The Eagle and the Wolves

'Shit!' Vespasian hissed through clenched teeth. These bloody infantry swords were no good on horseback, and he cursed himself for not carrying a long cavalry sword as his scouts did.

Then another enemy warrior was in front of him. He just had time to register the thin, frail physique and white spiked hair before he slashed his blade into the man's neck with a wet crunching sound. The man grunted and tumbled forward, and was gone as Vespasian galloped on towards the convoy. He snatched a glimpse at his scouts, and saw that most had reined in and were busy thrusting their spears at any Briton they could find cringing on the ground. It was the perfect moment for any cavalryman: the killing frenzy that followed the breaking of the enemy line. But they were heedless of the danger of the chariots that were even now trundling across the slope towards the small party of Roman horsemen.

'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 off the wagons 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.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

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 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.