Then they rushed him. With a howl of rage Cadminius slashed his sword through the air and the blade struck off a man's head, the blow sending it leaping into the air. Then Cadminius was thrown back against Verica's wagon, swords and spears plunged deep into his chest and stomach. He made one last wild effort to wrench himself free, but he was pinned to the timbers behind and screamed in frustration, blood and spittle spraying from his lips.

He half turned his head and cried out, 'My lord! Flee!' Then slid to the ground, his head lolling on to his broad chest.

All this Cato saw in the briefest of moments, as the centurion grabbed his shield and raced the short distance to the rear of Verica's wagon. A tangle of white hair rose up from the wagon, and Verica peered down at his attackers with alarm. Then he recovered his poise and his expression fixed in contempt for his enemies. The first of the warriors reached a hand up and began to pull himself towards the Atrebatan king.

'Wolves!' Cato screamed out as he charged home. 'On me! On me!'

The four remaining enemies turned towards Cato, but it was already too late for the first to react. The centurion's blade caught him high in the back and ripped through muscle and ribs to pierce his heart. Cato slammed his shield into the face of the next man as he tried to wrench the blade free, but it was jammed, and as the body slumped down the sword handle was ripped from Cato's grasp. He stepped astride Cadminius' body with his back to the wagon, unarmed, with only his shield to save him now.

'Wolves!' he called again. 'For fuck's sake! On me!'

The last two warriors took a moment to realise that the centurion was not armed and with triumph gleaming in their eyes they closed in on Cato. One grasped the edge of the shield and wrenched it aside, as his companion drew back his spear and thrust it at the Roman. There was nowhere to go and Cato watched in horror as the spear tip came towards him, time slowing as he stared wide-eyed at his death. Suddenly he was knocked to the side as a figure flew over his shoulder and the spearman tumbled back on to the ground.

Mandrax and the surviving members of the Atrebatan cohort came running up, and the last of the attackers was impaled on the end of the wolf standard. As the men formed a small screen around the wagon Cato crawled over towards Verica. The king was lying on top of the spearman he had felled, his bony hand clasped round the handle of an ornate dagger whose blade was buried in the eye socket of his enemy.

'My lord!' Cato gently lifted the king off the dead man. Verica's eyes flickered open and he seemed to struggle to focus as his gaze fixed on Cato.

Verica smiled feebly. 'You're all right?'

'Yes, my lord… You saved my life.'

Verica's lips parted in a pained smile. 'Yes, I did, didn't I?… Where's Cadminius?'

Cato looked round and saw that the captain of the bodyguard was struggling to sit up. The big man coughed, splattering blood down his chest.

'Mandrax!' Cato called out. 'Look after the king.'

Once the standard bearer had the king cradled against his chest, Cato squatted down beside Cadminius, reaching around the man's shoulders to keep him propped up. He was breathing in shallow gasps that rattled in his throat as he looked up at Cato.

'The king?'

'He's safe,' said Cato.

Cadminius smiled faintly, satisfied that he had done his duty. 'I'm f inished…'

For an instant Cato thought of saying something reassuring, some lie to comfort the dying man, but then he simply nodded. 'Yes.'

'Cadminius!' Verica stretched a hand towards the best of his warriors, then snapped at Mandrax. 'Help me over to him!'

Cadminius' life was draining away fast and his mouth gaped as he struggled to draw breath. 'My lord!'

In the last moment, the warrior's fingers groped for Cato's hand, found it and clamped tight, as a sudden final reservoir of strength was spent. Then the pained expression round his eyes eased and his fingers lay limply across Cato's palm. Cato watched him a moment, to be sure there was nothing more to be done, no last vestige of life to be eased into oblivion, then he rose to his feet and looked round.

The survivors of the Wolf Cohort stood about the body, silent and strained. Then Verica slowly dropped to his knees beside Cadminius. He reached out a hand to Cadminius' face and tenderly brushed away a strand of hair. Cato quietly backed away; this was a moment for the Atrebatans. Whatever the bond that existed between him and these men, there was a deeper one of race and blood that the centurion would never share.

Leaving them to mourn Cato turned back to the battle, but the enemy was gone. Vespasian's hurriedly gathered reserve had driven them back and closed the gap. Beyond the front rank of the Romans the enemy were flowing away, like a wave rushing back from the shore, leaving a flotsam of bodies and discarded weapons on the crimson-stained grass. Cato stared at them in surprise. Why withdraw now, when they must know that one last effort must surely carry the day?

'Cato! Cato!'

He turned and saw Macro trotting up to him, his craggy face split in a smile of delight. His friend slapped him on the shoulder and when Cato stared at him blankly Macro quickly glanced over him.

'You wounded, lad?'

'No.'

'Verica?'

Cato pointed to where the Atrebatans were gathered round the end of Verica's wagon. 'He's still alive. Cadminius is dead. Him, and the rest of the royal guards.'

Macro rubbed his chin. 'That's too bad… too bad. But look there.'

He took hold of Cato's arm and pulled the youngster round, towards Calleva. The approaching column was clearly visible now and the eagle standard rising up above the foremost ranks was unmistakable.

'You see?' Macro was smiling again. 'See there? It's the bloody general himself!'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves