'I want one man every thirty paces. When the main gate falls, everyone makes for the depot. Macro wants us all there. That's where we'll make a stand.'
'Our last stand?' asked one of the warriors, an older man. Cato noticed the wedding torc on the man's wrist and guessed that he must have family.
'I hope not. The tribune has gone for help. We may have to hold out a few days before a relief force arrives.' Cato nodded. 'We can do it.'
The man gave him an uncertain smile, then looked down and gently stroked his torc. Cato stared at him a moment, moved by the gesture.
'I don't recognise you. You must have been with the Boars. What's your name?'
'Veragus, sir.'
'You don't want to fight with us, Veragus?'
The man looked round at his comrades, searching their expressions for any sign of contempt, then he slowly nodded. Cato gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Although he needed every man who could hold a weapon to the enemy, he also needed to be sure that any man who fought at his side would stay there, and not run.
'All right then, go and join your family. There's no place here for any man whose heart is not in this. We may well be dead before the day is over, and I don't want any more blood on my hands than is necessary. Mandrax!'
'Sir?'
'Pass the message on. Volunteers only back at the depot. Any more like Veragus can drop their weapons and equipment and get back to their families. Tell them they have my permission and wish them luck. They'll need it soon enough if Tincommius seizes the throne.'
Mandrax trotted off along the rampart to pass Cato's orders on. There was an awkward silence as the remaining men and their centurion faced Veragus. The Briton fought back tears of shame and thrust his hand out towards Cato. The centurion took the man's hand and grasped it firmly.
'It's all right,' Cato said softly. 'I understand. Now go. Take what time is left to you.'
Veragus nodded, released his grip and laid his spear and shield down on the rampart. He fumbled with the strap of his auxiliary helmet and then placed that with the rest of the equipment he had been issued only weeks before. He stared at the gear briefly, nodded to Cato and then scrambled down the inside of the rampart and ran off into the maze of thatched huts. Cato looked round the remaining men.
'Anyone else?'
No one moved.
'Fine. Then pass the word to the rest of the cohort. Mandrax, you're with me.'
As the centurion watched his men spread out along the rampart he could hear Macro bellowing orders from the main gate. Cato glanced back and saw the legionaries hurling more javelins down on the enemy force renewing their assault on the entrance to Calleva. But this time there was the distinct thud of the battering ram striking home as the enemy tried to smash their way in, under the shelter of their wicker screens.
04 The Eagle and the Wolves
Chapter Thirty-Two
The palisade above the gate was suddenly deluged with slingshot and arrows; the slingshot striking the timbers with sharp smacks, punctuating the splintering thuds of arrow strikes. Above this din came the cries and screams as some of the missiles found their targets amongst Macro's small command. As he looked round there were already six men sprawled on the walkway. Still their comrades hurled javelins down on to the wicker screens below, desperately trying to pierce them and reach the enemy sheltering beneath, or at least make them unwieldy under the weight of the javelins embedded in the tight weave of willow. They were having little effect, Macro decided as yet another man fell back from the palisade, clutching at an arrow shaft that had pierced his throwing arm.
'Take cover!' Macro shouted. 'Get down!'
The legionaries heeded the order at once, crouching behind the palisade. Silva and his clerks scurried up the rampart and bent double as they carried away the injured. The fusillade of enemy missiles quickly subsided as the Durotrigans saw that there were no targets for them. But when Macro rose to take a quick look at the enemy, he drew an immediate response and ducked down as half a dozen arrows whirred over the palisade and arced down amongst the thatched roofs beyond. There was nothing for it but to keep down. He had seen a number of ladders in the enemy ranks, so some men would be needed on the palisade. The rest would have to defend the entrance the moment the gates gave way. Every so often the gateway shook with the impact of the ram, and the dust and earth shimmied amongst the timbers as small pieces of grit, shaken loose, pattered down under the walkway.
'First two sections, stay here! Rest of you, follow me!'
Macro, bent over, scurried to the ramp and, followed by the remainder of his force, made his way down to the open area behind the gate. As he reached the street another blow landed on the gates, and a small fissure opened between two timbers, letting a shaft of light filter through into the dust falling from the walkway.
'Silva!' Macro bellowed.
'Sir?'
'You and your men, off the wagon now!'
'But, sir, the wounded…' Silva gestured to the men lying on the wagon bed.
'Take 'em out. Carry them to the depot. Move it!
As soon as the injured had been unloaded Macro ordered his men to down shields and put their shoulders to the thick wooden wheels. Macro, with two other men grabbed the yoke and pulled it round towards the gate.
'Right then, heave! Heave, you bastards!'
The men strained at the dead weight of the big supply wagon, gasping for air through gritted teeth. Then, with a drawn-out groan from the axle, the wagon rumbled forward.
'Keep her moving!' Macro grunted as he pulled on the yoke, thrusting his feet down and dragging the smooth-worn yoke towards the gateway. 'Come on!'
Another blow landed on the gate, and the fissure widened into a gap through which the nearest of the enemy could be glimpsed, swinging the ram back ready for the next run at the gate. At the last moment Macro nodded to the other men on the yoke and they pulled it sharply to the side, knocking over a small brazier still smoldering from the night before. The wagon slewed round and rumbled across the entrance to the gate, blocking the way into Calleva.
'Clear the wagon. Get everything out, except the javelins. Then stuff the gap underneath with thatch. Move yourselves!'
The legionaries desperately prepared the makeshift defences, while the ram continued to batter away at the gates, the timbers splintering with every blow. As Macro watched, the very next strike shattered the locking bar, which sprang out of one of its holding brackets, and the end thudded down on the ground between the gates and the wagon.
'This is it!' Macro grabbed his shield and drew his sword, turning to his men. 'This section with me in the wagon. Figulus, your section behind the wagon. Anyone tries to squeeze under, or past the ends – kill 'em.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Rest of you – and you lot on the rampart! Get back to the depot and prepare for us. We'll hold here for a short while and then make a run for it. Go!'
As most of the legionaries ran in a loose pack up the street in the direction of the depot Macro and his rearguard readied themselves for the one-sided fight. The centurion hauled himself up into the wagon and snatched up a javelin. The surviving five men of the section took position either side of him, shields raised and javelins held ready to thrust into the faces of the enemy once they forced their way inside. The ram struck again and, with no locking bar to hold the gates in place, they burst open with a protesting groan, dragging the end of the bar across the packed earth in a short arc. At once the Durotrigans let out a roar of triumph. Dropping the ram, they unslung their shields, snatched up their weapons and thrust their way inside. The broken timbers lay at odd angles with splintered ends, which the first men through were forced on to by the press behind them. Two men howled in agony as they failed to struggle clear of the jagged ends and were impaled, then crushed down by their comrades, thirsting to get at the Romans.