The Eagle and the Wolves

'Shit!' The legionary snatched at his sword, but was too late to spot the spear thrown from one side. The tip caught him under the chin and passed straight through his neck, the impact hurling him back so that he crumpled over the rear of the wagon.

'Get a man up here!' Cato shouted over his shoulder. 'Now!'

As soon as the gap opened in the defenders' line a group of the enemy swarmed forward to press home the advantage, and Cato found himself facing three men, armed with swords, hacking and thrusting at him. He pressed himself inside the curve of the shield and slashed and hacked back at them in a desperate frenzy that bore little resemblance to the rigorous sword training that had been harshly drilled into him by the legion's instructors. There was a lucky strike as his blade caught one of his opponents across the knuckles, shattering the bones of his sword hand. The man screamed and fell back into the swirling mass of the warriors thrusting their way towards the redoubt. But his two comrades were more wily, and while one feinted at Cato the other waited for a chance to strike round the edge of the centurion's shield, and only the curved surface of his segmented armour saved him from injury as a blow glanced off the side of his chest. Then the gap was plugged as an Atrebatan took his place at the breastwork and thrust his sword down towards one of the men trying to kill Cato.

How long the fight raged around the redoubt, Cato could never be sure. There was no time for thought; only the instinct to fight and survive. As he stabbed and parried with his sword, and blocked savage blows with his shield, Cato shouted out encouragement to the men around him, and called for replacements whenever he was aware that one of them had fallen out of line. Even though five or six Durotrigans must have perished for every one of the defenders struck down from the breastwork, they could afford to take the punishment. Indeed, the very number of their losses seemed to provoke an ever-greater desire to close with the Romans and their Atrebatan allies, and they pressed forward tighter than ever, heaving against the defences so forcefully that Cato could feel the wagon shifting beneath him.

As the sun began to dip behind the bulk of the hall the redoubt fell into shadow and the slanting light illuminated the enemy with an intense contrast of light with dark that made them seem all the more vivid and fierce. Cato's arms felt drained of strength, and desperation was no longer enough. Only iron will forced his shield arm to stay up and his sword arm to thrust with enough punch to strike a lethal blow. But for every man he sent reeling back into the mob, another took his place with the same implacable urge to obliterate the defenders.

Then, strangely, Cato found himself waiting for his next opponent. But as he readied his shield and steeled his trembling sword arm, the sea of hostile faces before him thi

'Now, where the hell are they off to?' Figulus said loudly.

The men on the breastwork stayed in position, watching for the enemy's next move, not yet daring to believe that they might not come back. The clink and clatter of the Durotrigans' armour and weapons faded into silence and then there was just the sound of the injured.

'Cato!'

'Yes, sir!'

'Strength return, right now.'

Cato nodded, and slipped down on to the ground. He staggered a moment on his tired legs and then began to count off the survivors at the breastwork, and the handful of men still standing in reserve.

'They're coming back!' shouted a legionary, and Cato ran to take up his position. In the fading light dim figures could be seen making their way through the gateway into the enclosure.

'One last effort, boys!' Macro called out, even his voice cracking under the strain.

Each defender tightened his grip on shield and spear and steeled himself for a final struggle. Then Cato laughed – a high-pitched nervous sound – and he lowered his spear and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the breastwork.

Striding through the gate was a broad man with a red cloak. The sun gleamed on his highly polished helmet, and above the helmet curved a brilliant red crest. The man barked an order and a screen of troops fa

'It's Centurion Hortensius!' Cato laughed with nervous relief.

Hortensius marched up towards them, smacking his vine cane into the palm of his spare hand.

'Macro and Cato,' he called. 'I might have guessed. Only you two could have ended up in a fucking mess like this!'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Once Vespasian had sent off the scouts to make sure that the Durotrigans were keeping clear of Calleva, he led the relief column in through the blackened frame of the town's main gate. The legate immediately made for the depot, and the charred ruin of the headquarters block and the grisly remains of the hospital. Although the Durotrigans had razed the Roman buildings to the ground they had at least left the supplies largely untouched. No doubt they had intended to gorge themselves and carry off what they could, but the sudden arrival of the legate and his six cohorts had caused the Durotrigans to panic and flee the Atrebatan capital empty-handed.

Vespasian gave orders to begin repairs to the depot's defences and then, with tribune Quintillus at his side, they rode off to join Hortensius' cohort, which had been sent on ahead to secure the royal enclosure. As soon as he caught sight of Macro and Cato the legate had demanded to know the full story.

'No,' Vespasian decided, as he glanced round the shadows lengthening across the scattered bodies in the royal enclosure. 'It's out of the question. There's too much to be done here. We're staying.'

Cato exchanged an anxious look with Macro. Surely the legate would see the danger?

'Sir, we can't stay,' said Cato.

'Can't stay?' Quintillus, at his commander's shoulder, repeated with a slight smile. 'Centurion Cato, the truth is we can't afford to leave. Even you must be aware of the strategic situation? Verica will die soon. His warriors are nearly all dead. This kingdom will fall to the first enemy that passes through the gate you two saw fit to burn down. Only Rome can guarantee order here now.'

Cato placed his hand behind his back and clenched his fist, pressing his nails into the flesh of his palm. He was exhausted and angry, and needed his wits to be sharp.

'Sir, if we lose these six cohorts and a legate, there won't be a strategic situation to worry about, only a rout.'

'Really!' The tribune laughed and turned to Vespasian. 'I think this young man has become physically and mentally exhausted over the last few days, sir. It's only natural he might have an inflated fear of the enemy.'

This was too much for Macro. His bull neck swung forward. 'Afraid? Cato afraid? It wasn't Cato who ran off when they gave us that first pasting-'