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Those Durotrigans close enough to hear the order jeered him and those who fought with no armour brandished their bare chests in contempt. The incident had drawn together the spirit of the Durotrigans in that indefinable way that feeling flows through a mob, and it was clear that they would charge any moment now.
'Sir!' a voice called out behind him, and Cato looked over his shoulder. Mandrax held a shield out to him.
'Whose?'
'From one of our dead, sir.'
'All right, then…' Cato glanced quickly along the front of the enemy mob: they were all cheering, spears and swords thrusting up into the sky.
He threw his shield forward and turned and snatched the spare from Mandrax, quickly raising it in front of his body. Macro and his men still struggled towards the redoubt, hacked from all sides. A steady clatter and thud of blades and spear tips striking the legionary shields accompanied their progress. The men facing Cato turned towards the sound, and their shrill cries faded. Here was a chance, Cato decided, his heart racing.
'Make ready to charge,' he said, quietly enough for just the Wolves to hear. 'And make it loud!' He allowed a few breaths for the men to brace themselves up, then, 'Charge!'
Cato gave full voice to a wild animal roar, and the shrieks and cries of his men rang in his ears as the Wolves rushed forward. The Durotrigans turned back towards the small body of men they had been about to massacre, shock and surprise on their faces, and they had not moved when Cato and the Atrebatans slammed into them. Several were struck down before they could resist. Cato smashed his shield boss into the ribs of a thin man, who grunted explosively and collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Cato kicked his boot down on the man's face for good measure and stepped over him, thrusting his sword at the next enemy who came within reach. His sword was parried at the last moment, but the desperate swipe at the centurion's blade left the man's side exposed to the Atrebatan warrior beside Cato and his guts were ripped open by a slashing blow.
The Wolves piled into the enemy, shouting and screaming as they thrust and stabbed with their short swords. They carved a wedge into the Durotrigans, and before the enemy could respond the Atrebatans had cut their way through to Macro and the legionaries.
'Close up!' Cato called out. 'Mandrax! To me!'
As the two units linked up Macro nodded a greeting to Cato, but the younger centurion knew there was too little time to waste.
'Sir, we have to get back to the redoubt before they recover.'
'Right.' Macro turned to look back towards the gate. A dense mass of Durotrigan warriors was surging towards them. Macro turned to his men. 'At the trot… advance!'
Cato relayed the order to his men and, with them at the front, the small column hurried towards the redoubt, making no attempt to stop and engage the shaken enemy, and only fending off the blows directed at them by the more intrepid spirits amongst the Durotrigans. But, behind them, the force that had torn through the gates was racing to catch up with the defenders. Their example was infectious and a renewed desire to close with and destroy the Romans and their allies rippled through the enemy warriors in the royal enclosure.
The men who had already reached the redoubt called out to their comrades from behind the makeshift breastwork, beckoning them on with desperate waves of their arms. Cato, at the front, was tempted to increase the pace, but knew that the moment they broke formation they would be cut to pieces as the enemy recovered their courage and set upon the defenders once again. Then the great hall was right in front of them and they made towards the narrow gap that led inside the redoubt.
'Wolves!' Cato called out, swerving to one side. 'To me!'
His men formed up on their centurion, and the legionaries ran past, panting for breath as their heavy armour jingled rhythmically. Immediately behind the Romans came the first of the Durotrigans from the gate, thirsting for a chance to get at the men who had caused them such grievous losses from the shelter of the palisade above the street. The rearmost of Macro's men had turned to face the threat and paced backwards as fast as they could, with no chance to check their footing as they warded off the enemies' blows with their large shields. As soon as his men were in line Cato looked round and saw that most of the legionaries had passed through the entrance to the redoubt. Only the small knot of the rearguard were left, fighting their way step by step towards safety.
Cato cleared his throat. 'Hold your ground! Wait until the last legionary has passed by.'
As soon as the rearguard came alongside him, Cato bellowed the order to fall back and the compact group of Romans and Atrebatans inched towards the entrance to the redoubt, all the while thrusting shields and swords into the faces of their enemies. The Durotrigans could scent victory now, and were desperate to obliterate the last of the defenders. So they closed on Cato and his men with a savage ferocity that knew no bounds, slashing, thrusting, kicking and even head-butting the shields of the defenders in their desperation to destroy. The last of the legionaries disappeared inside the redoubt and now Cato's men were falling back through the gap, until there was only Cato, Mandrax and a handful of others.
'Get the standard inside!'
Mandrax made a wild slash at the man facing him, who shrank back from the feint, and then the standard was gone, leaving Cato and one other man, facing the endless ranks of woad-painted faces beneath limed hair. Behind them, Macro appeared at the breastwork.
'Cato! Run, lad!'
As the young centurion thrust his shield forward he yelled at the man beside him to fall back. The native warrior, crazed by battle beyond all reason, did not heed the order and slashed at the nearest enemy, shattering the top of his foe's skull. The warrior's cry of triumph barely rasped from his throat before a spearthrust caught him in the mouth and passed right through his head, emerging in a bloody tangle of blood, bone and hair at the back of his head, and knocking his helmet off. Cato ducked behind the body as it slumped down, and ran through the gap.
'Close it up!' Macro shouted, and the men waiting behind the wagon heaved it forward. The axles groaned as the solid wheels rumbled towards the sturdy stone wall of the great hall. One of the Durotrigans made it into the gap and faltered as he sensed the wagon. He turned and was caught and crushed on the tailboard as the wagon crashed up against the masonry and the gap was sealed. As soon as the vehicle was stationary, wicker baskets packed with earth were heaved under the axles to stop the enemy trying to move the wagon or sneak underneath it.
Although most of the legionaries and the native warriors had gained the shelter of the redoubt the fight was far from over. The Durotrigans swarmed up to the breastworks, thrusting their spears and the points of their swords at the men above them. Macro had handpicked the defenders and, protected by the crude fortifications and their large shields, the legionaries kept the enemy at bay. Some of the Durotrigans tried to clamber up the sides of the wagons, but were quickly dealt with and, dead or dying, tumbled back down on to their comrades.
Inside the redoubt Macro cast a glance round the men defending the half-circle protecting the entrance to the great hall and nodded his satisfaction. For the moment, at least, they could hold off the enemy and he could spare time to see to the men and consider the situation. Around him squatted the rest of his legionaries and Cato's men, exhausted and mostly injured; some with superficial cuts and a few with more serious injuries that would need attention. One of the men was beyond saving; he had been gutted by a spear and he sat, pale and sweating, with his hands clamped over the wound to keep his intestines from spilling out.