The Eagle and the Wolves

Back in the storeroom, he undid the ties of his breastplate and stretched his shoulders. Then he sent for the decurion in charge of the small squadron of scouts and ordered the man to assemble his riders. They were to leave the fort at once and begin reco

Cato woke with a start. The young centurion struggled into a sitting position, bleary-eyed and his mind still fogged with sleep. As he looked around numbly, Cato saw that the royal enclosure was still shrouded in darkness, and away to the east glimmered the faint glow of a false dawn. All about him shadows moved in the gloom as the Roman officers moved down the lines of slumbering soldiers, shaking their men awake. Macro approached him.

'What's happening?' asked Cato.

'Get up. We're moving.'

'Moving?'

'Getting out of Calleva and back to the legion.'

'Why?'

'Legate's orders. Get your men ready. Now move yourself!'

Cato stretched his stiff limbs and rose to his feet with a groan. The enclosure was alive with the low grumbling of men roused from sleep, and the harsh shouts of the centurions aimed at those who were slow to rise. Torches flared by the storehouse being used by the legate and the small staff he had brought with him. Cato saw Vespasian hurriedly briefing the cohort commanders by the glow of spluttering flames. Bending down to retrieve his segmented armour, Cato wriggled his body inside and fumbled with the leather ties. Some of the men from the Wolf Cohort were already awake and gazing around anxiously.

'Centurion!' Mandrax approached him, and Cato realised that it was the first time for some days that he had seen the man without the standard to hand. 'Sir, what's going on?'

'We're leaving.'

'Leaving?' Mandrax looked surprised, then frowned. 'Why, sir? We won. The enemy have gone. Why abandon Calleva now?'

'Orders. Now help me get our men formed up.'

For a brief moment Mandrax stood quite still, staring at his centurion with an expression that Cato read as suspicion. Then he nodded slowly and turned away to see to his duties. Cato felt guilty about the order. These men he had fought alongside looked to Rome as their ally, and this order to quit Calleva would smack of betrayal, even though it made sense. Vespasian must have changed his mind. Or worse, Tincommius had proved to be telling the truth after all. Cato fastened his sword belt, tucked his helmet underneath his arm and strode over to the two lines of his men.

The Wolf Cohort existed in name only: Cato counted thirty shadowy figures standing behind Mandrax and the standard. Many bore dressings on their arms, but each still carried the oval shield, javelin and bronze helmet they had been issued months before. A surge of pride welled up inside Cato as he quickly inspected them. These men had proved themselves the equal of the legionaries in valour and steadfastness, and with more drill they would match their Roman comrades in skill at arms. The bond he shared with them through training and battle was as tight as any he had shared with his comrades in the Second Legion.

But now they were ordered to quit Calleva, and their kin, and the centurion feared how they might react when they looked back over their shoulders and saw Calleva lying defenceless, a ripe fruit waiting to fall into the eager hands of Caratacus and his allies. That would be the true test of their loyalty to him and their standard.

'All officers to the legate!' a voice bellowed across the enclosure. 'All officers to the legate!'

Cato turned to his men. 'Wait here!'

A small group of centurions clustered around Vespasian and the legate wasted no time on the usual formalities as he addressed them.

'The scouts report a large force camped a few miles to the west of here. Too many campfires to be the same band having a go at Calleva yesterday. Looks as if Caratacus might have stolen a march on the general after all. Thing is, the scouts also saw the loom of another army's fires in the distance, far beyond Caratacus' lot. It might be Plautius; it might not. I've ordered some scouts to find out who they are. It is possible that Caratacus is moving in two columns, and that the general is still chasing his tail north of the Tamesis. In which case, we're well and truly buggered.'

A few of the officers chuckled nervously before their legate continued, 'If we sit here and try to hold what's left of Calleva's defences we might last a day or two before we're overwhelmed. Then the enemy will turn on the rest of the legion and destroy it in detail. Our best chance is to get out of here as soon as possible, head south and try to swing round the enemy's flank and join up with the other cohorts at the legion's camp. That we can defend, for as long as the food lasts, or Plautius reaches us. We're taking Verica with us, and what's left of his men. They can return to Calleva once the crisis is over. We'll march in a tight column. We'll take as few wagons as possible; just enough for the wounded. The men are to carry nothing but their weapons and armour and food for two days, nothing else. Any questions, gentlemen?'

'Yes, sir.' Heads turned towards Tribune Quintillus. 'What happens if the enemy catches up with us before we link up with the other cohorts?'

Vespasian answered curtly, 'If that happens, Tribune, you'll have to continue your career in another life… Gentlemen! Let's make sure it doesn't happen. Anyone else?… Good. Back to your units. We march as soon as I give the signal… Centurion Macro! A moment, please.'

Macro, a man who favoured the back row of any gathering – a hangover from a very brief period of formal education as a child – waited until the other officers had dispersed before approaching the legate.

'Sir?'

'You know Centurion Gaius Silanus?'

'Yes, sir. Second Cohort.'

'That's him. Or was. He was killed in a skirmish yesterday. I want you to replace him. Take what's left of your garrison with you.'

'Yes, sir. What about Centurion Cato, sir?'

'What about him?'

'Are his men to march with us?'

Vespasian nodded. 'We need every man who can hold a weapon. Cato's cohort – what is it you call them?'

'The Wolves, sir.'

'Wolves? Good name. Anyway, they'll guard the carts.'

'They won't like that, sir,' Macro replied quietly. 'They'll want to fight.'

'Really?' said Vespasian with a trace of irritation. 'Well, they'll do as I tell them.'

'Yes, sir. I'll let Cato know.'

'You do that.'

As the first rays of the sun washed the sky, the dense column of heavy infantry, and the remaining handful of their native allies, emerged from the ruin of Calleva's main gate. A pale blue light hung across the landscape and, looking up, Cato could see that it would be a cloudless day. A hot march lay ahead with the sun beating down on them. As soon as the First Cohort cleared the gate it turned south, towards the legion's camp. The wagons carrying the wounded and King Verica were positioned in the middle of the column and on either side marched Cato's men, and the royal bodyguard under Cadminius. Vespasian had made it quite clear that all the native troops were placed under the command of Centurion Cato, without exception, to the obvious chagrin of Verica and the captain of his personal guard.

As the tail of the column emerged from Calleva, Cato looked back and saw a line of faces along the palisade, watching them depart in silence. The bitter expressions well told of the betrayal and despair felt by the Atrebatans. To one side, where the watchtower had once stood, a tall pole rose up from the charred timbers. Impaled on the top was the head of Tincommius, his features so bruised and swollen that it was barely possible to recognise the once handsome prince.