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

experienced than he would respond to having an eighteen-year-old placed in command of them. Sure, they would see the medals on his harness and know that their centurion was a man of some valour, and that he had won the eye of Vespasian. They might note the scars he bore on his left arm, further proof of Cato’s courage in battle, but none of that changed the fact that he had only just reached manhood, and was younger than some of the sons of the men serving in his century. That would rankle, and Cato knew they would watch him closely, and be utterly unforgiving of any mistakes that he made. Not for the first time he wondered if there was any way he could quietly request being returned to his previous rank, and slip back into the comfortable role of being Macro’s optio.
    Macro finished fastening his boot straps, stood up and reached for his scarlet military cloak.
    ‘Come on, Cato! On your feet. Let’s go.’
    Outside the cell, the corridors of the hospital were filled with orderlies and casualties as the wounded continued to arrive. Surgeons pushed through the throng, making quick assessment of the injuries and directing the fatal cases to the small ward on the rear wall where they would be made as comfortable as possible before death claimed them. The rest were crammed in wherever space could be found. With Vespasian continuing his campaign against the hillforts of the Durotrigans, the hospital in Calleva was filled to capacity already, and the construction of a new block was not yet complete. The constant raids on the supply lines of General Plautius’ army were adding yet more patients to the overstretched facilities of the hospital and men were already being accommodated on rough mats along the sides of the main corridors. Fortunately, it was summer and they would not suffer too much discomfort at night.
    Macro and Cato made for the main entrance. Wearing only their standard-issue tunics and cloaks, they carried their vine staffs to indicate their rank, and other men respectfully gave way before them. Macro was also wearing his felt helmet liner, partly to conceal his wound - he was tired of the looks of disgust he was getting from the local children - but mostly because exposure to fresh air made his scar ache. Cato carried his vine staff in his right hand and raised his left elbow to protect his injured side from any knocks.
    The entrance of the hospital opened on to the main thoroughfare of the fortified depot that Vespasian had constructed to the side of Calleva. Several light carts stood outside the entrance, and the wounded were still being unloaded from the last one to arrive. The beds of the empty carts were a jumble of discarded equipment and dark smears of blood.
    ‘The other side are getting pretty ambitious,’ said Macro. ‘This isn’t the work of some small group of raiders. Looks like they’re hitting us with a large column. They’re getting bolder all the time. If this carries on, the legions are going to have a real problem keeping up the advance.’
    Cato nodded. The situation was serious. General Plautius had already been forced to leave a string of forts to protect the columns of slow-moving supply wagons. With the establishment of every new garrison, his strike force was shrinking and in its enfeebled condition must eventually prove an irresistible target for Caratacus.
    The two centurions walked quickly down the track towards the depot gate where the fort’s small garrison was hurriedly forming up. Men fiddled with straps and belts while Centurion Veranius, commander of the garrison, screamed abuse into the entrances of the barracks, swiping at the tardy few stumbling towards their comrades as they struggled with their equipment. Macro exchanged a knowing look with Cato. The garrison had been made up from the dregs of the Second Legion, the sort of men Vespasian could not afford to take with him on his lightning campaign into the heartlands of the Durotrigans. The soldiers’ poor quality