A figure stepped out of the imposing entrance hall, a youth in his early twenties, Vespasian guessed. He had light brown hair tied back and was broad-shouldered and tall – taller than Vespasian by a few inches. He wore a short tunic over his check-weave leggings and soft leather boots, a compromise of native and Roman attire.
The man grasped Vespasian's arm with an easy familiar smile.
'Greetings, Legate.' He spoke in faintly accented Latin.
'Do I know you? I don't recall…'
'We haven't met formally, sir. My name's Tincommius. I was with my uncle's entourage when he rode out to greet you… when your legion arrived here at the beginning of spring?'
'I see,' Vespasian nodded, not recalling the man at all. 'Your uncle?'
'Verica,' Tincommius smiled modestly. 'Our king.'
Vespasian looked at him again, giving the man a more serious appraisal. 'Your Latin's pretty fluent.'
'I spent much of my youth in Gaul, sir. I fell out with my father when he swore allegiance to the Catuvellaunians. So I went and joined my uncle in exile… Anyway, if you would care to leave your bodyguards here, I can take you through to see the king.'
Vespasian ordered his men to wait for him, and followed Tincommius through the tall oak doors. Inside there was an imposing open space, with a high vaulted thatch roof held up by huge timber beams. Tincommius noted that Vespasian was impressed.
'The king remembers his time in exile with a degree of fondness for Roman architecture. This was completed only a month ago.'
'It's certainly fit accommodation for a king,' Vespasian replied politely as he followed Tincommius into the hall. Tincommius had turned right and bowed respectfully, and Vespasian followed his lead. Verica was sitting alone on a dais. To one side stood a small table covered with dishes bearing a variety of luxury foods. To the other side, on the floor, rested an elegant iron brazier, from which a small bundle of logs hissed and cracked on red-hot embers. Verica beckoned to them, and with the sharp echoing footsteps of his nailed boots Vespasian approached the king of the Atrebatans. Though Verica was nearly seventy, underneath the wrinkled skin and long grey hair his eyes sparkled brightly. He was tall and lean, and still had the air of command that must have made him an imposing figure at the height of his powers, Vespasian realised.
Verica slowly finished the small pastry he had in his hand and then brushed the crumbs on to the floor. He coughed to clear his throat.
'I summoned you to discuss this afternoon's events, Legate.'
'I imagined that was the reason, sir.'
'You must stop these enemy raids into Atrebatan lands. They can't be allowed to continue a moment longer. It's not just your convoys that are being attacked; my people have been driven from their farms.'
'I understand that, sir.'
'Empathy does not fill stomachs, Legate. Why can't we have some of the reserves in your depot? You have plenty there, yet your Centurion Veranius refused to release any supplies to us.'
'He was acting on my orders. My legion may require everything that's in the depot.'
'Everything? There must be far more there than you could ever need. My people are starving now.'
'I've no doubt it'll be a long campaign, sir,' Vespasian countered. 'And I've no doubt we will lose yet more supplies to the Durotrigans before the season is over. Then, of course, I'll need to stockpile food at an advance base for next winter.'
'And what of my people?' Verica's hand moved over towards a dish of honeyed dates. 'They can't be allowed to go hungry.'
'Once we've defeated the Durotrigans your people can return to their farms. But we can't beat the enemy while my troops have no food in their stomachs.'
It was an impasse, and both men knew it. Tincommius eventually broke the silence.
'Legate, have you considered what might happen if you don't feed our people. What if the Atrebatans rose up against Verica?'
Vespasian had indeed considered the prospect, and the consequences of such a rising were deeply disturbing. If the Atrebatans deposed Verica and threw in their lot with the other tribes fighting for Caratacus then General Plautius and his legions would be cut off from the supply base at Rutupiae. With enemies before, behind and between the Roman columns, Plautius would have to retreat to the safety of Camulodunum. And if the Trinovantans there, cowed as they were, took heart from the revolt of the Atrebatans, then only a miracle could save Plautius and his legions from succumbing to a fate similar to that of General Varus and his three legions in the depths of Germania nearly forty years ago.
Vespasian controlled his anxiety and fixed Tincommius with a steady look. 'Do you think it is likely that your people will rise up against the king?'
'Not the king. Rome,' replied Tincommius. Then he smiled. 'They're only grumbling right now. But who knows what men might do if they're hungry enough?'
Vespasian kept his expression fixed while Tincommius continued, 'Hunger is not the only danger. There are some nobles who are less than enthusiastic about our alliance with Rome. Hundreds of our best warriors are fighting alongside Caratacus even now. Rome should not take the loyalty of the Atrebatans for granted.'
'I see,' Vespasian smiled faintly. 'You're threatening me.'
'No, my dear Legate!' Verica interrupted. 'Not at all. You must pardon the boy. Youngsters are prone to overstatement, are they not? Tincommius was merely stating the possibility in the most extreme terms, unlikely as it might seem.'
'Fair enough.'
'Be that as it may, you should know that there is a very real threat to my position, one that might be exploited if you continue to let my people go hungry.'
There was a palpable tension between the three men now and Vespasian's anger at the naked attempt to blackmail him threatened to erupt in a most undiplomatic flow of invective. He forced himself to suppress his feelings and reconsider the situation. It was bad enough that the Atrebatans were in two minds about their alliance with Rome; there was no point in making matters worse by fostering bad relations with those Atrebatans who still cherished the link.
'What would you have me do?'
'Hand over your food supplies,' Tincommius answered.
'Impossible.'
'Then give us enough men to hunt down and destroy these raiders.'
'That's impossible too. I can't spare a single man.'
Tincommius shrugged. 'Then we can't guarantee the loyalty of our people.'
The argument was going round in circles and Vespasian's frustration was turning to anger once more. There had to be a way through this. Then an idea did occur to him.
'Why can't you go after these raiders yourself?'
'With what?' snapped Verica. 'Your general permits me fifty armed men. That's barely enough to protect the royal enclosure, let alone the ramparts of Calleva. What could fifty men do against the force that attacked your convoy today?'
'Then raise more men. I'll petition General Plautius to suspend the limit on your forces.'
'That's all very well,' Tincommius said calmly, 'but we have very few warriors left. Many chose to join Caratacus rather than lay down their arms. Some – though not many – stayed loyal to Verica.'
'Start with them then. There must be many more who'd want revenge on the Durotrigans – all those whose farms have been destroyed by enemy raiders.'
'They're farmers,' Tincommius said dismissively. 'They know almost nothing about fighting. They don't even have proper weapons. They'd be slaughtered.'
'So train them! I can provide the weapons from the depot here – the moment we get permission from the general – enough for, say, a thousand men. That's more than sufficient to take on those raiders… Unless the Atrebatans are too afraid.'
Tincommius gave a bitter smile. 'You Romans, so brave behind your armour, your huge shields and all those cheap battlefield traps. What do you know of courage?'
Verica coughed. 'If I might make a suggestion…'
The other two turned towards the old man on the throne. Vespasian dipped his
head in assent. 'Please do.'
'It crossed my mind that you might lend us some of your officers to train our men in the ways of the Roman army. After all, it will be your equipment they will be fighting with. Surely you can spare that many men – if it helps solve both our problems?'
Vespasian considered the idea. It made good sense. Calleva would be able to take care of itself, and such a force might indeed take the strain off the legion's lines of communication. Well worth seconding a few officers for. He looked at Verica and nodded. The king smiled.
'Of course, such a force would need to be adequately provisioned in order to be effective… You said it yourself, Legate. Soldiers are only any good if they have full bellies.'
'Yes, my lord,' Tincommius nodded, and continued with a cynical edge to his voice, 'I dare say that the prospect of a decent meal will lead to no shortage of recruits. And a full belly has a wonderful way of dispersing rebellious instincts.'
'Now wait a moment.' Vespasian raised a hand, anxious not to commit himself to more than he could deliver. He was angry with the old man for manoeuvring him into this position, but accepted the cogency of his argument. The scheme might even work, provided, of course, that General Plautius agreed to the arming of the Atrebatans. 'It's an interesting proposition. I need to think about it.'
Verica nodded. 'By all means, Legate. But not for too long, eh? It takes time to train men, and we have very little time if it's to make a difference. Give me your response tomorrow. You may go.'
'Yes, sir.'
Vespasian smartly turned and marched out of the hall, under the silent gaze of the two Britons. He was anxious to be free of them and be somewhere quiet where his tired mind could think the plan through, without having to worry about being manipulated by the shrewd king of the Atrebatans.
04 The Eagle and the Wolves
Chapter Five
'Lift this please, Centurion.' The surgeon handed Cato a sword. He took it in his right hand and slowly raised it to his front. The early morning sunlight glinted along the blade.
'That's good. Push it out as far as you can, then hold.'
Cato looked down the length of his arm and grimaced at the effort of keeping the blade up; he could not stop the tip of the sword from wavering, and soon his arm began to tremble.
'To the side now, sir.'
Cato swept his arm round and the surgeon ducked beneath its arc. Macro winked at Cato as the surgeon straightened himself, well away from the blade.
'Well, no problem with the muscles there! Now then, how does your other side feel?'
'Tight,' Cato replied through gritted teeth. 'Feels like something's stretching badly.'
'Painful?'
'Very.'
'You can lower the sword now, sir.' The surgeon waited until the blade had been returned to its scabbard and then returned to the corner of the room. Cato stood before him, bare-chested and the surgeon ran his finger along the thick red line that curved round the left side of Cato's chest and a third of the way across his back. 'The muscles are quite tight under the scar tissue. You need to loosen them up. It's going to take plenty of exercise. It'll be painful, sir.'
'I don't care,' replied Cato. 'All I want to know is how soon I can get back to the legion.'
'Ah…' The surgeon made a face. 'That may take some time, and, well, frankly, you'd better not build your hopes up too much.'
'What do you mean?' Cato said with a quiet intensity. 'I am going to recover.'
'Of course you are, Centurion. Of course you are. It's just that you might have difficulty bearing the weight of a shield on your left arm, and the added strain of wielding a sword might well cause the muscles down the left side to tear. You'd be in agony.'
'I've endured pain before.'
'Yes, sir. But this would be quite incapacitating. There's no easy way to say this, sir, but your army career might well be over.'
'Over?' Cato replied softly. 'But I'm only eighteen… It can't be over.'
'I didn't say that it was, sir. Just that there is a chance that it might be. With thorough exercise and favouring of that side, there's a chance you could return to active service.'
'I see…' Cato felt sick. 'Thank you.'
The surgeon smiled sympathetically. 'Well, then, I'll be off.'
'Yes…'
Once the door was closed Cato pulled on his tunic and slumped down on his bed. He ran a hand through his dark curls. It was unbelievable. He had not even completed two years of service with the Eagles, and had only recently been promoted, and the surgeon was telling him it was as good as over.
'He can get stuffed,' said Macro, in an awkward attempt to cheer his friend up. 'You just need to get some exercise, get yourself back in shape. We'll work on it together, and I'll have you in front of your own century before you know it.'
'Thank you.'
Macro was only trying to be kind, and Cato, despite his inner agony, was grateful to the man. He straightened up and forced a smile on to his face. 'Better get started on the exercise as soon as possible then.'
'That's the spirit!' Macro beamed, and was about to offer some more encouragement when there was a sharp rap on the door.
'Come!' yelled Macro.
The door opened and a cavalry scout stepped smartly into the hospital room.
'Centurions Lucius Cornelius Macro and Quintus Licinius Cato?'
'That's us.'
'Legate requests your presence.'
'Now?' Macro frowned as he looked up through the open shutters. The sun was well above the horizon, by some hours. He looked at Cato with raised eyebrows. 'Tell him we'll be there directly.'
'Yes, sir.'
When the scout had closed the door behind him Macro quickly reached for his boots, and gave Cato a gentle nudge. 'Come on, lad.'
Vespasian waved his hand at a bench in front of the low table where he was eating his breakfast. There was a platter of small loaves, a bowl of olive oil and a jar of fish sauce. Macro met Cato's gaze and gave a disappointed shrug. If this was how legates ate, you could keep it.
'Now then,' Vespasian began, as he spread the dark fish sauce over a hunk of bread, 'how far have you two recovered from your wounds? Are you fit enough for light duties?'
Macro exchanged a quick look with Cato as their legate tore off a chunk of bread and popped it into his mouth. 'We're pretty much up for it, sir. Are we getting sent back to the legion?' Macro asked hopefully.
'No. Not yet, at least.' Vespasian couldn't help smiling at the centurion's eagerness to get back in the fight. 'I need two good men for something else. Something very important to the success of our campaign.'
Cato frowned. The last special task to which he and Macro had been assigned had nearly got them both killed. The legate read his expression accurately.
'Oh, it's nothing like last time. Nothing dangerous. Or at least, not likely to be dangerous.' Vespasian bit off another chunk of bread and started chewing. 'You shouldn't even have to leave Calleva.'
Cato and Macro relaxed.
'So then, sir,' Macro continued, 'what do you need us for?'
'You're aware that Centurion Veranius was killed yesterday? '
'Yes, sir. We were watching from the gatehouse.' Macro was momentarily tempted to add some phrase to register the sadness he imagined he was supposed to feel. But he refused to cheapen himself, especially since he had never particularly rated Veranius.
'He was the only officer I could spare to command this garrison.'
There was an implied judgement in that sentence and Macro was mildly surprised that the legate shared his view of the dead centurion.
'And now I need a new garrison commander. The duty should not be too onerous for you while you recuperate.'
'Me, sir? In command of the depot?' Now Macro's surprise was more pronounced. Then the prospect of his first independent command filled him with a warm glow of pride. 'Thank you, sir. Yes, I'd be happy – honoured – to do the job.'
'It's an order, Macro,' Vespasian replied d
rily, 'not an invitation.'
'Oh, right.'
'There's more.' The legate paused a moment. 'I need you and Centurion Cato to train a small force for the king here in Calleva. A couple of cohorts is what I have in mind.'
'Two cohorts?' Cato's eyebrows rose in surprise. 'That's over nine hundred men. Where are we going to find them, sir? I doubt there's enough men of the quality we need here in Calleva.'
'Then have Verica spread the word. I doubt you'll be short of volunteers in the current situation. Once they come forward, you pick them, train them in our way of waging war, and then you will serve as their commanders, personally responsible to Verica.'
Macro chewed his lip.
'Do you think that's wise, sir? Arming the Atrebatans? In any case, I thought the general's policy was to disarm the tribes. Even those allied to us.'
'It is his policy,' Vespasian admitted, 'but the situation's changed. I can't afford to spare any more men to protect Calleva, or to deal with these raids on our supply columns. I've no choice but to use the Atrebatans. So you start training them as soon as possible. I have to return to the legion today. I've sent word of my plans to General Plautius and asked him for permission to equip Verica's men from our stores here in the depot. Train them, and feed them, but don't arm them until you get word from the general. Understand?'
'Yes, sir,' said Macro.
'Do you think you can do it?'
Macro raised his eyebrows and gently rocked his head from side to side. 'I should think we can make something of them, sir. Can't promise to supply you with front-line troops.'
'So long as they make Verica and his people feel safe, and make those damn Durotrigans think twice before they attack our convoys. Above all, make sure that no harm comes to Verica. If he is deposed, or dies, the Atrebatans might turn against us. If that happens… we may have to abandon the conquest of this island. You can imagine how well that will go down in Rome. The Emperor will not be pleased with us.' Vespasian stared at the two centurions to underline the significance of his warning. If Britain was lost, then there would be no mercy shown to the officers most directly accountable: the legate of the Second Legion and the two centurions he had entrusted with defending Calleva and protecting the Atrebatan king. 'So keep Verica alive, gentlemen. That's all I ask of you. Do a decent job and then you two can get back to the legion the moment you're fit enough.'
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