‘What makes you think you’ll live long enough to tell them?’ Macro snarled.
Tincommius smiled nervously, and took a step back. This was too much for Macro, and he violently shook off Cato’s restraining hand and whipped his sword out of its scabbard. ‘You little prick! I’ve had my fill of you.’
Tincommius turned and sprinted away towards the pool of darkness ringing Calleva. With an incoherent shout of rage Macro charged after him before Cato could react. The young centurion instinctively dived at his friend’s legs and drove Macro to the ground. By the time both men were back on their feet Tincommius was no more than a shadow fading into the night. Enraged, Macro rounded on Cato.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Get inside the gate!’ Cato ordered. ‘Quick!’
Macro was having none of it, and raised the point of his sword threateningly. Suddenly, an arrow whacked into the gate close by, then more whirred out of the darkness, splintering the weathered surface of the timbers. Without another word Macro dived back through the narrow gap behind Cato, and the gate was hurriedly closed in the face of the invisible enemy.
‘That was close!’ Macro shook his head, then turned to look at his young friend. ‘Thanks. . .’
Cato shrugged. ‘Save it. We’ve got to get out of this mess first.’
Then, from out of the night, Tincommius’ voice rose up, calling out in Celtic.
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Macro.
‘He’s inviting the people of Calleva to join him. . . Telling them, the survivors of the Wolves and the Boars, to desert their Roman masters and become free men once again. . .’
‘Oh! Nice touch. Boy should have been a lawyer. Come on, we have to put an end to this.’
Macro led the way back on to the rampart. They noticed several of the native troops eye them in a guilty, furtive manner and Cato feared that Tincommius was right: many of these men would be gone before the sun rose, silently slipping over the wall to run and pledge their allegiance to a new king. Some would stay; out of duty to Verica, out of duty to their comrades, maybe even out of duty to the officers they had come to respect with the grudging admiration of one warrior for another. Normally Cato disapproved of such sentimentality between men, but not tonight. Tonight he positively prayed for it with every superstitious fibre of his being. Tincommius continued to call out to the men on the wall, promising them a glorious victory over the Eagle soldiers, and a chance to win back the pride of place amongst all Celtic tribes that had once been the preserve of the warriors of the Atrebatans.
‘Can you see him?’ asked Macro, squinting into the darkness surrounding the ramparts.
‘No. Sounds like he’s somewhere over. . . there.’ Cato pointed.
Macro nodded to the cluster of legionaries armed with bows and slings along the palisade. ‘You there! Try a few shots. Aim for the voice.’
It was hopless. The odds of hitting Tincommius were little better than trying to toss a pebble down the neck of an amphora at twenty paces, blindfolded. But it might put Tincommius off his stride and undermine his attempt to talk the native troops round. A steady flow of arrows and slingshot arced into the night, and still Tincommius called upon his people. Macro turned back into the town and shouted down towards the supply cart.
‘Silva! Get me some trumpets up here, fast as you can!’
‘Better hurry,’ Cato muttered. ‘He’s telling them that it was you who attacked Verica.’
‘Bastard!’
‘. . . Now he’s saying that we’re holding the king prisoner, keeping him from his people. All because Verica has had a change of heart and could see Rome for what it really was. . . That’s why we had to remove Verica.’
‘Does he really expect them to swallow that load of bollocks?’
‘Unless we start countering it, they might.’
Macro cupped his hands. ‘Hurry up with those bloody trumpets!’
After a quick look round at the natives listening to the voice of their prince, Macro turned back to Cato. ‘You’d better speak to them.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. Talk ‘em round.’
‘What should I say?’
‘I don’t know. Use your head – you’re not usually short of things to say. Just make sure whatever it is, you say it louder than Tincommius.’
Cato stood back from the palisade and, desperately trying to remember some of the stirring speeches he had read as a boy, he began to speak. It was not easy translating the high-flown rhetoric of Roman historians into idiomatic Celtic. He stumbled again and again as he tried to address the Atrebatans and persuade them to ignore the traitor Tincommius, and remain loyal to their king, whom the traitor himself had tried to murder. From the darkness, Tincommius called out more loudly, flatly contradicting everything that Cato said. The centurion smiled and renewed his appeal, abandoning any attempt at producing the classic speech style he had been taught by his Greek tutor. He said anything that came into his head, anything that might appeal to the Atrebatans, anything that might prevent them from hearing Tincommius, who was becoming increasingly shrill as he tried to override Cato. But the centurion was tired, and the well of inspiration was quickly drying up. He knew it, and the men on the rampart knew it, and had it not been for the arrival of Silva, carrying an armful of trumpets from the depot, Tincommius might yet have talked most men round.
‘That was close,’ Cato said hoarsely as Macro handed out the instruments to the confused legionaries.
‘Not out of the woods yet, lad,’ Macro replied, thrusting a trumpet into the hands of one of his men. The legionary looked aghast, as if someone had just thrust a venomous snake into his hands.
‘Don’t just bloody gawp at it!’ Macro screamed into his face. ‘Stick your laughing gear round that and blow for all you’re worth. But you start slacking on me and I’ll ram it so far down your throat you’ll be farting tunes out of it!. . . Make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘Right, start playing then.’
The legionaries began to raise up a braying, nerve-rending cacophony into the night sky, and totally drowned out the cries of Tincommius.
‘Good!’ Macro nodded, hands on hips. ‘Keep it up for a while, then have a rest. If the enemy starts his yacking up again, you start blowing. Understood? Carry on.’
He turned to Cato, leaning close to be heard over the din. ‘Get the Atrebatans down from the wall. Tell ‘em to rest. They’ll need all their strength when the morning comes.’
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 sixty-five 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! May 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!’
Chapter Thirty-One
‘Sir!’ Figulus shouted from the watchtower as he saw Macro and Cato rushing up the ramp. ‘Enemy’s on the move!’
‘Keep an eye on them!’
As they reached the palisade Cato put on his helmet and tied the straps. Macro glanced over the approaches to the main gate, straining to pick out the details in the rapidly thinning mist.
‘Figulus! What are they up to?’
‘Looks like a fr
ontal attack on the gate, sir.’
Cato rubbed his tired eyes as the enemy began to appear. The Durotrigans were advancing behind a long line of crude wicker screens that rippled forward over the flattened grass. Looking round, Cato could not see any sign of movement towards any other section of the town wall.
‘Shall I get some of the Wolves to reinforce the gate?’
Macro’s gaze followed the route Cato’s had just taken and he scratched the stubble on his chin, making a faint rasping noise under his dirty nails. He shook his head. ‘We’re too thinly spread as it is. I’ll have to make do with our lads here. You get back to your standard.’
‘Can’t I fight here?’
‘No.’
Cato thought about protesting, and then nodded. Macro was right. One more Roman on the gate was not going to make much of a difference. He should stay with the natives and keep them ready for any new surprises the Durotrigans might have planned for them. But he couldn’t help wanting to fight, and maybe die, alongside the men of his Second Legion. Cato smiled to himself as he realised that the legion was the nearest thing he had to a family in this world, and the thought of being separated from them when the end came was unbearable. Now, other men looked to him and he saw the Celtic warriors of the Wolf Cohort clustered around Mandrax and his standard, watching their centurion in the distance.
‘See you later, Macro,’ Cato muttered.
Macro nodded, without turning his gaze from the approaching enemy, and Cato strode back along the rampart towards his men. He had a headache and the throbbing in his head was so painful that he was sure that he would throw up, and worse, he realised he had a terrible thirst and cursed himself for not taking a canteen of water from Silva s supply wagon before heading up oil to the rampart. His tongue felt thick and rough and the sensation made the nausea unbearable. Cato bit down on his lip and forced himself to try to think of something else. Anything.
‘Macro!’ a voice cried out, and Cato stopped to look back towards the gate. The Durotrigans had stopped just beyond javelin range, and a small gap had opened in the centre of the line. Tincommius stepped forward cautiously, both hands cupped to his mouth as lie called on Macro again.
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