Cato looked down into his superior’s face. ‘I’m so sorry, sir. Must be nerves.’
For an instant the older man tensed up, hands balling into fists at the end of his thick hairy forearms. Macro felt an overwhelming urge to knock some sense into Cato and get him to quit his grinding mood of depression. Then Macro relaxed his hands, slowly rested them on his hips and spoke very deliberately.
‘You know, I wonder if the tribune wasn’t right after all. If you get so riled by a few harsh words then maybe you’ve no place commanding grown-ups.’
Before Cato knew what he was doing his fist shot out and slammed into Macro’s jaw. The older centurion’s head snapped back and he staggered away from Cato. Macro recovered his balance and felt his jaw, raising his eyebrows as he saw blood on the palm of his hand from a split lip. He looked up at Cato, with a cold glint in his eyes.
‘You’ll pay for that.’
‘I – I’m sorry, Macro. I don’t know what I was thinking, what I was doing. I didn’t mean to—’
‘But it felt good, eh?’ Macro smiled faintly.
‘What?’
‘You feel any better?’
‘Better? No! I feel dreadful. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Hurts like hell, but I’ve had worse. But it took your mind of the bloody tribune for a moment there, didn’t it?’
‘Well, yes,’ Cato admitted, still feeling embarrassed by his loss of control. ‘Er, thank you.’
Macro waved his hand dismissively. ‘Come on, let’s get back to the depot. Forget the tribune, forget this bloody tribe of barbarians and let’s get some decent food inside us.’
‘Yes. . .’ Cato was still standing where Macro had stopped him. He was staring over Macro’s head, a faint look of concern in his expression.
‘Relax,’ Macro chuckled. ‘I’ll get you back sometime. . . What’s the matter?’
‘Look.’ Cato pointed towards the eastern sky, painted pale gold by the rising sun. Macro turned to follow the direction of Cato’s finger. Some miles distant several faint columns of smoke smudged the pale sky of the new day.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘Supply column?’ Cato muttered.
‘Looks like it.’
‘I didn’t know one was due.’
‘Neither did I.’ Macro grabbed his arm. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
Macro led the way as they ran back to the depot. As soon as they were through the gate he sent one of the sentries to summon the tribune and Tincommius. As the man ran off down the lane towards the royal enclosure Macro turned to his subordinate.
‘Get the Wolves formed up by the gate. I’ll rouse the Boars and join you as soon as I can.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato sprinted towards the headquarters building and burst through the door into the admin hall. Catching sight of one of the garrison’s trumpeters, he shouted at the man to get his instrument and follow him to the main gate of Calleva. The man arrived on the walkway breathless from running under the weight of the curved brass horn, and having to climb the ladders to join his commander. Cato slapped his thigh impatiently as he waited for the man to catch his breath. At last he spat to clear his mouth, drew in a deep breath and blew into his mouthpiece. The strident notes of the assembly call rang out over the town and the men of the Wolf Cohort hurried to the source of the sound.
Over in the depot another signal rang out and, glancing round, Cato saw the men of the Boar Cohort tumbling out of their tents to assemble on the parade ground. The squat figure of Macro emerged from the headquarters building, helmet glinting in the first rays of the sun beneath the red flare of his transverse crest. He was fully armoured and ready for action. With a pang of self-contempt Cato realised that he had left his armour in his quarters, and he turned to the nearest man and sent him to fetch it.
Beneath the walkway the gates groaned as they were swung inwards. The first men appeared in the muddy street below and Cato leaned over the parapet to shout his orders down to Figulus.
‘Form the cohort up on the road inside the gate!’
As the Roman instructors bustled the men into position and began to form the cohort into a marching column Cato looked over the wall towards the distant spires of smoke rising into the sky, perhaps four or five miles away. The air was quite still this morning and it was possible to distinguish several separate sources of the smoke: the individual supply wagons fired by the attackers, Cato reasoned. As the last men hurried into line the native he had sent to fetch his equipment arrived on the walkway, panting from his exertions. Cato frowned when he saw that the man had not brought him a fresh tunic, but there was no helping that now, and he pulled the shoulder padding over his head and reached for the heavy mass of his chain mail.
‘Will there be a fight, Centurion?’ the man asked as he fastened the buckle of Cato’s sword belt.
‘Depends if we catch them in time,’ Cato replied in Celtic. ‘Let’s hope so.’
Cato noticed the warrior smile after his last remark, and realised that the man was spoiling for a fight. Cato shared the desire to lay into the enemy. Then, after a moment’s reflection, it occurred to him that his reasons were more selfish and had everything to do with proving a point to the smug tribune whose remarks had cut him to the soul.
As soon as the last buckle of his harness had been fastened Cato snatched up his felt helmet liner, jammed it down over the top of his head and pulled on his centurion’s helmet, hurriedly tying the leather thongs at the end of each cheek guard.
‘Right! Down you go,’ he ordered the warrior. ‘Back to your century.’
Cato spared a quick look towards the depot and was gratified by the sight of the Boars, in column, marching towards the gate, Macro at their head. Then the young centurion clambered down the ladders to the foot of the gate and trotted to the front of the Wolf cohort.
‘Figulus! Figulus! To me!’
The young Gaul came running down the column towards him, face flushed with excitement.
‘Get ‘em moving,’ ordered Cato, pointing towards the distant columns of smoke, already dissipating now that the fury of the blaze had passed its peak. ‘I want them outside and ready to march. I’ll catch you up as soon as I’ve spoken with Centurion Macro and the tribune.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Figulus saluted and ran towards the front of the small column. He called the men to attention, and gave the order to advance. The natives were well accustomed to the standard commands and at his word, broke into a rhythmic tramp, through the gate and down the track towards the distant columns of smoke. Cato watched them march by for a moment, then, once the rear rank of the last century had passed him, he made his way back to the open gate. There was a pounding of hoofs and then Quintillus and Tincommius galloped down the street leading from the royal enclosure. They were armed and ready to fight, and slewed their ponies to a halt as they caught sight of Cato.
‘What’s happening?’ barked Quintillus. ‘Report!’
‘Smoke, sir!’ Cato replied, indicating the direction. ‘Looks like they’ve attacked another of our supply columns.’
The tribune glanced down the track towards the Wolf Cohort. ‘Where’s Macro?’
‘He’s bringing up the other cohort from the depot, sir.’
‘Good!’ Quintillus rubbed his hands together. ‘We might catch ‘em loaded down. Let’s get moving!’
‘Sir, don’t you think we might want to send scouts out first?’
‘We’re wasting time!’ Tincommius said excitedly. ‘We must attack at once.’
Quintillus nodded. ‘It’s clear enough what’s happening, Centurion. And there’s no time to waste.’
‘But what about Calleva? We can’t leave it unguarded, sir. Not under the present circumstances.’
‘The men in the depot can handle the gate. Send for them. Now, we must move!’
Waving aside Cato’s protests the tribune kicked his heels in and urged his pony out of the gate and down the track, closely followed by Tincommius. Cato
ordered the nearest sentry to run to the depot and have every able-bodied man sent to guard the town’s main gate, then he set off in pursuit of the tribune, running down the length of the column until he reached the wolf’s head standard at the front of his cohort. Beyond, far down the track, galloped Quintillus and Tincommius, riding straight for the distant smoke. Cato fell into step with his men, and glanced sideways at the new standard bearer. Although a youngster, like himself, Cato reflected ruefully, the man was huge – none of the wiry strength of Bedriacus, just a mass of muscle.
‘You’re Mandrax, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, Mandrax, keep the standard high and keep it safe, and you’ll do fine.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato looked round and saw, beyond the last century of the Wolves, the head of Macro’s cohort emerging from the gateway. The Boars were stepping out at a fast pace to join their comrades and only slowed down when they caught up with Cato’s men. Macro jogged forward to join Cato.
‘Where’s the tribune?’
‘Gone ahead with Tincommius to see what’s happening.’
‘Hope the twat’s careful,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Last thing we want is to give ourselves away.’
‘Or lose another of Verica’s heirs.’
‘Quite.’
‘Do you think this is wise, Macro?’
‘What?’
‘Taking both cohorts out of Calleva.’
‘We did it before. Anyway, those were Vespasian’s orders: to have a go at the enemy whenever possible and keep them away from our lines of communication.’
‘Bit late for that now.’ Cato nodded towards the columns of smoke.
‘Granted. But if we get the buggers who did that then there’ll be a few less of the enemy in the world. They won’t be tucking into my supplies any more. That’s a positive outcome in my book.’
Cato shrugged and decided to keep his concerns to himself.
The Wolves and the Boars continued down the track, heading towards the thinning smoke. They had covered just over three miles, according to Cato’s estimate, when the tribune and Tincommius returned. Macro halted the column and moments later the two riders reined in their mounts and slid to the ground, breathless and excited.
‘Round the next hill,’ Quintillus panted. ‘Small supply column. All dead, all the wagons burned. The raiders are still there, picking over the bodies. We’ve got them! Macro, send the scouts and two of your centuries round the back of the hill to cut them off. The rest will form a line at the base of the hill. Then we’ll advance and catch them in a trap. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, Tincommius, rejoin your cohort, and try to stay out of trouble.’
‘Of course, Tribune.’ Tincommius grinned.
Τ mean it. I went to a great deal of effort making sure you succeed Verica. Get yourself killed and you’ll have me to answer to.’
Tincommius chuckled nervously. The tribune turned towards Cato and muttered. ‘Keep an eye on him. He’s to stay out of harm’s way. I’ll hold you personally responsible for his safety, Centurion.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘Sir?’ said Cato, as the tribune turned back towards his pony.
‘What is it?’
‘The enemy, sir. How many of them are there?’
Quintillus quickly estimated. ‘Two hundred, two hundred and fifty. That’s all. Why? Is that too many for you?’
‘No, sir,’ Cato replied tonelessly. ‘I’m just surprised that they haven’t made off yet. Particularly since there are so few of them. They must know we’d send a force out to investigate. Why take the risk?’
‘Who knows, Centurion? Who cares? All that matters is that they’re there and we’ve got the chance to put them in the bag. Now, you have your instructions. See to them.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted.
Macro had already run off to issue his orders and the first two centuries of the Boars doubled away from the main body, moving obliquely in the direction of the near side of the hill that Quintillus had indicated. The tribune galloped to the nearest slope and headed up towards the crest. By the time that Cato had prepared his men the tribune had ground-tethered his pony and was creeping forwards, bent double and moving carefully through the long grass.
‘At least he’s doing that properly,’ muttered Cato.
‘You don’t like him much, do you?’ asked Tincommius.
‘No. Not much. There’s little his kind won’t do to grab whatever glory is going.’
‘And I thought the Celts were bad enough.’
Cato turned towards his Atrebatan companion. ‘Tincommius, you don’t know the half of it. Anyway, you heard the tribune – keep out of it today. No heroics. That’s my order.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tincommius smiled. ‘I know my duty.’
‘Good.’
The century commanders were taking no chances, and passed down the lines of their men to give orders in unaccustomed low voices. The Wolves formed a line two deep to the left of the track, and Macro’s remaining centuries formed up to the right. Ahead of them Cato could see that there was a steep slope beyond the hill that concealed the ravaged supply convoy and its attackers. With luck the enemy would be neatly caught, with no way out of the small vale, except by hacking a path through the Atrebatan lines. It looked like Quintillus would have his slice of glory after all.
As soon as the two cohorts were in position, Macro drew his sword and swept it forward. The Wolves and the Boars advanced through the long grass, still wet with the morning dew. The men rested the iron heads of the javelins on their shoulders as they rustled forward and began to sweep round the edge of the hill. Macro stayed in position on the extreme right of the line, its most vulnerable point, with the first century of his cohort – handpicked men who could be trusted to fight hard and not yield.
Cato trotted to the left-hand flank, anxious to get the first possible sighting of the ground ahead of them in the vale. Far off, to the right, the two centuries dispatched to close the trap on the raiders were disappearing round the edge of the hill. With a little luck they would be able to get in position quickly enough to compel the enemy to surrender the moment they realised there was no way out for them. If the Atrebatans spared them, the best they could expect was a life-time of slavery. From his recent experience of fighting the Durotrigans, Cato doubted whether they would surrender. The Durotrigans were being driven to resist the legions by druid fanatics, who promised their warriors that the very finest rewards the afterlife had to offer were reserved for the men who died fighting Rome.
As the line began to swing round the base of the hill Cato caught sight of the supply column. The charred remains of eight wagons came into view, flames still licking up from some of them. Bodies in red tunics were sprawled on the ground around the wagons. Close by were the raiders, a small party of men herding the supply column’s draught animals together. One man leaned against the serpent banner of the Durotrigans, while a handful of others picked over the bodies lying on the ground. As yet none of them appeared to have spotted the Wolf Cohort marching steadily towards them, and for the first time Cato thought that the tribune’s hasty plan might come off. Still, the raiders must be a dozy lot not to have detected the approaching danger. Cato found it hard to believe that they had not posted a lookout, at least.
The two cohorts had almost blocked the end of the vale before the alarm was raised. Cato saw the serpent standard bearer suddenly stand upright, then turn and shout a warning to his companions. Instantly the raiders sprang to their weapons and turned to face the Wolves and the Boars.
‘Won’t be much of a fight,’ Figulus muttered beside Cato. ‘We must outnumber them five or six to one. No contest.’
‘No.’
But still the Durotrigans prepared themselves to meet the enemy. Clustering together in a shallow crescent, they raised their shields and shook their spears. A movement, away to the rig
ht, drew Cato’s attention, and he saw Quintillus galloping his horse down the slope. He tore round the back of the advancing cohorts and took up a position just behind the centre of the line, drew his sword and shouted encouragement to the native troops.
‘Wasting his bloody breath,’ said Figulus. ‘They don’t understand much Latin.’
‘No, but it might make him feel good.’
The distance between the two forces closed quickly, then the Durotrigans began to give ground, moving back past the burned wagons towards the far end of the vale, where the gap between the steep sides of both hills was narrow and offered better defence than the open floor where the Atrebatans would easily overrun them through sheer weight of numbers.
‘That’s not going to do them much good not when Macro’s lads come up on them.’
‘Figulus?’
‘Sir?’
‘Just shut up for the moment. I don’t need the running commentary.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The two cohorts continued to pursue the enemy up the vale and began to pass by the burned-out supply column. Cato spared the charred wagons a quick look, and frowned. There was something about them that did not look right. The axles were far too thin and the light wheels and wicker-frame sides bore little resemblance to the heavy transport carts of the legions. As he stepped over one of the bodies Cato was aware of a faint putrid smell and he saw the blotchy skin on the corpse. The man must have died some days ago. The next body he came across was the same. All at once a dreadful doubt chilled his blood and he glanced anxiously at the trees that sprawled down the slopes of the hills on either side. Cato looked towards the tribune, but Quintillus had his gaze fixed on the small band of raiders directly ahead and was still shouting his encouragement. Cato drew a deep breath and threw up his arm.
‘Cohort! Halt!’
The Wolves stumbled to a halt, some warriors not quite understanding the order, or not willing to obey it immediately. The result was a straggling line spread across the floor of the vale. After a moment’s hesitation Macro echoed the order to halt and started running across towards Cato.
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 24