'Wolves!' Cato called out, swerving to one side. 'To me!'
His men formed up on their centurion, and the legionaries ran past, panting for breath as their heavy armour jingled rhythmically. Immediately behind the Romans came the first of the Durotrigans from the gate, thirsting for a chance to get at the men who had caused them such grievous losses from the shelter of the palisade above the street. The rearmost of Macro's men had turned to face the threat and paced backwards as fast as they could, with no chance to check their footing as they warded off the enemies' blows with their large shields. As soon as his men were in line Cato looked round and saw that most of the legionaries had passed through the entrance to the redoubt. Only the small knot of the rearguard were left, fighting their way step by step towards safety.
Cato cleared his throat. 'Hold your ground! Wait until the last legionary has passed by.'
As soon as the rearguard came alongside him, Cato bellowed the order to fall back and the compact group of Romans and Atrebatans inched towards the entrance to the redoubt, all the while thrusting shields and swords into the faces of their enemies. The Durotrigans could scent victory now, and were desperate to obliterate the last of the defenders. So they closed on Cato and his men with a savage ferocity that knew no bounds, slashing, thrusting, kicking and even head-butting the shields of the defenders in their desperation to destroy. The last of the legionaries disappeared inside the redoubt and now Cato's men were falling back through the gap, until there was only Cato, Mandrax and a handful of others.
'Get the standard inside!'
Mandrax made a wild slash at the man facing him, who shrank back from the feint, and then the standard was gone, leaving Cato and one other man, facing the endless ranks of woad-painted faces beneath limed hair. Behind them, Macro appeared at the breastwork.
'Cato! Run, lad!'
As the young centurion thrust his shield forward he yelled at the man beside him to fall back. The native warrior, crazed by battle beyond all reason, did not heed the order and slashed at the nearest enemy, shattering the top of his foe's skull. The warrior's cry of triumph barely rasped from his throat before a spearthrust caught him in the mouth and passed right through his head, emerging in a bloody tangle of blood, bone and hair at the back of his head, and knocking his helmet off. Cato ducked behind the body as it slumped down, and ran through the gap.
'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.'