Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'Where's the tribune?'

'Gone ahead with Tincommius to see what's happening.'

'Hope the twat's careful,' Macro grumbled. 'Last thing we want is to give ourselves away.'

'Or lose another of Verica's heirs.'

'Quite.'

'Do you think this is wise, Macro?'

'What?'

'Taking both cohorts out of Calleva.'

'We did it before. Anyway, those were Vespasian's orders: to have a go at the enemy whenever possible and keep them away from our lines of communication.'

'Bit late for that now.' Cato nodded towards the columns of smoke.

'Granted. But if we get the buggers who did that then there'll be a few less of the enemy in the world. They won't be tucking into our supplies any more. That's a positive outcome in my book.'

Cato shrugged and decided to keep his concerns to himself.

The Wolves and the Boars continued down the track, heading towards the thinning smoke. They had covered just over three miles, according to Cato's estimate, when the tribune and Tincommius returned. Macro halted the column and moments later the two riders reined in their mounts and slid to the ground, breathless and excited.

'Round the next hill,' Quintillus panted. 'Small supply column. All dead, all the wagons burned. The raiders are still there, picking over the bodies. We've got them! Macro, send the scouts and two of your centuries round the back of the hill to cut them off. The rest will form a line at the base of the hill. Then we'll advance and catch them in a trap. Understood?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now, Tincommius, rejoin your cohort, and try to stay out of trouble.'

'Of course, Tribune.' Tincommius grinned.

'I mean it. I went to a great deal of effort making sure you succeed Verica. Get yourself killed and you'll have me to answer to.'

Tincommius chuckled nervously. The tribune turned towards Cato and muttered. 'Keep an eye on him. He's to stay out of harm's way. I'll hold you personally responsible for his safety, Centurion.'

'I understand, sir.'

'Good.'

'Sir?' said Cato, as the tribune turned back towards his pony.

'What is it?'

'The enemy, sir. How many of them are there?'

Quintillus quickly estimated. 'Two hundred, two hundred and fifty. That's all. Why? Is that too many for you?'

'No, sir,' Cato replied tonelessly. 'I'm just surprised that they haven't made off yet. Particularly since there are so few of them. They must know we'd send a force out to investigate. Why take the risk?'

'Who knows, Centurion? Who cares? All that matters is that they're there and we've got the chance to put them in the bag. Now, you have your instructions. See to them.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato saluted.

Macro had already run off to issue his orders and the first two centuries of the Boars doubled away from the main body, moving obliquely in the direction of the near side of the hill that Quintillus had indicated. The tribune galloped to the nearest slope and headed up towards the crest. By the time that Cato had prepared his men the tribune had ground-tethered his pony and was creeping forwards, bent double and moving carefully through the long grass.

'At least he's doing that properly,' muttered Cato.

'You don't like him much, do you?' asked Tincommius.

'No. Not much. There's little his kind won't do to grab whatever glory is going.'

'And I thought the Celts were bad enough.'

Cato turned towards his Atrebatan companion. 'Tincommius, you don't know the half of it. Anyway, you heard the tribune – keep out of it today. No heroics. That's my order.'

'Don't worry,' Tincommius smiled. 'I know my duty.'

'Good.'

The century commanders were taking no chances, and passed down the lines of their men to give orders in unaccustomed low voices. The Wolves formed a line two deep to the left of the track, and Macro's remaining centuries formed up to the right. Ahead of them Cato could see that there was a steep slope beyond the hill that concealed the ravaged supply convoy and its attackers. With luck the enemy would be neatly caught, with no way out of the small vale, except by hacking a path through the Atrebatan lines. It looked like Quintillus would have his slice of glory after all.

As soon as the two cohorts were in position, Macro drew his sword and swept it forward. The Wolves and the Boars advanced through the long grass, still wet with the morning dew. The men rested the iron heads of the javelins on their shoulders as they rustled forward and began to sweep round the edge of the hill. Macro stayed in position on the extreme right of the line, its most vulnerable point, with the first century of his cohort – handpicked men who could be trusted to fight hard and not yield.

Cato trotted to the left-hand flank, anxious to get the first possible sighting of the ground ahead of them in the vale. Far off, to the right, the two centuries dispatched to close the trap on the raiders were disappearing round the edge of the hill. With a little luck they would be able to get in position quickly enough to compel the enemy to surrender the moment they realised there was no way out for them. If the Atrebatans spared them, the best they could expect was a lifetime of slavery. From his recent experience of fighting the Durotrigans, Cato doubted whether they would surrender. The Durotrigans were being driven to resist the legions by druid fanatics, who promised their warriors that the very finest rewards the afterlife had to offer were reserved for the men who died fighting Rome.

As the line began to swing round the base of the hill Cato caught sight of the supply column. The charred remains of eight wagons came into view, flames still licking up from some of them. Bodies in red tunics were sprawled on the ground around the wagons. Close by were the raiders, a small party of men herding the supply column's draught animals together. One man leaned against the serpent banner of the Durotrigans, while a handful of others picked over the bodies lying on the ground. As yet none of them appeared to have spotted the Wolf Cohort marching steadily towards them, and for the first time Cato thought that the tribune's hasty plan might come off. Still, the raiders must be a dozy lot not to have detected the approaching danger. Cato found it hard to believe that they had not posted a lookout, at least.

The two cohorts had almost blocked the end of the vale before the alarm was raised. Cato saw the serpent standard bearer suddenly stand upright, then turn and shout a warning to his companions. Instantly the raiders sprang to their weapons and turned to face the Wolves and the Boars.

'Won't be much of a fight,' Figulus muttered beside Cato. 'We must outnumber them five or six to one. No contest.'

'No.'

But still the Durotrigans prepared themselves to meet the enemy. Clustering together in a shallow crescent, they raised their shields and shook their spears. A movement, away to the right, drew Cato's attention, and he saw Quintillus galloping his horse down the slope. He tore round the back of the advancing cohorts and took up a position just behind the centre of the line, drew his sword and shouted encouragement to the native troops.

'Wasting his bloody breath,' said Figulus. 'They don't understand much Latin.'

'No, but it might make him feel good.'

The distance between the two forces closed quickly, then the Durotrigans began to give ground, moving back past the burned wagons towards the far end of the vale, where the gap between the steep sides of both hills was narrow and offered better defence than the open floor where the Atrebatans would easily overrun them through sheer weight of numbers.

'That's not going to do them much good, not when Macro's lads come up on them.'

'Figulus?'

'Sir?'

'Just shut up for the moment. I don't need the running commentary.'