The Eagle and the Wolves

A small column of refugees hurried from the gate, heading in the opposite direction in a bid to escape the inevitable bloodshed when Caratacus and his army arrived before Calleva. Away to the west the tiny figures of a screen of cavalry appeared on a distant hillside and moved towards Calleva with painstaking slowness. Behind them, crossing the brow of the hill, crawled a thick black column of infantry. The Durotrigans who had withdrawn from Calleva the previous night now marched with their allies. Caratacus, it seemed, had made an early start as well. Nearly five miles separated the two sides, by Cato's estimate. Not much of a margin, but one that the hard-marching legionaries should be able to maintain until they reached the Second Legion's fortified encampment.

Before long the enemy column changed course, moving obliquely away from Calleva and straight towards the Romans. Vespasian's small force crested a low ridge and marched out of sight of the Atrebatan capital. The sun rose and climbed steadily into a clear sky, and not a breath of wind disturbed the air so that the deafening crunch of army boots and the squeaking creak of the wagons' wheels filled the men's ears. Dust was thrown up by the leading cohort and it left grit in the mouths of the men further down the column. By late morning the sun was shining brightly and sweat poured off the men marching without respite, since any stop would close the gap between them and their pursuers.

So it was that at noon, the head of the column was approaching a narrow vale that curved round a small bare hillock. At the head of the column rode Vespasian and Tribune Quintillus, eschewing the normal practice of riding behind the vanguard. The legate was keen to reunite his forces as speedily as possible and did not want to waste any time having the lay of the land ahead relayed to him.

'We're making good time,' Quintillus was saying conversationally.

'Yes… good time,' the legate replied, then he straightened his back and stared ahead.

'What is it, sir?'

Vespasian did not answer, but urged his mount into a trot along the track as he craned his neck to see more. A few moments later he had a clear view round the hillock. Half a mile ahead of the column a dense mass of chariots and cavalry lay across their path.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Caratacus had sent his light forces on ahead, even though he knew that they could not defeat the Romans by themselves. But then again they didn't have to, Vespasian smiled bitterly. They just had to delay the legionaries long enough for Caratacus and his heavy infantry to arrive and pile into the rear of the Roman column. If the legate moved quickly, he could form his men into a dense wedge and force his way through the enemy blocking the way ahead. But such formations had never been designed for speed and the natives would simply fall back before the wedge and harry the Romans until their comrades could catch up and throw their weight decisively into the fight.

'Sir?' Quintillus was looking at him expectantly. 'Shall I give the order to turn the column round?'

'No. Caratacus will have moved between us and Calleva by now.'

'Well… what shall we do?' Quintillus stared at the enemy waiting ahead of them. 'Sir?'

Vespasian ignored the tribune as he wheeled his horse round and raised his arm. 'Halt!'

The vanguard cohort pulled up and the order was swiftly conveyed down the column. Each century stopped marching and the wagons grumbled to a standstill, then nothing moved on the track. The legate was already assessing the surrounding landscape, and fixed his gaze on the small hillock to their right. He had already decided that the column's best chance of survival was a static defence. If they tried to continue they would be worn down and cut to pieces long before they came in sight of the rest of the legion. If they could inflict enough damage on their enemies they might just demoralise them enough to withdraw so that the column might still reach the legion's fortified camp… Fat chance of that happening, he mused.

Vespasian drew a breath before he gave the order that would commit him and his men to action.

'Column… deploy to the right!'

'Sir?' Quintillus urged his horse alongside Vespasian's. 'What are you doing?'

'We're making a stand, Tribune. What else can we do?'

'Making a stand?' Quintillus raised his finely plucked brows. 'That's madness. They'll kill us all.'

'Very likely.'

'But, sir! There must be something else we can do… Anything?'

'What do you suggest? You can't ride for help this time, Quintillus. Not unless you want to chance your arm with that lot ahead of us and make a break for it.'

The tribune blushed at the barely concealed charge of cowardice, and shook his head slowly. 'I'm staying.'

'Good man. Now make yourself useful. Ride to the top of that hill and keep watch for Caratacus. Also…' Vespasian wondered how far he should trust to luck after the fates had led him into this trap. 'Also, keep an eye out for that other force the scouts reported. They might be ours.'

'Yes, sir!' Quintillus turned his horse up the slope and galloped towards the brow of the hill.

The First Cohort, twice the size of the legion's other cohorts, was marching past Vespasian, following the colour party up the grassy slope. Behind them the rest of the column rippled forward. Century by century they moved along the track until they reached the legate's position, and then turned abruptly to their right. Vespasian was watching Caratacus's blocking force for any sign of movement, but the enemy was content simply to deny the Romans passage along the vale, and sat on their chariots and horses watching the Romans climb up the hill. A more enterprising commander, Vespasian reflected, would have tried to occupy the hill ahead of the Romans, but the Britons' lack of self-control was a defining feature of the way they waged war, and the British commander was probably wise to have his men stand their ground.

As the wagons turned up the slope their drivers urged their lumbering oxen on with shouts and sharp blows from their canes. The legate watched for a moment, conscious of the slow progress of the vehicles, then he shouted an order.

'Centurion Cato!'

'Sir?'

'Set your men to those wagons. I want them on top of the hill as quickly as possible.'

Cato saluted and ordered his men to load their weapons into the wagons. Then with a handful of warriors assigned to the rear of each of the eight wagons, the big Celts heaved and strained to move the wagons up the hill. Cadminius and his men took charge of the wagon provided for Verica and did their best to ensure that their king was not jolted. All the while the legionaries marched past them, until only the rearguard remained, tasked with protecting the wagons until they reached the position the legate had chosen. It was back-breaking work that required as much nerve as strength. Every so often the forward momentum would slacken and the big chocks of wood carried in the back of each wagon would have to be quickly dropped into place behind the wheels to ensure that the wagons did not begin to roll back down the slope. Once that started it was almost impossible to stop, and men might be crushed, vehicles might collide and the oxen, harnessed to the wagons would be sent sprawling with a very real chance of breaking their legs. And all under the merciless glare of the midday sun. By the time the incline of the slope began to even out Cato and his men were ru

'What the hell are you doing? On your feet!' Vespasian shouted at them as he rode up to the wagons. 'Centurion, get your men formed up! I want these wagons drawn up in the centre. Make sure that the king is well protected. I'm holding you responsible for his safety.'