The Eagle and the Wolves Read online

  ‘Leave them!’ Vespasian roared. ‘Leave them! Make for the wagons! Go!’

  The scouts’ senses returned to them and they closed ranks, and galloped after Vespasian as he made for the rearmost wagon, no more than a hundred paces away. The auxiliaries in the rearguard raised a ragged cheer and waved them on with their javelins. The horsemen had almost reached their comrades when Vespasian heard a faint whirr, and the dark streak of an arrow shot by his head. Then he and his men were in amongst the wagons, halting their blown horses.

  ‘Close up! Close up at the rear of the convoy!’

  While his men eased their horses into formation behind the last wagon, Vespasian trotted forward to the convoy’s commander, still standing astride the driver’s bench of his vehicle. As soon as he saw the legate’s ribbon fastened around Vespasian’s breastplate the man saluted.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You are?’ Vespasian snapped.

  ‘Centurion Gius Aurelias, Fourteenth Gallic Auxiliary Cohort, sir.’

  ‘Aurelias, keep your wagons moving. Don’t stop for anything. Anything, you understand? I’ll take charge of your men. You look after the wagons.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Vespasian wheeled his horse round and trotted back towards his men, taking a deep breath before shouting out his orders.

  ‘Fourteenth Gallic! Form line on me!’

  Vespasian swept his sword out to the side and the survivors of the convoy escort hurried to take up position.

  Beyond the cavalry scouts the Durotrigans had recovered from the shock of the charge, and now that they could see how pitifully few men had panicked them they burned with shame and thirsted for revenge. They advanced in a dense mass of mixed light and heavy infantry, and rumbling round to the side of the convoy came the chariots in an effort to head the wagons off before they could reach the gates and trap the Romans between them and their infantry, like a vice. Vespasian realised there was nothing he could do about the chariots. If they did manage to cut the convoy off from the gates then Aurelias would simply have to try to force his wagons through, trusting to the lumpen momentum of his oxen to push aside the lighter Durotrigan ponies and their chariots.

  All that Vespasian could do now was hold off the enemy infantry as long as possible. If they should reach the wagons then all was lost. Vespasian took one last glance along his slender line of men, and the grimly determined expression on the faces of the tribesmen advancing on them, and knew at once that he and his troops stood no chance. He had to stop himself from laughing bitterly. To have survived all the bloody battles against Caratacus and his armies over the last year, only to die here in this squalid little skirmish – it was too ignominious. And there was still so much he wanted to achieve. He cursed the fates, and then the commander of the garrison at Calleva. If only the bastard had led his men out to support the convoy at once, they might have stood a chance.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Not in here you don’t!’ Centurion Macro shouted. ‘Officers only.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ replied the orderly at the nearest end of the stretcher. ‘Chief surgeon’s orders.’

  Macro glowered for a moment and then eased himself back down on to his bed, careful to ensure that he kept the injured side of his head away from the bolster. It had been nearly two months since a druid had nearly scalped him with a sword blow, and while the wound itself had healed, it was still painful, and the blinding headaches were only just beginning to abate. The orderlies came into the small cell and carefully lowered the stretcher, grunting with the effort.

  ‘What’s his story?’

  ‘Cavalryman, sir,’ replied the orderly when he had straightened up. ‘Their patrol was ambushed this morning. The survivors started coming in a short while ago.’

  Macro had heard the garrison’s assembly call earlier. He sat up again. ‘Why weren’t we told?’

  The orderly shrugged. ‘Why should you be? You’re just patients here, sir. No reason for us to disturb you.’

  ‘Hey, Cato!’ Macro turned towards the other bed in the cell. ‘Cato!You hear that? The man thinks that sorry little centurions like ourselves don’t need to be told about latest developments. . . Cato?. . . CATO!’

  Macro swore softly, looked quickly around, reached for his vine staff, leaning against the wall by the bed, and then gave the still form in the other bed a firm poke with the end of the staff. ‘Come on, boy! Wake up!’

  There was a groan from under the blanket, then the rough woollen folds were eased back and Cato’s dark curls emerged from the warm fug beneath. Macro’s companion had only recently been promoted to the rank of centurion. Before then he had served as Macro’s optio. At eighteen Cato was one of the youngest centurions in the legions. He had won the attention of his superiors for his courage in battle and his resourceful handling of a sensitive rescue mission deep into enemy territory earlier that summer. That was when he and Macro had been severely wounded by their druid foes. The leader of the druids had hacked into Cato’s ribs with a heavy ceremonial sickle, laying open his side. Cato had nearly died from the wound, but now, many weeks later, he was recovering well, and regarded the dull red scar tissue that curved round his chest with a measure of pride, even though it hurt like hell when he put any strain on the muscles down that side of his body.

  Cato’s eyes flickered open, he blinked and then turned to look at Centurion Macro. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’ve got company.’ Macro jabbed his thumb at the man on the stretcher. ‘Seems that Caratacus’ lads are making themselves busy once again.’

  ‘They’ll be after a supply column,’ said Cato. ‘Must have bumped into the patrol.’

  ‘That’s the third attack this month, I think.’ Macro looked towards the orderly. ‘Ain’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The third time. Hospital’s getting filled up, and we’re being worked to the bone.’ The last few words were given heavy emphasis and both orderlies edged a step closer to the door. ‘Mind if we get back to our duties, sir?’

  ‘Not so fast. What’s the full story on the convoy?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I just deal with the casualties. I heard someone say that what was left of the escort was still on the road, a short way off, trying to save the last few wagons. Stupid, if you ask me. Should have left them to the Britons and saved their own skins. Now, sir, do you mind. . .?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Go on, bugger off’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The orderly made a small smile and, shoving his partner ahead of him, he left the cell and closed the door behind him.

  The instant the door was shut Macro swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his boots.

  ‘Where are you going, sir?’ Cato asked drowsily.

  ‘To the gate, to see what’s happening. Get up. You’re coming too.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘Of course you are. Don’t you want to see what’s going on? Or haven’t you had enough of being shut up in this bloody hospital for the best part of two months? Besides,’ Macro added, as he began to tie his straps, ‘you’ve been asleep most of the day Fresh air’ll do you good.’

  Cato frowned. The reason he slept most of the day was because his room-mate snored so loudly that sleep was almost impossible at night. In truth, he was heartily sick of the hospital and was looking forward to being returned to active duty. But it would be some time before that happened, Cato reflected bitterly. He had only just regained enough strength to get back on his feet. His companion, despite an appalling head wound, was blessed with a tougher constitution and, barring the occasional shattering headache, was almost fit enough for duty.

  As Macro looked down at his boot straps Cato gazed at the livid red scar stretching across the top of Macro’s head. The wound had left knotty lumps of skin and no hair grew around it. The surgeon had promised that some of the hair would return eventually, enough of it to hide most of the scars.

  ‘With my luck,’ Macro had added sourly, ‘that’ll be just in time fo
r me to start going bald.’

  Cato smiled at the memory. Then a fresh line of argument that might justify staying in bed occurred to him.

  ‘Are you sure you should go out, what with you fainting the last time we sat in the hospital yard. Do you really think it’s wise, sir?’

  Macro looked up irritably, fingers automatically tying his straps as they had almost every morning for the best part of sixteen years. He shook his head. ‘I keep telling you, it’s not necessary to call me “sir” all the time – only in front of the men, and in formal situations. From now on, it’s “Macro” to you. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cato responded immediately, winced and smacked his forehead. ‘Sorry. It’s all a bit hard to adjust to. I still haven’t got used to the idea of being a centurion. Must be the youngest one in the army.’

  ‘In the whole bloody Empire, I should think.’

  For a moment Macro regretted the remark, and recognised in himself a trace of bitterness. Much as he had been genuinely delighted when Cato had won his promotion, the older man had soon got over his enthusiasm and every so often let slip some remark about a centurion’s need for experience. Or he would offer a few words of advice about how a centurion should conduct himself. It was all a bit rich, Macro chided himself, given that he had been promoted to the centurionate barely a year and a half before Cato himself. Granted he had already served sixteen years with the Eagles, and was a well-respected veteran with a generally good conduct record, but he was almost as new to the rank as his young friend.

  As he watched Macro tie his boots Cato was uneasy about his promotion. He could not help believing it had come too soon for him, and felt shamed when he compared himself to Macro, a consummate soldier, if ever there was one. Cato already dreaded the moment when he would have recovered enough to be appointed to the command of his own century. It took very little imagination to anticipate how men far older and more experienced than he would respond to having an eighteen- year-old placed in command of them. Sure, they would see the medals on his harness and know that their centurion was a man of some valour, and that he had won the eye of Vespasian. They might note the scars he bore on his left arm, further proof of Cato’s courage in battle, but none of that changed the fact that he had only just reached manhood, and was younger than some of the sons of the men serving in his century. That would rankle, and Cato knew they would watch him closely, and be utterly unforgiving of any mistakes that he made. Not for the first time he wondered if there was any way he could quietly request being returned to his previous rank, and slip back into the comfortable role of being Macro’s optio.

  Macro finished fastening his boot straps, stood up and reached for his scarlet military cloak.

  ‘Come on, Cato!On your feet. Let’s go.’

  Outside the cell, the corridors of the hospital were filled with orderlies and casualties as the wounded continued to arrive. Surgeons pushed through the throng, making quick assessment of the injuries and directing the fatal cases to the small ward on the rear wall where they would be made as comfortable as possible before death claimed them. The rest were crammed in wherever space could be found. With Vespasian continuing his campaign against the hillforts of the Durotrigans, the hospital in Calleva was filled to capacity already, and the construction of a new block was not yet complete. The constant raids on the supply lines of General Plautius’ army were adding yet more patients to the overstretched facilities of the hospital and men were already being accommodated on rough mats along the sides of the main corridors. Fortunately, it was summer and they would not suffer too much discomfort at night.

  Macro and Cato made for the main entrance. Wearing only their standard-issue tunics and cloaks, they carried their vine staffs to indicate their rank, and other men respectfully gave way before them. Macro was also wearing his felt helmet liner, partly to conceal his wound – he was tired of the looks of disgust he was getting from the local children – but mostly because exposure to fresh air made his scar ache. Cato carried his vine staff in his right hand and raised his left elbow to protect his injured side from any knocks.

  The entrance of the hospital opened on to the main thoroughfare of the fortified depot that Vespasian had constructed to the side of Calleva. Several light carts stood outside the entrance, and the wounded were still being unloaded from the last one to arrive. The beds of the empty carts were a jumble of discarded equipment and dark smears of blood.

  ‘The other side are getting pretty ambitious,’ said Macro. ‘This isn’t the work of some small group of raiders. Looks like they’re hitting us with a large column. They’re getting bolder all the time. If this carries on, the legions are going to have a real problem keeping up the advance.’

  Cato nodded. The situation was serious. General Plautius had already been forced to leave a string of forts to protect the columns of slow- moving supply wagons. With the establishment of every new garrison, his strike force was shrinking and in its enfeebled condition must eventually prove an irresistible target for Caratacus.

  The two centurions walked quickly down the track towards the depot gate where the fort’s small garrison was hurriedly forming up. Men fiddled with straps and belts while Centurion Veranius, commander of the garrison, screamed abuse into the entrances of the barracks, swiping at the tardy few stumbling towards their comrades as they struggled with their equipment. Macro exchanged a knowing look with Cato. The garrison had been made up from the dregs of the Second Legion, the sort of men Vespasian could not afford to take with him on his lightning campaign into the heartlands of the Durotrigans. The soldiers’ poor quality was readily apparent to an experienced eye, and mortally offended Macro’s professionalism.

  ‘Fuck knows what the locals make of this mess. One word of this gets out of Calleva, and Caratacus will realise he can walk in here any time he wants to, and kick Verica out on his arse.’

  Verica, the aged king of the Atrebatans, had been allied to the Romans since the legions had landed in Britain a year earlier. Not that he had any choice in the matter. He had agreed to an alliance in return for being restored to power over the Atrebatans even before the legions had advanced on Caratacus’ capital at Camulodunum. Once the campaign had extended to the hostile tribes of the south-west Verica had eagerly offered Calleva to General Plautius as a base of operations. So the depot had been constructed. Besides winning the goodwill of Rome, Verica had provided himself with a readily accessible bolt hole should the Atrebatans succumb to the appeals from the tribes still resisting the invaders, to change sides and turn on the Roman invaders.

  The two centurions made their way down to the gateway leading through the rampart and into Calleva. Although Vespasian had left a mere two centuries of legionaries, under one officer, to defend the depot, the area enclosed by its ramparts was large enough to hold several cohorts. Beyond the parade ground was the hospital and headquarters buildings. To one side of them stood a few rows of timber barracks. Beyond that stretched the granaries and other stores, which the Second Legion needed to draw on as they marched west. The Britons’ leader, Caratacus, had laid waste to the land before the advance of Plautius’ legions, hence the Roman columns’ dependence on the long supply chain leading all the way to the vast supply base at Rutupiae, where the legions had first set foot in Britain.

  The contrast between the ordered interior of the depot and the disorganised jumble of huts, barns, cattle byres and narrow, muddy thoroughfares of Calleva struck Cato once again. The tribal capital was home to nearly six thousand people in normal times, but with the enemy raiding supply convoys and farms across the kingdom, the population of Calleva had swelled to nearly twice the size. Packed into the crude hovels inside Calleva’s walls, the people grew more hungry and desperate by the day.

  Despite its ideal location on top of a gently sloping hill, there had been no attempt to create an adequate drainage system, and the deeply rutted streets, if they could be dignified by such a word, were covered with dung. Foul-smelling puddles formed wherev
er the ground was so saturated that nothing drained away, and Cato felt a wave of disgust at the sight of two children making ‘mud’ pies at the side of a waterlogged wagon rut.

  By the time the two centurions reached Calleva’s main gateway a mixed crowd of natives and Romans was packed on to the turf ramparts to watch the desperate drama on the slope below. Aside from the men from the garrison, the Empire was represented by the first wave of merchants, slave traders and land agents out to make a quick killing before the new province became settled enough for the natives to get wise to their profiteering ways.

  Now they jostled with the natives for the best view as the remnants of the supply column struggled towards the safety of Calleva. Cato caught the eye of the optio in command of the legionaries manning the gatehouse, and raised his vine cane to indicate his rank. The optio immediately ordered a handful of his men to clear a path for the two centurions and they went about the task with the usual insensitivity of soldiers. Shield bosses slammed into native bodies without regard for their age or sex, and howls of anger quickly swelled above any cries of surprise and pain.

  ‘Easy there!’ Cato shouted above the din, cracking his vine cane down on the nearest legionary’s shield. ‘Go easy, I said! These people are the allies of Rome! They’re not bloody animals. Understand?’

  The legionary snapped to attention in front of his superior, and glared at a fixed point over Cato’s shoulder. ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘If I catch you, or any others laying into the locals again, I’ll have you on latrine cleaning duties for the rest of the year.’ Cato leaned closer to the legionary, and continued softly, ‘Then you’ll really be in the shit, won’t you?’

  The man tried not to smile and Cato nodded. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the legionary led the way through the crowd the protests of the natives died away, now that the soldiers’ heavy-handedness had been seen to be punished.