The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘You heard Tincommius – why didn’t you back me up?’

  Macro drew a deep breath to stave off his irritation with the younger officer. ‘When a legate makes a decision, you don’t question it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you don’t fucking do it. All right?’

  ‘I’ll let you know this time tomorrow.’

  Cato slumped down beside Mandrax, who was snoring loudly, propped up against a wheel with the standard planted firmly in the ground beside him. Macro remained silent as he carried on walking towards the pitifully small cluster of sleeping men that were all that remained of his first independent command.

  Just before he turned on to his side and promptly fell asleep Macro remembered Tincommius’ shouted warning that Caratacus was bearing down on Calleva. The Atrebatan prince might have been telling the truth. . . Well, they would know soon enough. Right now, sleep was the thing. A moment later, a deep rumbling snore added to the chorus of other sounds of slumber.

  On your feet, you!’ Cadminius swung his boot into the prone figure lying in the dim corner of the hall, furthest from the guarded entrance of the royal quarters. Night had fallen and a few torches hissed in the wall brackets. Tincommius shuffled away from him before Cadminius could land another blow, and the captain of the royal bodyguard quickly grabbed the length of rope tied around the prisoner’s neck and gave it a jerk.

  ‘Shit!’ Tincommius choked, raising his bound hands to his throat. ‘That hurt.’

  ‘Shame you won’t live to get used to it,’ grinned Cadminius. ‘Now, on your feet. King wants a word with you. Perhaps your last word, eh?’

  The Atrebatan prince was led by the rope like a dog, cringing before the hatred in the eyes of everyone he passed down the centre of the hall. A wounded man with a ragged dressing covering most of his head propped himself up on an elbow and tried to spit at him as Tincommius went by, but he was too weak and the spittle ended up on his breast. Tincommius stopped and sneered.

  ‘You’re pathetic! Have the Romans made you so weak that that’s the best you can do?’

  Cadminius stopped as the prince started speaking, but now he gave the rope a harsh tug. ‘Come on, my beauty, let’s not get spiteful.’

  As Tincommius gasped at the rope snapping tight around his neck, the men in the hall gave a ragged cheer and shouted insults at the traitor. He swallowed nervously and coughed to clear his throat, but his voice came out only as a croak.

  ‘Laugh now. . . while you still can. . . you slaves!’

  Then Cadminius reached the entrance to Verica’s quarters and hauled the prisoner inside. Verica was propped up in his bed, but his skin still looked drained of colour and he gestured feebly to the captain of his bodyguard to have Tincommius brought closer. Beside the bed, on stools, sat Vespasian and Tribune Quintillus. A stocky centurion stood close by, powerfully built, with a hard and cruel expression on his face. Verica tried to lift his head, but couldn’t find the strength, and rolled it to the side, looking down his cheeks at his treacherous kinsman as the latter was forced to his knees at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Bring him nearer,’ Verica said softly, and Cadminius nudged his captive along with his knee.

  For a moment no one spoke, and the only sound was the faint wheezing of the king, and the occasional cries of the wounded in the hall.

  ‘Why, Tincommius?’ Verica spoke in Celtic. ‘Why betray us?’

  Tincommius was ready with his answer and snapped straight back. ‘I betrayed you, Uncle, because you betrayed our people.’

  ‘No, young man. . . I saved them. Saved them from slaughter.’

  ‘So they could be the slaves of your friends here?’ Tincommius chuckled bitterly. ‘That’s some salvation. I’d rather die on my feet than—’

  ‘Quiet!’ Verica snapped. ‘The times I’ve heard young hotheads utter that rubbish!’

  ‘Rubbish? I call it an ideal.’

  ‘What are ideals?’ Verica asked mockingly. ‘They just blind men to the horrors they set in motion. How many thousands of our people are you willing to see die for your ideal, Tincommius?’

  “My ideal? Old man, do you not realise that they share my vision?’

  ‘They? Who, exactly?’

  ‘My people. You don’t believe me? Then ask them. I challenge you to let us both address them and see what they think.’

  ‘No.’ Verica made a thin smile. ‘You know that’s not possible. In any case. . . an old man. . . would lack the persuasiveness of an impassioned youth. People do not like the odour of mortality. They want to hear their dreams fashioned by unblemished lips. Your voice would sound strident and clear. You would make the world simple for them. Too simple. How could I compete with that, burdened as I am by my knowledge of the way the world really is? Tincommius, you would sell them a dangerous dream. I can only peddle painful truths. . .’

  ‘Coward! What is the point of all this? Why not just murder me now?’ Tincommius suddenly looked hopeful. ‘Unless. . .’

  ‘Tincommius, you will die,’ Verica said sadly. ‘I just needed you to understand why you were wrong. . . You were like a son to me. I wanted you to know. . . to know I would give anything not to have you executed.’

  ‘Then don’t execute me!’ Tincommius cried.

  ‘You leave me no choice.’ Verica turned his face away and mumbled, ‘I’m sorry. . . I’m sorry. Cadminius, let the Romans have him now.’

  Tincommius glanced over at the legate and the tribune, then beyond to the hardened face of the centurion. He turned and threw himself on to the bed.

  ‘Uncle! Please!’

  ‘Get up!’ Cadminius shouted, grabbing the prince by his shoulders, and tearing him away from the old man. Tincommius writhed in his grip, pleading to his uncle, but the captain of the bodyguard pulled him back, got his head in an armlock and dragged him over to Vespasian.

  ‘The king says he’s your now. To dispose of as you please.’

  Vespasian nodded sternly, and beckoned to Centurion Hortensius. ‘Take him into the redoubt, and soften him up a little,’ Vespasian said quietly, so that Tincommius would not hear his words. ‘Don’t hurt him too badly, Hortensius. He’ll need to talk.’

  The centurion stepped forward and pinioned the struggling prince before lifting him off the ground and dragging him from the chamber.

  ‘Now then, sir, do be a nice quiet gent, or I’ll have to get rough with you straight away.’

  When Tincommius kept begging for his uncle’s mercy the centurion threw him against the stone wall. Tincommius howled with agony, bleeding from a gash on his forehead. The centurion calmly picked him up and placed him back on his feet. ‘No more nonsense then, there’s a good gentleman.’

  After they had eaten a quick meal in the royal kitchens Vespasian and Quintillus made their way to the redoubt. The semi-circle inside was lit by a small fire into which a javelin had been thrust. The point rested in the wavering heart of the fire and glowed orange. To one side Tincommmius was bound to a wagon, and leaned limply against the rough planks. On his bare back were scores of bruises and raw scorch marks. The air was thick with the pungent smell of burned flesh.

  ‘Hope you haven’t killed him,’ said Vespasian, the back of his hand pressing against his nostrils.

  ‘No, sir.’ Hortensius was affronted by the legate’s lack of faith in his expertise. There was more to being a torturer than merely inflicting a painful death. Far more. That’s why the legions trained men so carefully in this most arcane of military skills. There was a fine line between hurting men enough to guarantee they would speak the truth, and overdoing it and killing them before they were ready to crack. As any half-decent torturer knew, the trick was to inflict more pain than the victim could bear, and keep it at that level of intensity for as long as possible. After that, the victim would tell the truth, all right. The terror of not being believed and thereby inviting further agony saw to that. Hortensius nodded towards the fire. ‘He’s just a little cooked.’

 
; ‘Has he said anything useful?’ asked Quintillus.

  ‘Just some native gibberish for the most part.’

  ‘Does he still maintain that Caratacus is coming to his rescue?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Vespasian looked at the mutilated flesh on the prince’s back with a horrified fascination. ‘In your judgement, do you think he’s telling the truth?’

  Hortensius scratched his neck, and nodded. ‘Yes, unless he’s got more balls than a herd of billy goats.’

  ‘Interesting expression,’ Quintillus remarked. ‘Haven’t heard that one before. Regional speciality of yours?’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ Hortensius replied drily. ‘We made it up for the benefit of tourists. Now, shall I get on, sir?’ The last remark was directed at the legate, and Vespasian tore his gaze away from Tincommius.

  ‘What? Oh yes, carry on. But if he doesn’t change his story soon, you can finish up here and get some rest.’

  ‘Finish up, sir?’ Hortensius bent down and pulled the tip of the javelin out of the fire. Against the darkness it glowed more intensely than ever: a fiery yellow on which pinpricks of even brighter light sparkled. The air wavered beside it. ‘Do you mean finish off?’

  ‘Yes:

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Centurion Hortensius nodded, and turned back to the Atrebatan prince, lowering the tip of the spear towards Tincommius’ buttocks. The legate strode out of the redoubt, making a great effort not to walk too fast in case the centurion and the tribune guessed that he was acutely discomforted by the scene. As soon as Vespasian and Quintillus were outside the redoubt they heard a hiss followed by an inhuman shriek that split the air like a knife. Vespasian strode off towards one of the king’s store sheds, which he had made his temporary headquarters, forcing Quintillus to quicken his step to keep up.

  ‘Well sir, what do you think?’

  ‘I’m wondering if Centurion Cato wasn’t right to be so cautious after all.’

  Quintillus looked at him anxiously. ‘You can’t be serious, sir. Caratacus coming here? It’s not possible. The general’s got him pegged to the other side of the river.’

  Another scream pursued them, and Vespasian jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Well, he believes it sure enough.’

  ‘It’s like you said earlier, sir, he’s just trying to put the frighteners on us.’

  ‘Not much point in that now, if it’s not true.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Quintillus conceded reluctantly. ‘Then perhaps he was lied to in turn.’

  Vespasian stopped, and turned towards the tribune. ‘Just why are you so keen to keep us here? Nothing to do with you wanting to be the first Roman governor of the Atrebatans, I suppose?’

  The tribune did not reply.

  ‘Thought so,’Vespasian sneered. ‘There’s a little more than your career at stake, Quintillus. Bear that in mind.’

  The tribune shrugged, but stayed silent. Vespasian sighed with bitter frustration at the man’s inability to acknowledge the potential peril of their situation.

  ‘Tribune, if anything happens to me, you will be the senior officer here, understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And your duty will be to carry out my last orders. In which case you must see to the safety of the men under your command. You will take no risks with their lives. If that means abandoning Calleva you will do it.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  ‘As I command.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Vespasian stared at the tribune to reinforce the gravity of the order, before he continued, ‘I want you to tell the cohort commanders to have their men ready to move first thing tomorrow. Go.’

  The tribune saluted and strode off into the darkness, and Vespasian watched until even the last dim outline of the man had disappeared. If anything did happen to him, and Quintillus took command, Vespasian dreaded the consequences for his men, and his legion. Perhaps he should put his instructions to the tribune in writing and ask one of the cohort commanders to witness the document. Almost as soon as the idea jumped into his head Vespasian dismissed it with contempt. Much as he disliked the tribune, it would never do to treat him so dishonourably. Quintillus had his orders and was honour-bound to obey them.

  His thoughts returned at once to the spectre of Caratacus and his army manoeuvring towards Calleva. It was hard to believe that the British commander had managed to give General Plautius the slip. Yet Tincommius held to his story. In which case, the legate mused, there were a number of possibilities. The prince might be hoping that the Romans, fearing for their lives, would quit Calleva, and then the Durotrigans would return and complete what they had started. Conversely, if Caratacus was coming, surely Tincommius would lie and hope that his ally might catch Vespasian and his six cohorts in Calleva, and thereby destroy the best part of a legion? That would deal a lethal blow to General Plautius’ campaign. There was nothing that could be done, he decided, until he had more information.

  Back in the storeroom, he undid the ties of his breastplate and stretched his shoulders. Then he sent for the decurión in charge of the small squadron of scouts and ordered the man to assemble his riders. They were to leave the fort at once and begin reconnoitring to the north and west for any signs of a native army. Once the order was given, Vespasian gladly laid himself down on a pile of cured animal skins and fell fast asleep.

  Cato woke with a start. The young centurion struggled into a sitting position, bleary-eyed and his mind still fogged with sleep. As he looked around numbly, Cato saw that the royal enclosure was still shrouded in darkness, and away to the east glimmered the faint glow of the false dawn. All about him shadows moved in the gloom as the Roman officers moved down the lines of the slumbering soldiers, shaking their men awake. Macro approached him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Cato.

  ‘Get up. We’re moving.’

  ‘Moving?’

  ‘Getting out of Calleva and back to the legion.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Legate’s orders. Get your men ready. Now move yourself!’

  Cato stretched his stiff limbs and rose to his feet with a groan. The enclosure was alive with the low grumbling of men roused from sleep, and the harsh shouts of the centurions aimed at those who were slow to rise. Torches flared by the storehouse being used by the legate and the small staff he had brought with him. Cato saw Vespasian hurriedly briefing the cohort commanders in the glow of the spluttering flames. Bending down to retrieve his segmented armour, Cato slipped his body inside and fumbled with the leather ties. Some of the men from the Wolf Cohort were already awake and gazing around anxiously.

  ‘Centurion!’ Mandrax approached him, and Cato realised that it was the first time for some days that he had seen the man without the standard to hand. ‘Sir, what’s going on?’

  ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘Leaving?’ Mandrax looked surprised, then frowned. ‘Why, sir? We won. The enemy have gone. Why abandon Calleva now?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Orders. Now help me get our men formed up.’

  For a brief moment Mandrax stood quite still, staring at his centurion with an expression that Cato read as suspicion. Then he nodded slowly and turned away to see to his duties. Cato felt guilty about the order. These men he had fought alongside looked to Rome as their ally, and this order to quit Calleva would smack of betrayal, even though it made sense. Vespasian must have changed his mind. Or worse, Tincommius had proved to be telling the truth after all. Cato fastened his sword belt, tucked his helmet underneath his arm and strode over to the two lines of his men.

  The Wolf Cohort existed in name only : Cato counted thirty shadowy figures standing behind Mandrax and the standard. Many bore dressings on their arms, but each still carried an oval shield, javelin and the bronze helmet they had been issued months before. A surge of pride welled up inside Cato as he quickly inspected them. These men had proved themselves the equal of the legionaries in valour and steadfastness, and with more drill they would match their Roman c
omrades in skill at arms. The bond he shared with them through training and battle was as tight as any he had shared with his comrades in the Second Legion.

  But now they were ordered to quit Calleva, and their kin, and the centurion feared how they might react when they looked back over their shoulders and saw Calleva lying defenceless, a ripe fruit waiting to fall into the eager hands of Caratacus and his allies. That would be the true test of their loyalty to him and their standard.

  ‘All officers to the legate!’ a voice bellowed across the enclosure. ‘All officers to the legate!’

  Cato turned to his men. ‘Wait here!’

  * * *

  A small group of centurions clustered around Vespasian and the legate wasted no time on the usual formalities as he addressed them.

  ‘The scouts report a large force camped a few miles to the west of here. Too many campfires to be the same band having a go at Calleva yesterday. Looks as if Caratacus might have stolen a march on the general after all. Thing is, the scouts also saw the loom of another army’s fires in the distance, far beyond Caratacus’ lot. It might be Plautius; it might not. I’ve ordered some scouts to find out who they are. It is possible that Caratacus is moving in two columns, and that the general is still chasing his tail north of the Tamesis. In which case, we’re well and truly buggered.’

  A few of the officers chuckled nervously before their legate continued, ‘If we sit here and try to hold what’s left of Calleva’s defences we might last a day or two before we’re overwhelmed. Then the enemy will turn on the rest of the legion and destroy it in detail. Our best chance is to get out of here as soon as possible, head south and try to swing round the enemy’s flank and join up with the other cohorts at the legion’s camp. That we can defend, for as long as the food lasts, or Plautius reaches us. We’re taking Verica with us, and what’s left of his men. They can return to Calleva once the crisis is over. We’ll march in a tight column. We’ll take as few wagons as possible; just enough for the wounded. The men are to carry nothing but their weapons and armour and food for two days, nothing else. Any questions, gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Heads turned towards Tribune Quintillus. ‘What happens if the enemy catches up with us before we link up with the other cohorts?’