The Eagle and the Wolves

'Close it up!' Macro shouted, and the men waiting behind the wagon heaved it forward. The axles groaned as the solid wheels rumbled towards the sturdy stone wall of the great hall. One of the Durotrigans made it into the gap and faltered as he sensed the wagon. He turned and was caught and crushed on the tailboard as the wagon crashed up against the masonry and the gap was sealed. As soon as the vehicle was stationary, wicker baskets packed with earth were heaved under the axles to stop the enemy trying to move the wagon or sneak underneath it.

Although most of the legionaries and the native warriors had gained the shelter of the redoubt the fight was far from over. The Durotrigans swarmed up to the breastworks, thrusting their spears and the points of their swords at the men above them. Macro had handpicked the defenders and, protected by the crude fortifications and their large shields, the legionaries kept the enemy at bay. Some of the Durotrigans tried to clamber up the sides of the wagons, but were quickly dealt with and, dead or dying, tumbled back down on to their comrades.

Inside the redoubt Macro cast a glance round the men defending the half-circle protecting the entrance to the great hall and nodded his satisfaction. For the moment, at least, they could hold off the enemy and he could spare time to see to the men and consider the situation. Around him squatted the rest of his legionaries and Cato's men, exhausted and mostly injured; some with superficial cuts and a few with more serious injuries that would need attention. One of the men was beyond saving; he had been gutted by a spear and he sat, pale and sweating, with his hands clamped over the wound to keep his intestines from spilling out.

Macro went over to Cato, who was leaning against the back of the wagon as he caught his breath.

'That was close,' Macro said quietly.

Cato looked up and nodded.

'You're wounded.' Macro pointed to the young centurion's leg. Cato shifted it forwards and saw that his calf had been slashed below the knee. He had only been aware of a dull blow as he had turned and run through the gap. Now that he saw the blood flowing down the back of his leg and over his boot the wound began to burn.

'Get it bound up,' ordered Macro. 'Surgeon's just inside the hall. Once he's seen to you get him out here to deal with the others.'

'Yes.' Cato looked round the redoubt, watching the backs of the men who were keeping the Durotrigans out.

Macro smiled. 'It's all right, lad. I can spare you for a moment. Now go.'

Cato drew himself up and walked stiffly to the entrance of the great hall. He paused on the threshold to take a last look round the redoubt and Macro caught his eye and jabbed his finger at the hall. Cato went inside.

The contrast between the afternoon sunshine outside and the dim interior of the hall was stark, and at first Cato could make very little out; just shadows flitting across the rush-covered floor. Then, as his eyes grew used to the gloom, Cato saw that the floor was covered with injured men, being tended by the surgeon and Verica's household slaves. But they could do little more than bind wounds and make the dying as comfortable as possible. The surgeon looked up, and as soon as he saw Cato, he rose to his feet and hurried over.

'You hurt, sir?'

'My leg. Tie it up.'

The surgeon kneeled down and gently examined the wound. 'Nasty. Looks clean enough, though. Quite a lot of blood here. Do you feel faint?'

Looking round at some of the terrible injuries surrounding him Cato felt guilty and ashamed about the attention he was being given.

'Sir?' The surgeon was looking up at him. He had taken a roll of linen from his haversack and was winding it around Cato's calf.

'What?'

'How do you feel?'

'I'll be fine.' Cato smiled to himself. It hardly mattered what he felt like. He was as good as dead anyway. They all were, and yet here was the surgeon carrying on as if there were truly some chance that his patients would have the possibility of a full recovery. Cato felt an urge to laugh and had to fight the hysteria down. The surgeon had said something and seemed to be waiting for an answer. Cato shrugged and changed the subject.

'Where's the king?'

'In his quarters. I sent him there to rest.'

'How is he?'

'He's doing well enough, sir. But he could do without all the excitement.'

This time Cato could not help sniggering and the surgeon looked at him with a concerned expression. 'I think you'd better sit down, sir.'

'No. I need to see Cadminius.'

'Over there, sir.' The surgeon pointed to the far end of the hall where the captain of the king's bodyguard and several of his men were standing guard on the entrance to the training compound. The stout wooden door had been tightly wedged shut and timbers had been nailed across it. A steady series of thuds sounded from the far side. Cato stepped round the surgeon and picked his way over the wounded towards Cadminius.

'How are we doing?' Cato called out in Celtic, trying to sound calmer and more confident than he felt inside.

Cadminius turned his face sharply. 'They won't get in for a while. It'd take a battering ram to get through that door.'

'Doubtless they're sorting something out even as we speak.'

'Doubtless… Might just chuck them Tincommius' head to use meantime.'

'Tincommius? Where is he?'

'Safe enough,' Cadminius smiled. 'We've trussed him up nicely, hand and foot. He won't be doing any more harm. I've given orders for him to be killed the instant one of those Durotrigan bastards sets foot in the hall.'

'Good.'

'What's the situation out front?'

'We're holding them back, for now.'

'And later?'

Cato laughed and wagged his finger before he turned back towards the entrance of the hall. 'I'll see you later, Cadminius.'

Outside, the sunlight made Cato squint. The enemy were still shouting and chanting their war cries, but had drawn back from the redoubt, and the legionaries were looking warily over the breastwork. Someone had found a cache of hunting spears and almost all of the legionaries had one to hand.

'Cato! Over here!' Macro shouted from a wagon at the front of the redoubt. Cato picked his way over the men resting on the ground and hauled himself up beside Macro. From the slight elevation the view across the enclosure revealed a dense mass of Durotrigans no more than a javelin's throw away. Directly in front of the redoubt lay the piles of their dead and wounded from their first assault. Here and there a man moved feebly, some screaming in agony from terrible wounds, others moaning softly.

'How many did we lose?' Cato asked quietly.

'A few. But they took the worst of it and rather lost their appetite for the fight.'

Cato gazed wearily at the Durotrigans. Some of the warriors in the front rank were rushing forward, screaming defiance into the faces lining the breastwork and then running back. 'Looks like they're working another one up.'

'We'll be ready for them. How's the leg?'

'I'll live.'

'Oh, good. Better get ready. Looks like they're about to charge. I want you in the next-but-one wagon. Keep our lads on their toes. That's the last of the legionaries. Have your Wolves ready to fill any gaps.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato dropped down into the enclosure, recovered his shield and called his men into formation. A quick head count gave him a strength of thirty-four. That was all. Thirty-four men from the original two cohorts he and Macro had trained and led into battle. The survivors stared straight ahead, red-eyed, filthy and many stained with their own blood and that of their enemies. They looked like beggars, reminding Cato of the human flotsam he had seen as a boy, drifting around the mean backstreets of Rome. As a boy? That was just over two years ago, he reminded himself. The two years he had served with the Eagles seemed like more of a life than all the years before.