The Eagle and the Wolves

Beneath the walkway the gates groaned as they were swung inwards. The first men appeared in the muddy street below and Cato leaned over the parapet to shout his orders down to Figulus.

'Form the cohort up on the road inside the gate!'

As the Roman instructors bustled the men into position and began to form the cohort into a marching column Cato looked over the wall towards the distant spires of smoke rising into the sky, perhaps four or five miles away. The air was quite still this morning and it was possible to distinguish several separate sources of the smoke: the individual supply wagons fired by the attackers, Cato reasoned. As the last men hurried into line the native he had sent to fetch his equipment arrived on the walkway, panting from his exertions. Cato frowned when he saw that the man had not brought him a fresh tunic, but there was no helping that now, and he pulled the shoulder padding over his head and reached for the heavy mass of his chain mail.

'Will there be a fight, Centurion?' the man asked as he fastened the buckle of Cato's sword belt.

'Depends if we catch them in time,' Cato replied in Celtic. 'Let's hope so.'

Cato noticed the warrior smile after his last remark, and realised that the man was spoiling for a fight. Cato shared the desire to lay into the enemy. Then, after a moment's reflection, it occurred to him that his reasons were more selfish and had everything to do with proving a point to the smug tribune whose remarks had cut him to the soul.

As soon as the last buckle of his harness had been fastened Cato snatched up his felt helmet liner, jammed it down over the top of his head and pulled on his centurion's helmet, hurriedly tying the leather thongs at the end of each cheek guard.

'Right! Down you go,' he ordered the warrior. 'Back to your century.'

Cato spared a quick look towards the depot and was gratified by the sight of the Boars, in column, marching towards the gate, Macro at their head. Then the young centurion clambered down the ladders to the foot of the gate and trotted to the front of the Wolf cohort.

'Figulus! Figulus! To me!'

The young Gaul came running down the column towards him, face flushed with excitement.

'Get 'em moving,' ordered Cato, staring towards the distant columns of smoke, already dissipating now that the fury of the blaze had passed its peak. 'I want them outside and ready to march. I'll catch you up as soon as I've spoken with Centurion Macro and the tribune.'

'Yes, sir!' Figulus saluted and ran towards the front of the small column. He called the men to attention, and gave the order to advance. The natives were well accustomed to the standard commands and at his word, broke into a rhythmic tramp, through the gate and down the track towards the distant columns of smoke. Cato watched them march by for a moment, then, once the rear rank of the last century had passed him, he made his way back to the open gate. There was a pounding of hoofs and then Quintillus and Tincommius galloped down the street leading from the royal enclosure. They were armed and ready to fight, and slewed their ponies to a halt as they caught sight of Cato.

'What's happening?' barked Quintillus. 'Report!'

'Smoke, sir!' Cato replied, indicating the direction. 'Looks like they've attacked another supply column.'

The tribune glanced down the track towards the Wolf Cohort. 'Where's Macro?'

'He's bringing up the other cohort from the depot, sir.'

'Good!' Quintillus rubbed his hands together. 'We might catch 'em loaded down. Let's get moving!'

'Sir, don't you think we might want to send scouts out first?'

'We're wasting time!' Tincommius said excitedly. 'We must attack at once.'

Quintillus nodded. 'It's clear enough what's happening, Centurion. And there's no time to waste.'

'But what about Calleva? We can't leave it unguarded, sir. Not under the present circumstances.'

'The men in the depot can handle the gate. Send for them. Now, we must move!'

Waving aside Cato's protests the tribune kicked his heels in and urged his pony out of the gate and down the track, closely followed by Tincommius. Cato ordered the nearest sentry to run to the depot and have every able-bodied man sent to guard the town's main gate, then he set off in pursuit of the tribune, running down the length of the column until he reached the wolf's head standard at the front of his cohort. Beyond, far down the track, galloped Quintillus and Tincommius, riding straight for the distant smoke. Cato fell into step with his men, and glanced sideways at the new standard bearer. Although a youngster, like himself, Cato reflected ruefully, the man was huge – none of the wiry strength of Bedriacus, just a mass of muscle.

'You're Mandrax, aren't you?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well, Mandrax, keep the standard high and keep it safe, and you'll do fine.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato looked round and saw, beyond the last century of the Wolves, the head of Macro's cohort emerging from the gateway. The Boars were stepping out at a fast pace to join their comrades and only slowed down when they caught up with Cato's men. Macro jogged forward to join Cato.

'Where's the tribune?'

'Gone ahead with Tincommius to see what's happening.'

'Hope the twat's careful,' Macro grumbled. 'Last thing we want is to give ourselves away.'

'Or lose another of Verica's heirs.'

'Quite.'

'Do you think this is wise, Macro?'

'What?'

'Taking both cohorts out of Calleva.'

'We did it before. Anyway, those were Vespasian's orders: to have a go at the enemy whenever possible and keep them away from our lines of communication.'

'Bit late for that now.' Cato nodded towards the columns of smoke.

'Granted. But if we get the buggers who did that then there'll be a few less of the enemy in the world. They won't be tucking into our supplies any more. That's a positive outcome in my book.'

Cato shrugged and decided to keep his concerns to himself.

The Wolves and the Boars continued down the track, heading towards the thinning smoke. They had covered just over three miles, according to Cato's estimate, when the tribune and Tincommius returned. Macro halted the column and moments later the two riders reined in their mounts and slid to the ground, breathless and excited.

'Round the next hill,' Quintillus panted. 'Small supply column. All dead, all the wagons burned. The raiders are still there, picking over the bodies. We've got them! Macro, send the scouts and two of your centuries round the back of the hill to cut them off. The rest will form a line at the base of the hill. Then we'll advance and catch them in a trap. Understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now, Tincommius, rejoin your cohort, and try to stay out of trouble.'

'Of course, Tribune.' Tincommius grinned.

'I mean it. I went to a great deal of effort making sure you succeed Verica. Get yourself killed and you'll have me to answer to.'

Tincommius chuckled nervously. The tribune turned towards Cato and muttered. 'Keep an eye on him. He's to stay out of harm's way. I'll hold you personally responsible for his safety, Centurion.'

'I understand, sir.'

'Good.'

'Sir?' said Cato, as the tribune turned back towards his pony.

'What is it?'

'The enemy, sir. How many of them are there?'

Quintillus quickly estimated. 'Two hundred, two hundred and fifty. That's all. Why? Is that too many for you?'

'No, sir,' Cato replied tonelessly. 'I'm just surprised that they haven't made off yet. Particularly since there are so few of them. They must know we'd send a force out to investigate. Why take the risk?'

'Who knows, Centurion? Who cares? All that matters is that they're there and we've got the chance to put them in the bag. Now, you have your instructions. See to them.'