Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves Read Online Free PDF Page A

closed in, the manes of the ponies whipping out as their nostrils flared and their mouths foamed; above them the savage expressions of the drivers and the spearmen, exulting in the imminent destruction of the Romans.
    Centurion Veranius, true to his kind, still carried his shield and sword, and trotted along with the last of his men, shouting at them to keep moving. When the chariots were no more than twenty paces from him he realised he was a dead man. Veranius stopped, turned towards the chariots and raised his shield, holding his sword level at his waist. As Cato watched, feeling sick in his guts, the centurion glanced up at the gatehouse and smiled grimly. He nodded a salute at the line of faces witnessing his final stand, and turned his face towards the enemy.
    There was a scream, abruptly cut off as the chariots rode down the first of the stragglers, and Cato watched as the chain-mailed bodies of the legionaries were crushed to a pulp by hoofs and wheels. Veranius charged forward, stabbing his sword into the chest of a lead pony, then he was knocked down and disappeared under the confusion of harnessed horse-flesh and the wicker superstructures of the chariots.
    With a grinding thud the gates were heaved back together and the locking bar crashed back into its receiving sockets. The chariots slewed to a halt in front of the gate and then the air was filled with shouts and shrill agonised whinnies as the javelins and arrows of Verica’s men on the palisade rained on to the dense mass below. The Britons answered with their own missiles and a slingshot cracked against the palisade just below Cato. He grabbed Macro by the shoulder and drew him back towards the ladder leading down to the inside of the ramparts.
    ‘There’s nothing we can do here. We’re just in the way.’
    Macro nodded, and followed him down the ladder.
    As they emerged into the rutted open area just inside the gate they saw the confused tangle of wagons, oxen and the survivors of the escort and garrison. Men sat slumped on the ground, chests heaving. Those on foot supported themselves on their spears or bent double, gasping for breath. Many were heedless of their wounds, and blood dripped on to the ground around them. Vespasian stood to one side, leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees, gasping for breath. Macro shook his head slowly.
    ‘What a complete fucking shambles . . .’

Chapter Three
    The sounds of battle quickly died away as the Durotrigans fell back from the ramparts of Calleva. Even though they had just given the Romans and their despised Atrebatan allies a bloody nose, they realised that any attempt to scale the ramparts would be a waste of lives. With loud taunting cheers they ran back beyond slingshot range and continued their triumphant tirade of insults until dusk. As darkness thickened about them, the Durotrigans melted away; only the faint rumbling of chariot wheels lingered for a while, and then Calleva was surrounded by silent shadows.
    The natives manning the gatehouse and the ramparts either side stood down and slumped wearily on the walkway. Only a few sentries remained standing, eyes and ears straining for any sign that the Durotrigans were merely playing a trick, and would slip back under cover of night. As Verica emerged from the gatehouse he looked tired, and his thin frame moved uncertainly. He rested a hand on the shoulder of one his bodyguards. In the flickering glare of a single torch the small party slowly made its way down the main thoroughfare towards the high thatched roofs of the royal enclosure. Along the route small groups of townspeople fell silent as their king passed by; sullen resentment filled every face illuminated by the wavering orange glow of the torch. While Verica and his nobles were well fed, his people were growing hungry. Most of their grain pits were empty and only a few pigs and sheep were left within the ramparts. Outside Calleva many farms lay abandoned, or in blackened ruin; their