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!’

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

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.