The Eagle and the Wolves

'Yes, sir.' Cato saluted.

Macro had already run off to issue his orders and the first two centuries of the Boars doubled away from the main body, moving obliquely in the direction of the near side of the hill that Quintillus had indicated. The tribune galloped to the nearest slope and headed up towards the crest. By the time that Cato had prepared his men the tribune had ground-tethered his pony and was creeping forwards, bent double and moving carefully through the long grass.

'At least he's doing that properly,' muttered Cato.

'You don't like him much, do you?' asked Tincommius.

'No. Not much. There's little his kind won't do to grab whatever glory is going.'

'And I thought the Celts were bad enough.'

Cato turned towards his Atrebatan companion. 'Tincommius, you don't know the half of it. Anyway, you heard the tribune – keep out of it today. No heroics. That's my order.'

'Don't worry,' Tincommius smiled. 'I know my duty.'

'Good.'

The century commanders were taking no chances, and passed down the lines of their men to give orders in unaccustomed low voices. The Wolves formed a line two deep to the left of the track, and Macro's remaining centuries formed up to the right. Ahead of them Cato could see that there was a steep slope beyond the hill that concealed the ravaged supply convoy and its attackers. With luck the enemy would be neatly caught, with no way out of the small vale, except by hacking a path through the Atrebatan lines. It looked like Quintillus would have his slice of glory after all.

As soon as the two cohorts were in position, Macro drew his sword and swept it forward. The Wolves and the Boars advanced through the long grass, still wet with the morning dew. The men rested the iron heads of the javelins on their shoulders as they rustled forward and began to sweep round the edge of the hill. Macro stayed in position on the extreme right of the line, its most vulnerable point, with the first century of his cohort – handpicked men who could be trusted to fight hard and not yield.

Cato trotted to the left-hand flank, anxious to get the first possible sighting of the ground ahead of them in the vale. Far off, to the right, the two centuries dispatched to close the trap on the raiders were disappearing round the edge of the hill. With a little luck they would be able to get in position quickly enough to compel the enemy to surrender the moment they realised there was no way out for them. If the Atrebatans spared them, the best they could expect was a lifetime of slavery. From his recent experience of fighting the Durotrigans, Cato doubted whether they would surrender. The Durotrigans were being driven to resist the legions by druid fanatics, who promised their warriors that the very finest rewards the afterlife had to offer were reserved for the men who died fighting Rome.

As the line began to swing round the base of the hill Cato caught sight of the supply column. The charred remains of eight wagons came into view, flames still licking up from some of them. Bodies in red tunics were sprawled on the ground around the wagons. Close by were the raiders, a small party of men herding the supply column's draught animals together. One man leaned against the serpent banner of the Durotrigans, while a handful of others picked over the bodies lying on the ground. As yet none of them appeared to have spotted the Wolf Cohort marching steadily towards them, and for the first time Cato thought that the tribune's hasty plan might come off. Still, the raiders must be a dozy lot not to have detected the approaching danger. Cato found it hard to believe that they had not posted a lookout, at least.

The two cohorts had almost blocked the end of the vale before the alarm was raised. Cato saw the serpent standard bearer suddenly stand upright, then turn and shout a warning to his companions. Instantly the raiders sprang to their weapons and turned to face the Wolves and the Boars.

'Won't be much of a fight,' Figulus muttered beside Cato. 'We must outnumber them five or six to one. No contest.'

'No.'

But still the Durotrigans prepared themselves to meet the enemy. Clustering together in a shallow crescent, they raised their shields and shook their spears. A movement, away to the right, drew Cato's attention, and he saw Quintillus galloping his horse down the slope. He tore round the back of the advancing cohorts and took up a position just behind the centre of the line, drew his sword and shouted encouragement to the native troops.

'Wasting his bloody breath,' said Figulus. 'They don't understand much Latin.'

'No, but it might make him feel good.'

The distance between the two forces closed quickly, then the Durotrigans began to give ground, moving back past the burned wagons towards the far end of the vale, where the gap between the steep sides of both hills was narrow and offered better defence than the open floor where the Atrebatans would easily overrun them through sheer weight of numbers.

'That's not going to do them much good, not when Macro's lads come up on them.'

'Figulus?'

'Sir?'

'Just shut up for the moment. I don't need the running commentary.'

'Yes, sir.'

The two cohorts continued to pursue the enemy up the vale and began to pass by the burned-out supply column. Cato spared the charred wagons a quick look, and frowned. There was something about them that did not look right. The axles were far too thin and the light wheels and wicker-frame sides bore little resemblance to the heavy transport carts of the legions. As he stepped over one of the bodies Cato was aware of a faint putrid smell and he saw the blotchy skin on the corpse. The man must have died some days ago. The next body he came across was the same. All at once a dreadful doubt chilled his blood and he glanced anxiously at the trees that sprawled down the slopes of the hills on either side. Cato looked towards the tribune, but Quintillus had his gaze fixed on the small band of raiders directly ahead and was still shouting his encouragement. Cato drew a deep breath and threw up his arm.

'Cohort! Halt!'

The Wolves stumbled to a halt, some warriors not quite understanding the order, or not willing to obey it immediately. The result was a straggling line spread across the floor of the vale. After a moment's hesitation Macro echoed the order to halt and started running across towards Cato.

'Dress your lines!' Cato bellowed out to his men and the century commanders immediately started to shove and kick their men into order. A pounding of hoofbeats announced the arrival of the tribune.

'What the bloody hell are you doing, Centurion? Get your men forward!'

'Sir, there's something wrong about this.'

'Get your men forward! That's an order! You want that lot to escape?'

'Sir, the wagons. Look at them.'

'Wagons?' Quintillus glared at him. 'What about the bloody wagons?' He thrust the point of his sword towards Cato. 'Get forward, I say!'

'Those aren't wagons,' Cato insisted. 'Look at them. They're chariots.'

'Chariots? What bloody nonsense is this?'

'Chariots tied back to back, to look like wagons,' Cato explained quickly, and stepped over to one of the bodies. 'And these men, dead long before the chariots were set alight.'

Macro came running up, breathless and angry. 'What's going on? Why'd you call a halt?'

Before Cato could reply, there came the distant roar of a war cry. The raiders at the end of the vale had seen their pursuers stop. Now they turned and were charging back towards the Atrebatans, screaming like madmen.

'I don't believe it,' Quintillus said softly. 'They're attacking us.'

Cato tore his gaze away from the enemy bearing down on them, and swept his eyes over the hillsides.

'There! There's your reason,' he said bitterly, thrusting an arm towards the trees on the hill to their left. Durotrigan warriors were pouring out from the shadows beyond the trees and forming up in a dense mass barely two hundred paces from where they were standing. Cato turned to the other hill. 'And there!'