The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Draw swords! Make ready to advance!’

  Cato turned back to Bedriacus. ‘Stay here.’

  The hunter nodded and Cato crept up the track, stretching his neck to catch sight of the situation at the ford. Half of the Durotrigan column was across. The chariot drivers were already unhitching their horses, while their warriors stood together at the edge of the river, clustered around a short, bull-like man with blond pigtails, who was evidently giving them their orders for the evening. As he looked round at his men, he suddenly froze, staring straight up the track in Cato’s direction. He had seen the scarlet crest on the centurion’s helmet, brilliantly illuminated by the rays of the setting sun.

  ‘Shit!’ Cato angrily slapped his sword against his thigh. He rose to his feet, plainly visible to the men down by the ford now. A ripple of alarmed shouts passed through the ranks of the Durotrigans. The men still in the ford stumbled to a halt at the sight of the figure on the crest of the ridge, sunlight glittering off his silvered armour.

  ‘Cohort!’ Cato roared out the order. ‘Advance!’

  The six centuries of Atrebatans marched up the slope, trampling down the long grass in their path. As they reached the crest they moved out of the shadows and formed a brilliant line of scarlet along the top of the hillock, with the gilded wolf’s head sparkling on top of its standard, as if it were on fire. Down by the ford the leader of the Durotrigans had quickly recovered from his shock and was bellowing orders. Already the chariot drivers were desperately trying to replace the harnesses and traces on their horses. The infantry column stumbled forward again, spilling out along the far bank of the ford as they anxiously watched the approaching line of shields.

  Beyond the ford Cato saw movement along the treeline of the forest, and then Macro and his cohort spilled down the slope and started forming up across the track, sealing the Durotrigans in the trap. At first the Durotrigans did not notice the new threat, so rapt were they by the vision of the red lines of Cato’s men sweeping down the slope towards them. Then there were shouts, arms pointed and more and more heads turned to look back across the ford. A groan of despair and terror rose up from the disorganised mass of men with their horses and chariots.

  Cato slowed his pace until he fell into a space in the front line of his cohort, with Bedriacus directly behind him. The Durotrigans were no more than twenty paces away now, a mass of dark shapes silhouetted against the glittering sweep of the river. Straightening his shield in front of him, Cato raised his sword into the thrusting position.

  ‘Wolves! Charge!’

  With a roar, the Atrebatan line broke into a run down the last stretch of the slope and slammed into the confused enemy mass with a clattering, crunching thud. Immediately the air was rent by screams of agony and the sharp ring of edged weapons striking each other. The centurion thrust his shield in the press of bodies, jabbing his short sword through the gap between his shield and that of the Atrebatan warrior to his right. The blade connected with something, began to twist, and Cato rammed it home. He heard the man grunt as the breath was driven from his body, and then the Roman wrenched the sword back, blood spraying past the handle and on to his arm. To his right the Atrebatan warrior was screaming his war cry as he smashed his shield boss into an enemy’s face and finished the man with a thrust to the throat. For an instant Cato felt a surge of pride that all the intensive training of recent days was paying off and these Celts were fighting like Romans.

  Cato stabbed again, felt his blade being parried, and threw himself forward behind the shield, conscious that the Atrebatan line was steadily pushing forwards on either side. Even so, he must keep up the momentum of the initial charge. Keep going forward and the enemy would be shattered.

  ‘Forward, Wolves!’ Cato shouted, his voice shrill, almost hysterical. ‘Forward! On! On!’

  Men either side took up the cry and drowned out the Durotrigans’ cries of panic and terror. Cato sensed a body at his feet, carefully lifted his foot and planted it on the other side as he prepared to strike his next blow.

  ‘Roman!’ Bedriacus cried out right behind him, and Cato felt the torso turn against the back of his calf. He just had time to glance down and saw the bared teeth of the Durotrigan warrior as he pushed himself up from the ground, and the arm drawing back a dagger. Then the man shuddered, grunted and collapsed as the spiked end of the wolf standard burst through his chest, just below the collarbone.

  There was no time to thank the hunter, and Cato pushed on, driving the Durotrigans back towards the ford. Over their heads he caught sight of the other cohort as it piled into the rear of the Durotrigans’ column, scattering the mounted warriors and cutting them down before they had the wit to try and escape.

  Suddenly a huge shape burst out from among the Durotrigans in front of Cato: an older warrior, wearing chain mail over a light tunic. His sword arm was raised over his head and the long blade flashed in the sun as it reached the top of its arc. Then, as it slashed down, Cato threw himself into the man’s body, punching his short sword into the chest. It caught on the chain mail, not penetrating, and the man gasped explosively as the blow drove the air from his lungs. His own blow faltered slightly, but because Cato had leaped inside its sweep the blade passed over his shoulder and instead the pommel caught the centurion a shattering blow on the side of his helmet, flattening the horsehair crest. Cato’s jaw crashed shut on the end of his tongue as his vision exploded into a dazzling white for an instant and he fell back on the ground.

  He heard a cry, he blinked and his vision cleared. The enemy warrior sprawled beside him, skull cleaved in two. Cato looked up and saw Artax standing over him. Their eyes met, and the Atrebatan noble’s sword rose towards Cato’s throat. For an instant Artax’s eyes narrowed and with a cold chill of certainty Cato knew that he would strike and have his revenge here in the heat of battle where Cato’s death would be easily accepted. Just as Cato tensed himself to try to dive out of the path of Artax’s blade, the Atrebatan smiled and wagged the point mockingly. Then he turned and was gone, lost in the press of men determined to crush the Durotrigans.

  Cato shook his head, clambered back to his feet, and pushed forward. He was aware of the splash of water, and realised that the charge of the Wolf Cohort had carried them as far as the ford. One last effort and the fight was over. He could even hear Macro now, bellowing in triumph and battle-rage as he cut through the rear of the enemy column. Already Cato could see the red auxiliary shields and tunics of the other cohort through the shattered ranks of the Durotrigans before him. One of them suddenly looked at Cato, threw his sword into the river and kneeled down, pleading. Before the centurion could respond the Atrebatan warrior to his right thrust his sword into the man’s chest. Cato looked round and saw that more and more of the enemy were foolishly lowering their weapons and trying to surrender. But the blood-crazed Atrebatans continued to strike them down where they stood.

  ‘Stop!’ Cato desperately shouted above the din. ‘Wolf Cohort! Halt! STOP!’

  When the warrior to his right made to strike down his next victim Cato whacked him on the arm with the flat of his sword, knocking the blade from the man’s hand.

  ‘Enough!’

  Slowly sense returned to the Atrebatans as their Roman officers bellowed orders to end the carnage. The surviving Durotrigans were cowering on the ground or had retreated into the deeper water, to escape the savage short swords, and waited for their fate, up to their chests in the bloodstained current.

  ‘Cato! Cato, lad!’ Here was Macro, beaming face spattered with blood. Beside him, holding the Boar standard was Tincommius, with a gash on his upper arm. ‘We did it!’

  But Cato was looking down-river, where a small band of the Durotrigans was escaping along the bank.

  ‘Not yet, sir. Look there!’

  Macro followed where Cato pointed. ‘All right, get your men after them. I’ll tidy up here.’

  Cato turned away, splashing back to the edge of the ford, taking care not to stumble over the semi-subm
erged bodies. On the track he dragged Bedriacus clear of the mêlée and cupped his hand to his mouth.

  ‘Wolves! Wolves! On me!’

  The commanders of his centuries obediently came trotting over, but the Atrebatans had started despoiling the bodies of their enemies.

  ‘Wolves!’ Cato shouted again.

  ‘What the hell are they up to?’ muttered Figulus. ‘Oh, no. . .’

  Cato turned round and saw one of his men standing above a dead enemy, holding the hair in one hand as he hacked through the last few tendons of the neck with his short sword. Looking round, Cato realised they were all at it. He glanced back at the escaping Durotrigans.

  ‘Centurion Cato!’ Macro bellowed from the ford. ‘What the hell are you waiting for? Get after them!’

  Cato ran back down to his men, grabbed the nearest warrior by the arm and shoved him towards the Durotrigans. ‘GO! MOVE!’

  Some of the others looked up, saw what he was gesturing at and started after the enemy, tucking the severed heads under their arms.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Cato exploded. ‘Leave the heads until later!’

  They ignored him and started the pursuit along the riverbank. Cato stopped one man, and, with a grimace, pulled the head out of his hands. The Atrebatan warrior growled a warning and raised his sword threateningly.

  ‘Tincommius!’ Cato shouted, keeping an eye on the warrior. ‘Get over here!’

  The Atrebatan noble pushed his way through the men of the cohorts and approached Cato.

  ‘Tell ‘em to leave the heads alone.’

  ‘But it’s a tradition.’

  ‘Fuck tradition!’ Cato yelled. ‘The Durotrigans are getting away. Tell our men to drop the heads and get moving.’

  Tincommius shouted Cato’s order to the cohort, but the only reaction was an angry muttering. By now the Durotrigans had a lead of nearly a quarter of a mile and were fading into the gathering dusk.

  ‘All right,’ Cato continued desperately, ‘tell ‘em they can keep the heads they’re already carrying. We’ll come back for the rest, I swear it.’

  Contented by their commander’s compromise, the Wolves left the mangled corpses, and few remaining prisoners, in the care of their comrades of the Boar Cohort. With heads jammed under arms, they began to chase after the Durotrigans, Cato leading the way and Bedriacus right at his heels.

  The surviving Durotrigans were mainly from the chariots, and weighed down by their equipment. Despite their head start, slowly the distance closed as Cato sprinted after them, constantly looking back to make sure that his men were keeping up. Those unburdened by gory trophies stayed with him, anxious to win their share of the final glory of the skirmish. The rest struggled manfully with shield, sword and one or more heads.

  There was no track on the riverbank and the Durotrigans scrambled along, fleeing for their lives, their pigtailed leader among them. Some were injured and began to fall behind.

  At last Cato had almost run down the rearmost man. His heart pounded as he pushed himself to move faster, and he prepared to sink his sword in between the man’s shoulder blades. When no more than ten feet separated them the man glanced back and his eyes widened in fear. So he missed the small gap where part of the riverbank had crumbled, and tripped, sprawling on the ground at Cato’s mercy. The centurion paused long enough to run him through and continued after the others.

  Several more of the stragglers were dispatched, and the men of the Wolf Cohort remorselessly closed on the last group of Durotrigans as the light of the dying day cast long shadows of running men across the grass of the riverbank. In the end the enemy realised the game was up and their leader shouted an order to the surviving members of his band. They stopped running, turned to face their pursuers, and closed ranks, chests heaving for breath.

  Cato and his men were in equally poor shape as they surrounded the score of warriors who stood in a tight semi-circle with their backs to the river. The enemy were clearly experienced fighting men, and even though they knew their end had come, they were preparing to take as many of the Atrebatans with them as possible.

  But Cato still wanted to offer them a chance to live. He pointed to their leader and waved his hand down.

  ‘Give in,’ he panted in Celtic. ‘Drop your weapons.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ The enemy leader spat on the ground before screaming something unintelligible to Cato. Whatever it was, it provided the Atrebatans with the excuse to attack and they rushed forward in a wave of scarlet. Cato went with them, Bedriacus shouting his war cry at his side. The stocky enemy leader wielded his sword two-handed in a fast whirling sweep, and the first of the Atrebatans keen to have the honour of killing him was almost cut in half as the heavy blade splintered his shield, severed his arm and tore through his midriff. More of the lightly armed Atrebatans fell at the feet of the small knot of Durotrigan warriors, but there was never any doubt about the outcome. One by one the Durotrigans fell, to be butchered on the ground. At last only their leader remained, blood-streaked and exhausted.

  Cato pushed himself forward opposite the pigtailed man, raising his shield and readying his sword for the decisive thrust. His opponent sized up the skinny Roman and snarled his contempt. Just as Cato knew he would, he swung his great sword up to cut his Roman foe in two. The centurion threw himself forwards and down, rolling into the man’s legs. The man fell headlong over Cato’s back, right at the feet of Bedriacus. With a savage howl of triumph the hunter rammed his short sword into his enemy’s skull with a dull crunch. The body trembled a moment, and was still.

  As Cato climbed wearily to his feet Bedriacus hacked through the dead leader’s stocky neck. It was hard going, and Cato turned away, looking towards the ford, nearly half a mile away. He was so tired that every breath was agony and he felt light-headed. When he looked back Bedriacus was trying to tie the head on to the standard’s crosspiece using the pigtails.

  ‘No!’ Cato shouted angrily. ‘Not on my bloody standard you don’t!’

  Chapter Twelve

  Word of the victory swept through the muddy streets of Calleva as soon as the excited messenger, sent by Macro, brought the news to Verica. When the two cohorts approached the main gates they saw that a large crowd had gathered outside the ramparts. At the sight of the cohorts the crowd let out a roar of triumph and delight. The Durotrigans, who had been causing so much misery and grief over recent months, had at last been given a bloody nose. In truth, it had been no more than a brief skirmish, but desperate people are inclined to celebrate the smallest of victories. And so the wild cheering carried on as the column neared Calleva. A short distance behind the two cohorts trundled the wagons of the supply convoy the Durotrigans had hoped to intercept and destroy. They had linked up with the cohorts the morning after the ambush.

  At the head of the Boar Cohort, Macro proudly marched along the track. Despite his reservations about the calibre of these natives, they had performed creditably enough. Most of them had been farmers a few weeks before, used to wielding nothing more deadly than a hoe. But now they had been blooded, their spirits were high, and they might yet win his grudging approval. The Durotrigan raiders had been completely crushed; only a handful had escaped by swimming down-river as night fell. Fifty prisoners had been taken, once the Roman officers had managed to restore control over their men and stop them competing for head trophies. The Atrebatans had been particularly merciless to the handful of former warriors of their own tribe discovered amongst the enemy, and few of these had been spared.

  These men could not stomach what they saw as Verica’s craven alliance with Rome. So they had deserted their tribe and fled to the ranks of Caratacus, fast swelling with all those who still kept faith with the past glories of the Celtic peoples. The surviving captives stumbled along between the cohorts in two lines, with their arms bound behind their backs, and tethered together around their necks. While Macro hoped to sell them to the dealers waiting in Calleva, he was realistic enough to know that the Atrebatans would almost certainly wan
t to make a bloody sport of them to slake their thirst for revenge. Such a waste, Macro sighed, when able-bodied slaves were fetching high prices in the markets of Gaul. Perhaps Verica might be persuaded to throw the injured and weak to the mob and save the best stock for a more profitable fate.

  Macro turned back towards Tincommius. The young nobleman looked solemn as he held the gleaming boar standard as high as he could.

  ‘Quite a reception.’ Macro nodded towards the crowd at the gate.

  ‘That lot would cheer anything. . .’

  Macro could not help smiling at the youngster’s cynicism. ‘Go and ask Cato if he wants to join us. We might as well enjoy this together.’

  Tincommius fell out of line and trotted back down the rippling column of red shields, ignoring the cheerful jibes and comments from the men as he passed. When he reached the junior centurion at the head of the Wolf Cohort Tincommius nodded a greeting to Bedriacus and fell in beside the Roman.

  ‘Centurion Macro wonders if you’d like to join him when we reach the gates.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ Tincommius raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Thank him, but I think it’d look better if I marched in with my cohort.’

  ‘He thinks you deserve the acclaim just as much as he does.’

  ‘As do all these men.’ Cato thought it only natural that Macro would want to relish his moment of triumph. Natural, but bad politics. ‘My respects to Centurion Macro, but I’ll march into Calleva at the head of my own men.’

  Tincommius shrugged. ‘Very well, sir. As you wish.’

  As Tincommius returned to his unit. Cato shook his head. It was important that Verica and the Atrebatans saw this victory as their own. This was no time to indulge himself in some petty triumph, much as the prospect of being hailed as a hero appealed to some craven spirit within him.