The Eagle and the Wolves

'What the hell are you doing? On your feet!' Vespasian shouted at them as he rode up to the wagons. 'Centurion, get your men formed up! I want these wagons drawn up in the centre. Make sure that the king is well protected. I'm holding you responsible for his safety.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato drew himself up and licked his lips, dry – like his throat – from all his exertions. Then, using a combination of orders and harsh curses he ordered his men to manoeuvre the wagons into a dense mass, before the chocks were pounded tightly against the wheels. The sharp smell of the oxen was made worse by the baking heat, but only when the work was finished did the centurion allow his men a small measure from their waterskins. Around them curved the lines of the cohorts, drawn up in a tight circle about the crest of the hill. Down in the vale the Britons had not moved and sat watching the Romans, as still and silent as before. Away along the track towards Calleva, a dark column of infantry was marching towards the hill, throwing up a thin haze of dust that obscured the full extent of their numbers. Still further in the distance was a smudge on the horizon that might be a thin band of cloud, or another force of men on the move.

Vespasian passed the order for the men to rest and eat their rations. The coming fight might well be their last, but men fought best on full stomachs and the legate was determined to wring every advantage that was available to him out of the situation. They had the high ground, clear lines of visibility and the best training and equipment of any army in the known world. In all this, Vespasian was content. But three and half thousand men, no matter what their quality, would not prevail against many times that number, and every moment that passed revealed more and more of the enemy's strength as their column crept over a distant ridge and headed relentlessly towards the tight ring of legionaries defending the top of the hillock. There seemed to be no end to the enemy forces spilling across the landscape, and the Romans viewed it all with quiet resignation as they chewed on strips of salted pork drawn from their haversacks.

Macro came over to see Cato, and pulled himself up on to the driver's bench beside his friend.

Macro nodded towards Verica's wagon. 'How's the king doing?'

'Well enough. I looked in on him a while back. He's sitting up and complaining about being bumped about.'

'Think he'll recover?'

'Does it matter?' Cato nodded towards the approaching enemy column.

'No,' Macro conceded. 'Not now.'

'After all that fighting back in Calleva, we end up here,' Cato grumbled.

'That's the army for you,' replied Macro, straining his tired eyes as he stared in the same direction as Cato. 'Any idea who that second lot are yet?'

'No. Too far. Moving quickly, though. Few more hours and they'll be up with us.'

'Knowing our luck, they'll just be more of those bastards.' Macro pointed towards the enemy column approaching the hill. 'Don't know where they all come from. Thought we'd destroyed their army last summer. Caratacus must have found himself some new allies.'

'With people like Tribune Quintillus handling the diplomatic side of things, it's a wonder the entire island isn't against us.'

'Right.' Both centurions turned their heads to look down the slope a short distance to where Vespasian and his senior officers were conferring. The tribune was talking in an animated fashion and pointed back in the direction of Calleva.

'I expect he's trying to persuade the legate to make a break for it.'

Cato shook his head. 'Isn't going to happen. Premature suicide isn't the legate's style. The tribune's wasting his breath.'

'He's proved to be a real asset for our cause all right,' said Macro. 'Things dropped in the shit the moment he arrived.'

'Yes… yes, they did.'

'It's almost as if the twat was trying to make a mess of the situation in Calleva.'

'Well, why not?' Cato replied quietly. 'There was a lot at stake for him. If Verica managed to keep on top of events the tribune would just have had to go back to the general and make a report. I imagine he's been stirring things up as much as he can behind the scenes. Anything to upset the situation, and give him an excuse to use his procurator's powers. Not that he was very successful there. I think he must have assumed that Celtic aristocrats played to the same bent rules as Roman aristocrats. Didn't account for their sense of honour.'

'Honour?' Macro raised his eyebrows. 'Tincommius didn't seem to know much about honour.'

'Oh, he did, in his own way. The man wanted his tribe to remain free, almost as much as he wanted to rule it. And he must have been an eager enough student of Roman political techniques while he was in exile.'

'You've got to hand it to us,' Macro smiled, 'there's not much we can't teach these barbarians.'

'True. Very true… As it is, the Atrebatans are finished. Plautius will have to annex their kingdom and turn it into a military province.'

Macro looked at him. 'You think so?'

'What else can he do? Assuming the general can recover from this balls-up. The loss of a legion is going to stall the campaign for quite a while. And it won't play well in Rome.'

'No…'

'But look on the bright side,' Cato smiled bleakly, 'at least Quintillus is going to have to live, or die, with the consequences of his actions.' He waved his hand towards the enemy.

'I suppose.'

As they watched, the column started to split in two as Caratacus' forces moved to surround the hillock. The chariots and cavalry in the vale advanced to complete the encirclement and with a last glance towards the distant haze above the still unidentified column closing in from north-west of Calleva, Macro jumped down from the wagon.

'I'll see you afterwards,' he nodded to Cato.

'Yes, sir. Until then.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Forty

As Macro strode off to his century the headquarters trumpeters blasted out the signal to stand to. All across the crest of the hillock men rose wearily to their feet and shuffled into the tight defensive formation that Vespasian hoped would hold off the Britons' assault when it came. The legionaries closed ranks and grounded their javelins and shields in an unbroken ring four ranks deep. Centurions paced along their men, bawling out insults and threats to any man who had committed even the smallest infraction of the rules. An untied helmet or bootstrap, poorly slung sword or dagger – all provided the centurions with an excuse to charge in and give the miscreant the fright of his life. Which was very much to the point. With an enemy massing for the attack, any diversion from thoughts of the coming battle would help steady the legionaries.

Shortly after noon the enemy made their move. Dense blocks of native warriors surrounded the hill, and worked themselves up into a frenzy of excitement around their gaudy serpent banners as they waited for the order to attack the hated Romans. The deafening war cries and braying of long war horns carried up the slope and assaulted the ears of the legionaries waiting silently on the crest. Then, without a discernible word of command, the Britons rippled forward, walking fast, then breaking into a slow trot as they reached the foot of the slope. Vespasian gauged the distance between his men and the enemy carefully, to judge the best moment to issue his first order. As the gradient increased the Britons slowed down, bunching together as they struggled up the hill to close with the legionaries. When they were no more than a hundred paces away, and some of the men began to look round anxiously at their legate, Vespasian cupped a hand to his mouth and filled his lungs with air.