PRAISE FOR When the Eagle Hunts
“This authentic evocation of the mighty Roman army is cloaked in action, suspense, and history. A darn good yarn.”
—Booklist
“His settings are well described and the plotting is strong, with much of the action reminiscent of Bernard Cornwell’s.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An account of war and religious fanaticism with plenty of spice.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Scarrow has a genuine feeling for first-century Britain, bringing the battlefield, the Roman military machine, and British tribal society brilliantly to life with all the confidence and esprit de corps of a legion on the march.”
—Northern Echo (UK)
PRAISE FOR The Eagle’s Conquest
“Scarrow manages to summon up in this exhilarating tale all the glory and the gore that characterized life in the Roman legions. Outstanding military history.”
—Booklist
“Has all the hallmarks of Bernard Cornwell at his best.”
—Oxford Times (UK)
“A page-turner. . . a cracking good read.”
—Historical Novels Review (UK)
“A rip-roaring page-turner. . . slow down when turning the pages to savor the sturdy elegance and incisive wit.”
—Steven Saylor, author of Last Seen in Massilia
PRAISE FOR Under the Eagle
“Readers will devour this spectacular tale of intrigue, adventure, and glory in the Roman legions. . . distinguished by its meticulously detailed portrayal of life in the mighty Roman army.”
—Booklist
“A thoroughly enjoyable read. The characters are so lifelike they almost spring off the page. An engrossing story line, full of teeth-clenching battles, political machinations, treachery, honor, love, and death.”
—Elizabeth Chadwick, award-winning author of The Marsh King’s Daughter
“Everyone has been raving about the film Gladiator, but Cato’s story is its equal in bloody cut and thrust.”
—The Northern Echo (UK)
Also by Simon Scarrow
Under the Eagle
The Eagle’s Conquest
When the Eagle Hunts
THE EAGLE
AND
THE WOLVES
Simon Scarrow
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN NEW YORK
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press
THE EAGLE AND THE WOLVES. Copyright © 2003 by Simon Scarrow. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Scarrow, Simon.
The eagle and the wolves / Simon Scarrow.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-32450-6
ISBN-10: 0-312-32450-2
1. Macro, Lucius Cornelius (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Cato Quintus Licinius (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—History—Roman period, 55 B.C.–449 A.D.—Fiction. 4. Verica, King of the Atrebates, fl. 15–42—Fiction. 5. Vespasian, Emperor of Rome, 9–79—Fiction. 6. Atrebates (Celtic people)—Fiction. 7. Romans—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6119.C37 E144
823’.92—dc22
2004050840
First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3
This one is for my editor, Marion Donaldson,
and for the agent who convinced Marion to read
my first book, Wendy Suffield. It s been a great pleasure
to work with both of you.
Acknowledgements
The Eagle series of novels has been far more successful than I ever dreamed it would be. It’s high time I got round to thanking some of the people behind the scenes. While completing this book I was lucky enough to be invited to a Headline sales conference and was struck by two things.
First, by how many people are involved in making books and getting them on to the shelves in bookshops in Britain, and now the US, Spain and Germany as well.
Secondly, by how positive everyone was about the series, especially the sales team, who really believed in the Eagle series and managed to convince book-buyers to share their enthusiasm. Thereafter, the success of the books has been down to word of mouth, and that really delights me.
So then, hats off to Merric Davidson, my agent – a gent in every sense, Sherise Hobbs – Marion Donaldson’s assistant, always cheerful on the phone and frighteningly efficient off it, Kim Hardie, who fights a tireless battle for space in review columns, and Sarah Thomson, who has won some impressive foreign rights sales for the series.
Then there’s Kerr MacRae and his team, who have managed to spread the word far and wide. In no particular order we have: Sabine Stiebritz (who organises some pretty mean social events), James Horobin, Katherine Ball, Barbara Ronan, Peter Newsom, Seb Hunter, Sophie Hopkin, Paul Erdpresser (who looks uncannily like a certain movie star), Jo Taranowski, Diane Griffith, Selina Chu and Jenny Gray. Out on the road there’s Ruth Shern, Heidi Murphy and Breda Purdue in Ireland, Damon Richards, Nikki Rose, Alex MacLean, Clare Economides, Steve Hill, George Gamble and Nigel Baines in the UK. Last, and by no means least, there’s Tony McGrath, with whom it is always a pleasure to meet up and swap stories about raising young children over a strong coffee at Starbucks in Norwich.
My thanks and gratitude to you all,
Simon
The Organisation of a Roman Legion
Centurions Macro and Cato are the main protagonists of The Eagle and the Wolves. In order to clarify the rank structure for readers unfamiliar with the Roman legions I have set out a basic guide to the ranks you will encounter in this novel. The Second Legion, the ‘home’ of Macro and Cato, comprised some five and a half thousand men. The basic unit was the century of eighty men led by a centurion with an optio acting as second in command. The century was divided into eight-man sections which shared a room together in barracks and a tent when on campaign. Six centuries made up a cohort, and ten cohorts made up a legion, with the first cohort being double-size. Each legion was accompanied by a mounted contingent of one hundred and twenty men, divided into four squadrons, who served as scouts and messengers. In descending order the main ranks of the legion were as follows:
The legate was a man from an aristocratic background. Typically in his mid-thirties, the legate would command the legion for up to five years and hope to make something of a reputation for himself in order to enhance his subsequent political career.
The camp prefect would be a grizzled veteran who would previously have been the chief centurion of the legion and was at the summit of a professional soldier’s career. He would have vast experience and integrity, and to him would fall the command of the legion in the legate’s absence.
Six tribunes served as staff officers. These would be men in their early twenties serving in the army for the first time to gain administrative experience before taking up junior posts in civil administration. The senior tribune was different. He came from a senatorial family and was destined for high political office and eventual command of a legion.
Sixty centurions provided the disciplinary and training backbone of the legion. They were hand-picked for their command qualities and a willingness to fight to the death. Accordingly their casualty rate far exceeded other ranks. The centurions were ranked by senior
ity based upon the date of their promotion. The most senior centurion commanded the First Century of the First Cohort and was a highly decorated and respected soldier.
The four decurions of the legion commanded the cavalry squadrons and hoped for promotion to the command of auxiliary cavalry units.
Each centurion was assisted by an optio who would act as an orderly, with minor command duties. Optios would be waiting for a vacancy in the centurionate.
The legionaries were men who had signed on for twenty-five years. In theory, a volunteer had to be a Roman citizen to qualify for enlistment, but recruits were increasingly drawn from provincial populations and given Roman citizenship on joining the legions.
Lower in status than the legionaries were the men of the auxiliary cohorts. They were recruited from the provinces and provided the Roman Empire with its cavalry, light infantry and other specialist arms. Roman citizenship was awarded on completion of twenty-five years of service, or as a reward for outstanding achievement in battle.
Chapter One
‘Halt!’ the legate shouted, thrusting his arm up.
The mounted escort reined in behind him, and Vespasian strained his ears to catch the sound he had heard a moment before. No longer drowned out by the heavy clumping of hoofs on the rough native track came the faint braying of British war horns from the direction of Calleva, a few miles distant. The sprawling town was the capital of the Atrebatans, one of the few tribes allied to Rome, and for a moment the legate wondered if the enemy commander, Caratacus, had made a bold strike deep into the rear of the Roman forces. If Calleva was under attack. . .
‘Come on!’
Kicking his boot heel into the flank of his horse, Vespasian bent low and urged his mount up the slope. The escort, a dozen of his scouts from the Second Legion, pounded along after him. It was their sacred duty to protect their commander.
The track inclined diagonally up the side of a long steep ridge, beyond which it sloped down towards Calleva. The town was being used as the forward supply depot of the Second Legion. Detached from the army, commanded by General Aulus Plautius, the Second had been ordered to defeat the Durotrigans, the last of the southern tribes still fighting for Caratacus. Only when the Durotrigans had been destroyed would the Roman supply lines be secure enough for the legions to advance further north and west. Without adequate supplies there would be no victory for General Plautius, and the Emperor’s premature celebration of the conquest of Britain would be exposed for a hollow sham to the public in Rome. The fate of General Plautius and his legions – indeed the fate of the Emperor himself- depended on the overstretched and slender arteries that fed the legions, and which could be severed at a stroke.
Regular columns of heavy wagons trundled from the vast base camp on the estuary of the Tamesis – the river that snaked through the heart of Britain – where provisions and equipment from Gaul were landed. For the last ten days the Second Legion had been without supplies from Calleva. Vespasian had left his forces laying siege to one of the larger hillforts of the Durotrigans while he hurried back to Calleva to investigate the matter. The Second Legion was already on reduced rations, and small groups of the enemy lay in wait in the surrounding forests, ready to attack any foraging parties that dared to range too far from the main body of the legion. Unless Vespasian managed to secure food for his men soon the Second Legion would have to fall back on the depot at Calleva.
Vespasian could well imagine the anger with which General Plautius would greet news of such a setback. Aulus Plautius had been appointed by Emperor Claudius to command the Roman army whose task was to add Britain and its tribes to the Empire. Despite Plautius’ victories over the barbarous tribes the previous summer, Caratacus had raised a new army and still defied Rome. He had learned much from last year’s campaigning and refused to take the field against the Roman legions. Instead, he detached columns of men to attack the supply lines of the ponderous Roman war machine. With every mile General Plautius and his legions advanced, those vital supply lines became more vulnerable.
So the outcome of this year’s campaign depended on whose strategy triumphed. If General Plautius succeeded in forcing the Britons to face him on the field of battle then the legions would win. If the Britons could avoid battle and starve the legions, they might weaken them enough to force the general into a perilous retreat all the way back to the coast.
As Vespasian and his escort galloped up to the crest of the ridge the blasts on the war horns became more strident. Now the soldiers could hear men shouting, the sharp clang of weapon striking weapon, and the dull thud of blows landing on shields. The long grass was silhouetted against the clear sky, and then Vespasian beheld the scene on the far side of the ridge. To the left lay Calleva, a huge sprawl of thatched roofs of mainly squalid little dwellings, ringed by an earth rampart and palisade. A thin haze of wood-smoke hung over the town. A dark gash of churned soil marked the track leading from the tall wooden tower of the gatehouse towards the Tamesis. On the track, half a mile from Calleva, only a handful of wagons remained of a supply convoy, protected by a thin screen of auxiliary troops. Around them swirled the enemy: small clusters of heavily armed warriors and lighter troops armed with slings, bows and throwing spears. They kept up a steady rain of missiles on the supply convoy and its escort. Blood flowed from the flanks of injured oxen, and the path of the convoy was dotted with bodies.
Vespasian and his men reined in as the legate briefly considered what to do. Even as he watched, a group of Durotrigans rushed the rear of the convoy and threw themselves on the auxiliaries. The commander of the convoy, clearly visible in his scarlet cloak as he stood atop the driver’s bench of the first wagon, cupped his hands to bellow an order and the convoy slowly halted. The auxiliaries beat off the attackers easily enough, but their comrades at the front of the column provided a static target for the enemy and by the time the wagons were on the move again several more of the convoy’s escorts lay sprawled on the ground.
‘Where’s the bloody garrison?’ grumbled one of the scouts. ‘They must have seen the convoy by now.’
Vespasian looked towards the neatly ordered lines of the fortified supply depot built on to the side of Calleva’s ramparts. Tiny dark figures were scurrying between the barrack blocks, but there were no massing ranks visible. Vespasian made a mental note to give the garrison’s commander a harsh bollocking the moment he reached the camp.
If he reached the camp, he reflected, for the skirmish was between his party and the gates of Calleva.
Unless the garrison made a sortie soon the convoy would be whittled down until the enemy could wipe it out in one final charge. Sensing that the decisive moment was near, the Durotrigans were edging closer to the wagons, screaming their war cries and striking their weapons against the edges of their shields to stoke up their battle frenzy.
Vespasian tore his cloak from his shoulders. Grasping the reins tightly in one hand, he drew his sword in the other and turned to his scouts.
‘Form line!’
The men looked at him in surprise. Their legate intended to charge the enemy, but that was tantamount to suicide.
‘Form line, damn you!’ Vespasian shouted, and this time his men responded at once, fanning out on either side of the legate, making ready their long spears. As soon as the line was ready Vespasian swept his sword down.
‘Let’s go!’
There was no parade-ground precision in the manoeuvre. The small party of horsemen just jabbed in their heels and urged their mounts to swoop down on the enemy pell-mell. Even as blood pounded in his ears Vespasian found himself questioning the sanity of this wild charge. It would have been easy enough to bear witness to the convoy’s destruction and wait until the triumphant enemy marched away from its wreckage before making for Calleva. But that would have been cowardly, and, in any case, those supplies were desperately needed. So he gritted his teeth and clenched the sword in his right hand as he made for the wagons.
Down the slope, the sound of approaching ho
rses caused faces to turn towards them and the barrage of missiles on the convoy slackened.
‘There! Over there!’ Vespasian bellowed, pointing towards a loose line of slingers and archers. ‘Follow me!’
The scouts swung into line with their legate and charged obliquely across the incline towards the lightly armed Durotrigans. Ahead of the horsemen the Britons were already scattering, their roars of triumph dead on their lips. Vespasian saw that the commander of the convoy had made good use of the diversion and the wagons were once more rumbling towards the safety of Calleva’s ramparts. But the leader of the Durotrigans was no fool either, and a quick glance revealed to Vespasian that the heavy infantry and chariots were already moving towards the convoy to strike before their prey reached the gates. A short distance to his front, woad-stained bodies weaved madly, desperately trying to avoid the Roman horsemen. Vespasian fixed his sight on a large slinger wearing a wolfskin around his shoulders, and lowered the point of his sword. At the last moment, the Briton sensed the horse bearing down on him, looked round sharply, eyes wide with terror. Vespasian aimed his blow a short distance down from the man’s neck and braced his arm for the impact, but at the last moment the slinger threw himself flat and the blade missed.
‘Shit!’ Vespasian hissed through clenched teeth. These bloody infantry swords were no good on horseback, and he cursed himself for not carrying a long cavalry sword as his scouts did.
Then another enemy warrior was in front of him. He just had time to register the thin, frail physique and white spiked hair before he slashed his blade into the man’s neck with a wet crunching sound. The man grunted and tumbled forward, and was gone as Vespasian galloped on towards the convoy. He snatched a glimpse round at his scouts, and saw that most had reined in and were busy thrusting their spears at any Briton they could find cringing on the ground. It was the perfect moment for any cavalryman: the killing frenzy that followed the breaking of the enemy line. But they were heedless of the danger of the chariots that were even now trundling across the slope towards the small party of Roman horsemen.
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