Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (51 page)

‘Wolves!’ Cato screamed out as he charged home. ‘On me! On me!’

The four remaining enemies turned towards Cato, but it was already too late for the first to react. The centurion’s blade caught him high in the back and ripped through muscle and ribs to pierce his heart. Cato slammed his shield into the face of the next man as he tried to wrench the blade free, but it was jammed, and as the body slumped down the sword handle was ripped from Cato’s grasp. He stepped astride Cadminius’ body with his back to the wagon, unarmed, with only his shield to save him now.

‘Wolves!’ he called again. ‘For fuck’s sake! On me!’

The last two warriors took a moment to realise that the centurion was not armed and with triumph gleaming in their eyes they closed in on Cato. One grasped the edge of the shield and wrenched it aside, as his companion drew back his spear and thrust it at the Roman. There was nowhere to go and Cato watched in horror as the spear tip came towards him, time slowing as he stared wide-eyed at his death. Suddenly he was knocked to the side as a figure flew over his shoulder and the spearman tumbled back on to the ground.

Mandrax and the surviving members of the Atrebatan cohort came running up, and the last of the attackers was impaled on the end of the wolf standard. As the men formed a small screen around the wagon Cato crawled over towards Verica. The king was lying on top of the spearman he had felled, his bony hand clasped round the handle of an ornate dagger whose blade was buried in the eye socket of his enemy.

‘My lord!’ Cato gently lifted the king off the dead man. Verica’s eyes flickered open and he seemed to struggle to focus as his gaze fixed on Cato.

Verica smiled feebly. ‘You’re all right?’

‘Yes, my lord . . . You saved my life.’

Verica’s lips parted in a pained smile. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I? . . . Where’s Cadminius?’

Cato looked round and saw that the captain of the bodyguard was struggling to sit up. The big man coughed, splattering blood down his chest.

‘Mandrax!’ Cato called out. ‘Look after the king.’

Once the standard bearer had the king cradled against his chest, Cato squatted down beside Cadminius, reaching around the man’s shoulders to keep him propped up. He was breathing in shallow gasps that rattled in his throat as he looked up at Cato.

‘The king?’

‘He’s safe,’ said Cato.

Cadminius smiled faintly, satisfied that he had done his duty. ‘I’m f inished . . .’

For an instant Cato thought of saying something reassuring, some lie to comfort the dying man, but then he simply nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Cadminius!’ Verica stretched a hand towards the best of his warriors, then snapped at Mandrax. ‘Help me over to him!’

Cadminius’ life was draining away fast and his mouth gaped as he struggled to draw breath. ‘My lord!’

In the last moment, the warrior’s fingers groped for Cato’s hand, found it and clamped tight, as a sudden final reservoir of strength was spent. Then the pained expression round his eyes eased and his fingers lay limply across Cato’s palm. Cato watched him a moment, to be sure there was nothing more to be done, no last vestige of life to be eased into oblivion, then he rose to his feet and looked round.

The survivors of the Wolf Cohort stood about the body, silent and strained. Then Verica slowly dropped to his knees beside Cadminius. He reached out a hand to Cadminius’ face and tenderly brushed away a strand of hair. Cato quietly backed away; this was a moment for the Atrebatans. Whatever the bond that existed between him and these men, there was a deeper one of race and blood that the centurion would never share.

Leaving them to mourn Cato turned back to the battle, but the enemy was gone. Vespasian’s hurriedly gathered reserve had driven them back and closed the gap. Beyond the front rank of the Romans the enemy were flowing away, like a wave rushing back from the shore, leaving a flotsam of bodies and discarded weapons on the crimson-stained grass. Cato stared at them in surprise. Why withdraw now, when they must know that one last effort must surely carry the day?

‘Cato! Cato!’

He turned and saw Macro trotting up to him, his craggy face split in a smile of delight. His friend slapped him on the shoulder and when Cato stared at him blankly Macro quickly glanced over him.

‘You wounded, lad?’

‘No.’

‘Verica?’

Cato pointed to where the Atrebatans were gathered round the end of Verica’s wagon. ‘He’s still alive. Cadminius is dead. Him, and the rest of the royal guards.’

Macro rubbed his chin. ‘That’s too bad . . . too bad. But look there.’

He took hold of Cato’s arm and pulled the youngster round, towards Calleva. The approaching column was clearly visible now and the eagle standard rising up above the foremost ranks was unmistakable.

‘You see?’ Macro was smiling again. ‘See there? It’s the bloody general himself!’

Chapter Forty-One

Work on the new procurator’s quarters in the fortified depot began almost at once. Engineers from all four legions laboured to clear the ruins of the hospital and headquarters block as quickly as possible and then the foundations were dug into the fire-blackened soil. Beside the extensive foundations of the administration buildings several pairs of long barrack blocks had already been constructed to house the permanent garrison of two large cohorts of Batavian auxiliaries. The Batavians were an arrogant lot; blond giants from the borders of Germania who looked down on the people of Calleva as they swaggered through the town’s narrow streets and made crude advances to the native women. They drank heavily as well, and were constantly spoiling for a fight.

The worse they behaved, the more guilty Cato came to feel about the fate of the Atrebatans. This was poor reward for all those who had given so much to fight alongside Rome, but were no longer permitted to bear arms. For the Atrebatans would be warriors no more. Plautius had been horrified when he had discovered how close the tribe had been drawn towards an alliance with Caratacus and had acted swiftly to ensure that the Atrebatans never again posed a threat to his supply lines. Verica remained a king in name only; all the real power over the lives of his people now rested in the hands of the Roman procurator and his officials. Since his return Verica had hardly moved from his bed, still recovering from the injury to his head. Outside, in the great hall, his advisors were bitterly arguing about who to choose as the king’s heir, for the third time in less than a month.

Caratacus had retreated back over the Tamesis and once more the legions and the auxiliary cohorts were containing the enemy, pushing him back towards the rugged uplands of the Silurians. Even so, the security of the Roman supply lines could not be trusted to any native ruler, however much they might profess their loyalty to Rome. So the kingdom of the Atrebatans was annexed as soon as Vespasian and his legion set up camp outside Calleva.

Centurion Cato was ordered to report to army headquarters a few days after their return to the town. It was a hot, humid day and, wearing only his tunic, Cato made his way from the Second Legion’s encampment through Calleva to the depot. Passing through the gates he was surprised to see that the timber framework for the procurator’s house and headquarters was complete and sprawled over much of the parade ground, as well as the land on which the original depot buildings had once stood. Clearly Tribune Quintillus . . .

Cato smiled. Quintillus’ army days were over. Now he was an imperial procurator, one of the Emperor’s élite on the first rung of a career that would see him rise to the highest offices of state. Quintillus would even have his own small army to command in the two Batavian cohorts garrisoned in Calleva.

To one side of the parade ground stood an array of tents where the legate had erected a temporary headquarters for himself and the new procurator. The area was heavily guarded by Vespasian’s praetorian unit and, despite his rank, Cato was told to wait beyond the roped-off area surrounding the tents. While five guards stood by, watching him closely, the sixth trotted off for instructions regarding the centurion. Although there looked to be at least a hundred men under arms within the area allotted to senior officers and their staff, the Second Legion itself was camped outside Calleva, in a huge fortification that was almost as big as the adjacent capital of the Atrebatans. It provided a salutary reminder to those who still harboured any rebellious impulse of the monolithic nature of the force they would have to overcome.

A clerk approached from the long, low tent that fronted the headquarters area. He caught the attention of one of the guards. ‘Let the centurion pass.’

The praetorians moved aside to let Cato by, but he stiffened his back and glared at them.

‘It’s customary to salute a superior officer,’ Cato said in a quiet, icy voice, ‘even for members of the legate’s personal guard.’

The veteran optio commanding the praetorians couldn’t help showing his surprise. Not so much that the officer standing in front of him was nearly young enough to be his son, but because he was carrying no badges of rank and only a stickler for military etiquette would have insisted on a salute whilst wearing only a tunic. But Cato refused to move. He was in a sour mood over the high-handed treatment of his men since they had returned to Calleva.

The Wolves had been denied access to the army camp. Instead they were given some of the least damaged tents from the depot and told to pitch them in the royal enclosure. Cato had spent the first night with them, but when Vespasian heard of this he immediately ordered the centurion to return to his legion and remain in the camp until he received further orders. He and Macro were told that the legate would reassign them as soon as circumstances permitted. With no duties to do Macro took every chance to sleep, while Cato had wandered through the ranks of goatskin tents for hours on end, trying to make himself tired so that he could get some rest. But even when the summer sunlight finally failed and he curled up on his bedding, Cato’s mind turned the recent events over and over, and his concerns about his men denied him the rest his exhausted body needed.

So now, as he faced the praetorian optio, he would be more than happy to give the man a good bollocking; and the optio knew it. With a look of disdain the optio raised his arm in salute and slowly stepped aside. Cato nodded back as he strode past. He followed the clerk through the large opening of the nearest tent. Inside the air was hot and sticky and the legate’s clerks were stripped down to their loincloths as they worked over the orders and records needed for the establishment of the new province.

‘This way, please sir.’ The clerk held a flap back at the rear of the tent. On the far side was a bare compound on to which six large tents opened. Inside tribunes and their staff worked on long trestle tables. Orderlies sat on the worn grass, ready to carry messages, passing the time with a game of bone dice. The clerk led Cato across the open space, which seemed to be almost as hot as the inside of the tents, due to the complete lack of the slightest breeze. Sweat trickled down the back of Cato’s tunic as he followed the clerk towards the largest of the tents on the opposite side of the square. The flaps were tied back and Cato could see wooden flooring with a circle of iron-framed stools. Beyond that was a large table at which two men were sitting, sharing a flask of wine. The clerk ducked under the flap and, with a discreet wave of the hand, indicated that Cato should follow him.

‘Centurion Cato, sir.’

Vespasian, and Quintillus, wearing a freshly minted gold chain and pendant, looked round. The legate beckoned. ‘Please join us, Centurion . . . That’ll be all, Parvenus.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The clerk bowed his head and backed out of the tent, as Cato marched forward to the table and stood to attention. Vespasian smiled at Cato, and the latter got the distinct impression that his commander would have something unpleasant to say.

‘Centurion, I’ve got some good news. I’ve found a command for you. Sixth Century of the Third Cohort. Centurion Macro will be appointed to the same unit. You work well together so you might as well continue to serve in the same cohort. The general and I have a lot to thank you for. If the enemy had taken Calleva, and disposed of Verica I have no doubt that we’d have been in full retreat by now. You and Macro have performed in accordance with the highest traditions of the legions and I’ve recommended that you both be decorated. It’s the least that can be done by way of reward.’

‘We were only doing our duty, sir,’ Cato replied in a flat tone.

‘Quite. And you excelled in that, as you always have before. It was well done, Centurion, and I offer you my personal gratitude.’ The legate smiled warmly. ‘I look forward to seeing you handle your own legionary command, and I dare say Centurion Macro will be keen to get back into the campaign. Both appointments are effective immediately. The cohort suffered rather badly in that last action - lost some good men.’

That was putting it mildly, Cato reflected. To lose two or more centurions in a single, swift skirmish was proof of how desperate the fight had been. At once his heart thrilled to the prospect of being given his own century. Better still, he would serve in the same cohort as Macro. Then it occurred to Cato that this was the kind of information that Vespasian would have preferred to give to both men in person. So why was he here alone?

‘Well, Centurion?’ Quintillus raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you not grateful?’

‘He does not need to be grateful,’ Vespasian interrupted quietly. ‘He’s earned it. They both have. Many times over. So please, Quintillus, keep your peace and let me deal with this.’