The Eagle and the Wolves

As soon as Cato had caught his breath he heaved the man on to his side, placed a boot on his back beside the sword handle, and wrenched the blade free. It came out with a fresh gush of blood and Cato immediately pulled himself on to the bank and crept downstream, away from the enemy and roughly in the direction of Calleva. The Durotrigans would notice the riderless horse soon enough and come to investigate. He had briefly considered trying to mount the animal himself, but could not trust himself to do it well. Besides, he was a poor rider while the Durotrigans were experts, and they would run him down long before he got the beast anywhere near the gates of Calleva. So he moved downstream as swiftly and quietly as he could, ears straining for any sign that the body had been detected and the enemy were giving chase. A quarter of a mile later Cato realised he was trembling. He knew he was too tired to go on. He must hide and rest a while; recover some strength and then move on towards the safety of the town.

Safe? Calleva? He chided himself. The cohorts had been destroyed. The only thing standing between the Durotrigans and the Atrebatans were the handful of legionaries serving the depot and Verica's bodyguard. The moment the enemy realised that, Calleva would be at their mercy. He had to get back, gather the survivors up and try to save the town. Then he thought of Macro and Tincommius. Had either of them made it? Were they dead, somewhere out there in the long grass? Food for the carrion birds already spiralling overhead in the late morning sunshine.

Cautiously moving round a bend in the stream Cato came across a fallen tree, wrenched up from the ground years before by some wild storm. The soil round the base of the tree had been pulled up, and badgers had dug themselves a sett amongst the tangle of dead roots. Cato pressed himself into the narrow entrance and hurriedly used his sword to loosen the soil above him. Clods of earth tumbled over the hole, gradually filling it and burying the centurion under a shallow layer of soil. He would be revealed the moment anyone made a close inspection of the twisting roots, but it was the best he could do. He lay still, watching the stream through the small gap he had left, and waited for the long hot day to end.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Cato woke with a start, dislodging the earth he had piled over his body. It was dark and something was snuffling through the dirt close to his face. As the centurion stirred the creature emitted a shrill squeak and scrambled away. An instant later Cato's mind focused with a sharp intensity as he remembered everything that had occurred earlier in the day. Furious with himself for falling asleep, he lay still, listening for any signs of movement, but the only sound he could hear was the stream chuckling over a shallow bed of pebbles. Overhead, through the tangle of dead roots, he could see a few stars behind scattered wreaths of silvery cloud. Cato groped for his sword, and then gently brushed the earth away from his body. He paused a moment to see if he had attracted any attention, and then eased himself out of the entrance of the badger sett. Staying close to the ground, he crawled up the bank and raised his head above the tufts of grass growing along the edge. The landscape was a dark almost featureless mass stretching out on all sides, broken only by the unmistakable silhouettes of trees.

But, there, barely a mile away, was Calleva. Sections of the ramparts were illuminated by blazing faggots that the defenders had hurled down on to the ground in front of the town in an attempt to reveal the presence of any enemies lurking nearby. Even as Cato watched a few more blazing bundles of kindling were raised above the ramparts by tiny figures wielding pitchforks. Then the faggots were thrown over in bright flaring arcs and burst on the ground in showers of sparks.

The position of some of the attackers was obvious from several small fires ringing the main gate. Every so often a fire arrow would rise up, curve gracefully over the ramparts and disappear amongst the huts beyond. Dull red smudges behind the ramparts showed where a number of small blazes had already been started.

The situation looked desperate, and Cato briefly considered what he must do. The Second Legion was at least two days' march away. Too far, perhaps, to arrive in time to save Calleva, and the legion's supply depot. There was an infantry cohort a day's march away in the opposite direction, guarding a river crossing, but they would be too few to make a difference. Besides, with the Durotrigans in the area, the centurion would have to make sure he stayed out of sight as much as possible, and that could double the length of time it would take to reach the nearest help.

There was no alternative, he realised. He must find a way back into Calleva and do what he could to help organise the defence of the Atrebatan capital. If Macro was dead then the command of the survivors of the two cohorts would fall to him. If Tincommius was dead then, with Verica barely alive, the Atrebatans would be leaderless. Cato had to get back as quickly as possible.

Crouching low, sword held tightly in his hand, he moved off in the direction of the main gate. A light breeze was blowing, rustling the tall grass and the leaves of the stunted trees that dotted the small plain. The strain of creeping forwards, muscles tensed for instant attack or flight, senses straining to detect any hint of movement or sound of the enemy, told on the young centurion, and after half a mile he stopped and rested a moment. Between him and the gate, their dark shapes rising above the grass, the Durotrigans extended in a loose screen, barring access to the town from any survivors of the two cohorts still lurking nearby. As Cato watched, one of the enemy moved closer to a comrade and the harsh laughter of their voices was clearly audible. Rising to his feet but keeping bent over, Cato quickly made for the gap in the screen and quietly slipped through, glancing both ways to make sure that he had not been spotted. No alarm was given and he pressed on. A short distance beyond was one of the small campfires lit by the Durotrigans. It was ringed by the dark forms of men sleeping under their cloaks, resting in preparation for the next day's assault on Calleva. One man stood guard, warming himself by the fire, the shaft of his spear resting against his shoulder.

The loom of the fire spread across a wide area and Cato realised that in skirting it he might well be seen by one of the men in the screen he had just passed through. Directly beyond the fire was the gate, barely a few hundred paces distant. With a last glance round to make sure he had not yet been seen, Cato rose up from the grass and started to run forward, picking up speed as he approached the fire. Then the first of the sleeping Durotrigans was at his feet. Cato leaped over him, and the next one, and sprinted straight for the man standing in front of the fire. The warrior glanced over his shoulder, his eyes instantly widening as he caught sight of the savage expression on the face of the Roman hurtling towards him. He fumbled for the shaft of his spear, but it was too late. Cato slammed into the man's back and thrust the enemy warrior, sprawling, right on top of the fire. As Cato rolled to one side, back on to his feet, and sprinted for the gate, a terrible shrieking from the warrior split the night. At once the men sleeping on the ground stirred and ran to help their comrade. Cato did not look back, but ran as fast as he could for the gate. Behind him there was a shout as he was seen, and more shouts as the alarm spread.

Cato had a good start, but already he was aware of dark shapes on either side, angling in towards him as they converged on the entrance to Calleva. Cato could see faces on the wall turning towards him. Someone drew an arrow to his bow and loosed a quick shot at the approaching figure. Cato sidestepped and there was a whirr close by in the darkness as he ran on.