The Eagle and the Wolves

'Anything else, sir?' the clerk asked.

'No. Get to it, man!'

A thin crescent moon rose even as the last rays of the dying sun shrank away beyond the horizon. There was a brief period of darkness before the eye grew used to the pale light of the moon, and then the landscape resolved into a monochrome patchwork of fields, forests and rolling hills. From the eastern gate of the marching camp a long column of men snaked down the track that led towards Calleva, some thirty miles away. Nearly three thousand legionaries tramped along the track in loose ranks, the chinking of their equipment all but drowned out by the thud of iron-studded boots on the dry earth. Vespasian rode behind the lead cohort, a few staff officers and Quintillus spread out behind him.

If he pushed the men hard, Vespasian calculated that they might reach Calleva by the end of the next day. There might be a hard fight after the march for his tired men, but they were legionaries, trained to a superb level of fitness. Tired or not, they would be more than a match for a few thousand Durotrigans.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Thirty-Four

'How the hell…?' Cato muttered.

'Doesn't matter,' Macro snapped back at him. 'We have to get out of here.'

'Get out of here?' Cato looked at him in astonishment. 'And go where?'

'Royal enclosure. It's all that's left now.'

'But what about our injured?' Cato waved at the hospital block. 'We can't leave them.'

'There's nothing we can do for those lads,' Macro said firmly. 'Nothing. Now get your cohort formed up. Close ranks and follow right behind my century.'

Macro steered Cato towards the survivors of the Wolf Cohort and then called his men to attention. 'Close ranks. Form column of fours in front of the gate. Move!'

As the legionaries ran forward and jostled into formation, Cato began to shout out his orders in Celtic. Driven on by the shouts of the section leaders the two units formed up on the track behind the gate, and closed ranks until they became a compact column, shield to shield along the front and left side. Macro looked round for Figulus.

'Optio! Since you're so bloody keen on hanging back, you've got command of the rearguard. Take two sections. Keep 'em tight and don't let one of the bastards get by you.'

'Yes, sir!' Figulus trotted back to take up position.

As soon as he saw that the formation was ready, Macro pushed his way through into the front rank.

'Column!' He called out the preparatory order, and waited until he heard Cato repeat it to his natives, then: 'Advance!'

The shields, helmets and javelin tips rippled forward, and the tramp of iron-shod boots echoed under the tower as the legionaries moved forward. Behind them came the Wolves, lighter-armoured, and not quite able to march in step with their legionary comrades. Cato had positioned himself near the rear of his men, and looked back at the Durotrigans, ru

'Form up across the street!' Macro bellowed from the front, waving his sword to hurry his men into position, so that a wall of shields extended across the gap between the huts on either side. Behind this barrier the head of the column trudged forward once again. Before the rearguard made it out of the depot the first of the Durotrigans slammed into them, slashing at the rectangular shields with their long swords. Both sides fought in silence; the Durotrigans, breathless from their run across the depot, the Romans from grim desperation. The clash of swords and thud of blades on shields sounded to Cato more like a weapons drill than the pitiless fury of battle. Only the cries of the wounded told of the deadly intent with which warrior and legionary fought. The rearguard knew their job well, and kept moving back, fending off blows and only striking when an enemy showed more recklessness than sense, and paid the price.

Ahead of Macro, the Durotrigans who had managed to climb the walls either side of the burning town gate spilled across the street, clashing their spears against their shields, and shouting out their war cries.

'Keep the formation tight!' Macro bellowed above the din, raising his shield so that he could just see above the rim. His sword rose to the horizontal, arm bent and braced to deliver the first thrust. The distance between the column and the howling mass of the Durotrigans narrowed at a measured pace. When there was no more than twenty feet between them, the nearest Durotrigan raised his spear and charged the shield wall. Immediately the rest roared out their battle cry and ran after their comrade.

'Don't stop!' Macro shouted as the man to his left faltered. 'Move forwards. Don't stop for anything.'

The column met the Durotrigans on a narrow front and there was no room for the enemy's weight of numbers to pin the legionaries down. Macro and the other men at the front slammed their shields forwards, thrust, recovered and advanced before repeating the sequence, an automatic rhythm they had practised hundreds of times. The Durotrigans attacked with ferocity and courage, but were no match for the Romans. They were forced back or cut down and then crushed by the column as it marched over them.

Here and there, a lucky spear thrust or sword blow found a gap in the shield wall and thudded home into the flesh of the man behind. Any legionary too badly wounded to continue marching fell to the ground and his place was quickly filled from the dwindling ranks of reserves to keep the shield wall intact. The wounded were left behind as the column passed on, and each man who marched by met the eyes of his wounded comrades and registered a last farewell. As the rearguard approached the injured covered their bodies with their shields and prepared to fight on as best they could before being killed. It was pitiless, thought Cato, quite pitiless. Yet he knew that if he fell he could not expect his men to risk their lives to save him, or any other injured man. That way all of them would die.

The rearguard steadily gave ground as the enemy pressed through the gateway and battered the end of the column, desperately trying to breach the line of shields and cut the small Roman force to pieces. Figulus, taller and broader than most legionaries, held his ground in the centre of the line and kept his men together with steady commands as he deflected blows off his shield and thrust his sword into the enemy massing behind the column.

Step by step the legionaries and the Wolves forced their way up the street towards the junction with the road that led from Calleva's main gate to the royal enclosure. The hard earth beneath their boots quickly became slick and muddy with the gore of the dead and injured, and the cloying smell of blood mixed with the sharper smell of disturbed soil. From his position in the middle of the column, detached from the intensity of the hand-to-hand fighting, Cato could see that they had reached the broad street that cut through the centre of Calleva.

'Cato! Cato!' Macro's voice rose above the din of battle.

'Sir?'

'Soon as we clear the junction take your men and clear the way towards the royal enclosure.'

'Yes, sir!'

The legionaries slowly fought their way across the junction until the column had passed into the route leading up to the gates of the royal enclosure, cutting off a small group of the enemy.