Macro nudged Cato. ‘What was that all about? The boy was only doing his job.’
‘It’ll take him a few moments to get over his wounded pride. It takes a lot longer to build good relations between us and the Atrebatans. And almost no time to break them.’
‘Maybe,’ Macro said grudgingly, then recalled the legionary’s smirk at Cato’s final remark to him. The touch of humour had eased the man’s resentment considerably. ‘Anyway, it was neatly done.’
Cato shrugged.
They entered the shaded interior of the gatehouse and climbed the ladder to the deck above the thick timbers of the town gates. Emerging from the narrow hatchway Cato saw Verica and a handful of his bodyguards standing to one side. Cato saluted the king as he crossed the boarded floor towards the palisade and looked down the track that wound its way north, towards the river Tamesis. Half a mile away six large wagons, each drawn by teams of four oxen, crawled along the track. Around them marched a thin screen of auxiliary troops, with a small group of the legion’s mounted scouts forming a rearguard. Sunlight glinted off a breastplate and Cato squinted at a figure on horseback, halfway along the column.
‘Isn’t that the legate?’
‘How should I know? Your eyes are better than mine. You tell me.’
Cato stared a little longer. ‘Yes! It’s him all right.’
‘What the hell’s he doing here?’ Macro was genuinely surprised. ‘He’s supposed to be with the legion, kicking the stuffing out of those bloody hillforts.’
‘I expect,’ Cato reflected, ‘he’s come to find out where his supplies have got to. Must have fallen in with the wagons.’
‘That’s our bloody Vespasian all right!’ Macro laughed. ‘Can’t help getting himself into a fight.’
Shadowing the column were several small knots of enemy troops, accompanied by a number of the fast-moving chariots still favoured by many British tribes. A steady barrage of arrows, slingshot and spears was maintained on the Roman column. As Cato watched, one of the auxiliaries was struck in the leg by a spear and sprawled to the ground, his shield falling to one side. The man behind him, stepped round his wounded comrade, and continued forward, hunched behind his oval shield, without a backward glance.
‘That’s tough,’ said Macro.
‘Yes. . .’
Both men were frustrated by their inability to help their comrades. While they were under medical care, they were mere supernumeraries in the depot. Besides, the centurion in command of the garrison would take a dim view if they interfered with his command in any way.
Before the column had completely passed by the injured man, one of the animal handlers broke away from his pair of oxen and ran over to the auxiliary struggling to free himself of the spear. As the crowd on Calleva’s gatehouse watched, the handler grasped the spear and wrenched it free. Then with the handler supporting his wounded comrade the pair staggered towards the rear of the last wagon.
‘They won’t make it,’ said Cato.
The wagons trundled forward towards the safety of the town’s ramparts, driven on by desperate lashes from the drivers’ whips, and the gap between the rearmost vehicle and the two men steadily widened until they disappeared amid the ranks of the mounted rearguard. Cato strained his eyes for any further sign of them.
‘Should have left him,’ Macro commented sourly. ‘Stupid sod’s only wasted another life.’
‘There they are!’
Macro looked beyond the legion’s scouts and saw the pair still struggling after the supply column. Then he saw the nearest group of Britons racing in towards them for an easy kill. The handler looked over his shoulder and abruptly stopped. Pausing only for a moment, he pulled himself free of the wounded man and sprinted for safety. The auxiliary slumped to his knees and stretched a hand out towards the handler as the enemy closed in on him. He disappeared beneath a wave of woad-painted bodies with white limed hair. Some of the Britons sprinted on, intent on running down the handler. Younger, fitter and faster, they closed the distance rapidly and he was brought down with a spear thrust into the small of his back. Then he too disappeared under the savage blows of the British warriors.
‘Too bad.’ Macro shook his head.
‘Looks like the rest of them are going to make a move.’ Cato was watching the largest group of chariots where the tall figure in the lead was waving his spear above his head to attract attention. Then, with a swift stabbing motion he pointed the tip towards the remains of the supply column and the Britons roared their war cry and charged home. The auxiliaries closed ranks, forming a pitifully thin line between the Durotrigans and the wagons. The legate had rejoined his mounted scouts, and they quickly fanned out, screening the rear of the supply column and preparing to charge.
‘What the hell does he think he’s doing?’ asked Cato, astonished. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces.’
‘They might buy just enough time for the rest.’ Macro turned and looked back towards the ramparts of the depot. ‘Where’s the garrison?’
The distant thrum of hoofbeats and a thin defiant cry of ‘Augusta!’ announced the charge of the mounted scouts. Cato and Macro watched with sickening dread as the handful of horsemen swept over the sunlit grassland towards the screaming wave of Britons. For a moment the two sides were distinct forces, Roman against Briton, and then there was just a swirling chaos of men and horses, their war cries and screams of pain carrying clearly to those watching helplessly from the ramparts of Calleva. A handful of the mounted men broke free of the enemy and pelted back towards the wagons.
‘Is the legate with ‘em?’ asked Macro.
‘Yes.’
The sacrifice of the scouts only delayed their enemy for a short while, by which time the wagons and their escorting infantry were only two hundred paces from the gateway. Those on the wall shouted encouragement and wildly beckoned to them.
On came the Durotrigans, a seething mass of men and chariots, closing on their prey. The auxiliaries prepared to receive the charge. The dark slivers of the remaining javelins curved through the air and lanced down into the enemy. Cato saw one strike the head of a chariot horse and the animal reared up and spun to one side, dragging the chariot over and crushing its driver and spearman. The Britons swept past, unheeding, and threw themselves on the shields and swords of the auxiliaries, pushing them back on the retreating wagons.
Cato heard the steady tramp of marching boots from behind and turned to see the head of the garrison emerge from the heart of Calleva and march up to the gate. Below the wooden flooring of the gatehouse tower Cato heard the graunch of the heavy timbers of the gates as they were heaved open ahead of the legionaries.
‘About bloody time!’ Macro grumbled.
‘You think they’ll make a difference?’
Macro watched the desperate fighting engulfing the rear of the supply column and shrugged. The sight of the legionaries might just make the Britons pause in their onslaught. Over the last two years the natives had come to fear the men behind the crimson shields, and with good reason. However, these were the oldest of the veterans, lame men no longer able to keep up with their comrades, and those malingerers who could no longer be trusted to stand their ground in pitched battle. The instant the enemy realised the true calibre of the men they were facing all would be lost.
The first ranks of the garrison emerged from beneath the gatehouse. The centurion barked an order and the column changed formation, men spilling out on either side of the track to create a line four deep. As soon as the manoeuvre was complete the line moved forward towards the embattled supply column. The rearmost ranks of the Britons turned to face the new danger and slingers and archers loosed their missiles against the Romans. The barrage rattled harmlessly off the shields and then the noise ceased as the enemy infantry stepped forward to meet the legionaries. There was no wild charge from either side: the two lines simply came together in a rising clatter of ringing blades and dull thuds of shields. The legionaries pushed forward to the first wagon, remorselessly car
ving a path through the Durotrigans.
The century continued to fight its way forward, but it was evident to those on the gatehouse that the pace was slackening. Even so, they reached the oxen of the first wagon and carved enough of a gap through the swirling ranks of the enemy to permit the wagon to drive through, rumbling free of the mêlée towards the open gates. The second and third wagons followed, and the surviving auxiliaries struggled to form up with their legionary companions. Vespasian dismounted and threw himself into the fight alongside his men. For a moment Cato felt a pang of anxiety as he lost sight of his legate; then the distinctive red crest atop Vespasian’s helmet appeared amid the wild, shimmering mass of gleaming helmets and bloodied weapons.
Cato leaned over the palisade to watch the wagons pass beneath the gatehouse, each one laden with stacks of amphorae packed in straw. A small quantity of grain and oil would be saved, then. But that was all. As he looked up he saw that the last two wagons had fallen into British hands, their drivers and handlers lying slaughtered beside them. Only one last wagon was contested, and as Cato watched, the Britons began to drive the Romans back from it.
‘Look there!’ said Macro, pointing away from the mêlée. The British chieftain had gathered most of his chariots about him and was leading them wide round the fighting, clearly aiming to crash into the rear of the Roman line. ‘If that lot catches them before they can make for the gate, the lads will break.’
‘Break?’ Cato snorted. ‘They’ll be cut to pieces. . . If only they see the danger in time.’
The Roman line was giving ground steadily under the weight of the Britons’ attack. The men in the front rank thrust and blocked, wholly concerned with killing the enemy immediately to their front, while their comrades behind them were glancing nervously over their shoulders and edging back towards the safety of the gate. With a wild shout of triumph the charioteers suddenly whipped their ponies on, charging towards the narrow gap between the legionaries and the gatehouse. Even where he stood Cato could feel the walkway tremble beneath his feet as the ponies’ hoofs and the chariot wheels shook the ground.
The centurion commanding the garrison glanced towards the chariots and bellowed a warning. At once the legionaries and auxiliaries broke away from their enemy and ran for the gateway, Vespasian amongst them. On the gatehouse Verica cupped his hands and shouted an order to the men lining the palisade. Throwing spears were snatched up and arrows notched to prepare a covering barrage for the fleeing Romans. Already they were streaming in through the gates, but some were not going to make it. The oldest soldiers struggling pitifully with their heavy equipment were falling behind. Most had cast their shields and swords aside and threw themselves on, glancing to their right as the chariots closed in, the manes of the ponies whipping out as their nostrils flared and their mouths foamed; above them the savage expressions of the drivers and the spearmen, exulting in the imminent destruction of the Romans.
Centurion Veranius, true to his kind, still carried his shield and sword, and trotted along with the last of his men, shouting at them to keep moving. When the chariots were no more than twenty paces from him he realised he was a dead man. Veranius stopped, turned towards the chariots and raised his shield, holding his sword level at his waist. As Cato watched, feeling sick in his guts, the centurion glanced up at the gatehouse and smiled grimly. He nodded a salute at the line of faces witnessing his final stand, and turned his face towards the enemy.
There was a scream, abruptly cut off as the chariots rode down the first of the stragglers, and Cato watched as the chain-mailed bodies of the legionaries were crushed to a pulp by hoofs and wheels. Veranius charged forward, stabbing his sword into the chest of a lead pony, then he was knocked down and disappeared under the confusion of harnessed horse-flesh and the wicker superstructures of the chariots.
With a grinding thud the gates were heaved back together and the locking bar crashed back into its receiving sockets. The chariots slewed to a halt in front of the gate and then the air was filled with shouts and shrill agonised whinnies as the javelins and arrows of Verica’s men on the palisade rained on to the dense mass below. The Britons answered with their own missiles and a slingshot cracked against the palisade just below Cato. He grabbed Macro by the shoulder and drew him back towards the ladder leading down to the inside of the ramparts.
‘There’s nothing we can do here. We’re just in the way.’
Macro nodded, and followed him down the ladder.
As they emerged into the rutted open area just inside the gate they saw the confused tangle of wagons, oxen and the survivors of the escort and garrison. Men sat slumped on the ground, chests heaving. Those on foot supported themselves on their spears or bent double, gasping for breath. Many were heedless of their wounds, and blood dripped on to the ground around them. Vespasian stood to one side, leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees, gasping for breath. Macro shook his head slowly.
‘What a complete fucking shambles. . .’
Chapter Three
The sounds of battle quickly died away as the Durotrigans fell back from the ramparts of Calleva. Even though they had just given the Romans and their despised Atrebatan allies a bloody nose, they realised that any attempt to scale the ramparts would be a waste of lives. With loud taunting cheers they ran back beyond slingshot range and continued their triumphant tirade of insults until dusk fell. As darkness thickened about them, the Durotrigans melted away, only the faint rumbling of chariot wheels lingered for a while, and then Calleva was surrounded by silent shadows.
The natives manning the gatehouse and the ramparts either side stood down and slumped wearily on the walkway. Only a few sentries remained standing, eyes and ears straining for any sign that the Durotrigans were merely playing a trick, and would slip back under cover of night. As Verica emerged from the gatehouse he looked tired, and his thin frame moved uncertainly. He rested a hand on the shoulder of one his bodyguards. In the flickering glare of a single torch the small party slowly made its way down the main thoroughfare towards the high thatched roofs of the royal enclosure. Along the route small groups of townspeople fell silent as their king passed by; sullen resentment filled every face illuminated by the wavering orange glow of the torch. While Verica and his nobles were well fed, his people were growing hungry. Most of their grain pits were empty and only a few pigs and sheep were left within the ramparts. Outside Calleva many farms lay abandoned, or in blackened ruin; their inhabitants either dead or sheltering within the town.
The alliance with Rome had brought none of the benefits that Verica had promised them. Far from being protected by the legions the Atrebatans had, it seemed, drawn upon themselves the wrath of every tribe loyal to Caratacus. Small columns of raiders from the lands of the Durotrigans, the Dubonnians, the Catuvellaunians and even the wild Silurans swept between the advancing legions and raided deep behind their lines. Not only were the Atrebatans deprived of their own supplies of food, they were being denied the grain promised to them by Rome as the convoys were hunted down and destroyed by Caratacus’ warriors. What little survived the journey from Rutupiae was added to the stockpile in the Second Legion’s supply depot, and the people of Calleva whispered rumours of the legionaries growing fat as their Atrebatan allies were forced to eat ever shrinking rations of barley gruel.
The resentment was not lost on Cato and Macro as they sat on a crude log bench just outside the depot gates. A wine trader from Narbonensis had set up a stall as close to his legionary customers as possible and had erected a bench each side of his leather tent with its trestle counter. Macro had bought cups of cheap mulsum, and the two centurions cradled the leather vessels on their laps as they watched the king of the Atrebatans and his bodyguard pass by. The guards on the gate stood to attention, but Verica only flashed them a cold glance and stumbled on towards his enclosure.
‘Not the most grateful of allies,’ Macro grumbled.
‘Can you blame him? His own people seem to hate him even more than the enemy. He
was forced on them by Rome, and now he’s brought the Atrebatans nothing but suffering, and there’s not much we can do to help him. No wonder he’s bitter towards us.’
‘Still reckon the bastard should show a little more gratitude. Goes running to the Emperor, whining that the Catuvellaunians have kicked him off his throne. Claudius ups and invades Britain and the first thing he does is return Verica’s kingdom to him. Can’t ask for more than that.’
Cato looked down into his cup for a moment before responding. As usual Macro was seeing things in the most simplistic light. While it was true that Verica had benefited from his appeal to Rome it was equally certain that the old king’s plight was just the opportunity that Emperor Claudius and the imperial staff were looking for in their search for a handy military adventure. The new Emperor needed a triumph, and the legions needed a diversion from their dangerous appetite for politics. The conquest of Britain had preyed on the mind of every policy maker in Rome ever since Caesar had first attempted to extend the limits of Rome’s glory across the sea and into the misty islands of the most savage of the Celtic tribes. Here was Claudius’ chance to make a name for himself, to be worthy of the great deeds of his predecessors. Forget the fact that Britain was no longer quite the mysterious land that Caesar, with his eye forever on any chance to enhance his posterity, had vividly written about in his commentaries. Even in Augustus’ reign the length and breadth of Britain had been traversed by merchants and travellers from across the Empire. It was only a matter of time before this last bastion of the Celts and the druids would be conquered and added to the provincial inventory of the Caesars.
Verica had unwittingly brought about the end of this island’s proud and defiant tradition of independence from Rome. Cato found himself feeling sorry for Verica and, more importantly, for all his people. They were caught between the irresistible force of the legions advancing beneath their golden eagles, and the grim desperation of Caratacus and his loose confederation of British tribes, prepared to go to any lengths to dislodge the men of Rome from these shores.
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 3