The Eagle and the Wolves c-4

by Simon Scarrow4_

  Cato saw a flush of embarrassment in the young prince's face, before Tincommius replied, in Latin, 'I was younger then, sire, and more easily led. Since I've learned more of Roman ways, and fought alongside them, I've come to respect them and value what they have to offer the Atrebatans.'

  'And what do they have to offer the Atrebatans?' the Greek merchant interrupted. 'I'd be interested in your opinion. To hear it straight from the horse's mouth, as it were.'

  'I should have thought a Greek would know.'

  The merchant smiled at Tincommius. 'Forgive me, but we've lived under Roman rule too long to remember what it was like before. And since I'm investing quite a fortune in developing trading links with the new province I merely wish to understand the native view of the situation. If you wouldn't mind, young man?'

  Tincommius looked round the table uncomfortably, meeting Macro's curious gaze only briefly.

  'Tincommius, tell us,' Verica urged him gently.

  'Sire, like you I've lived a while in Gaul and have seen what you saw: the great towns with all their marvels. And you've told me of the endless network of trade routes that bind the empire together, of the wealth that flows along them to the very fringes of their world. Above all, you told me there is order. An order that tolerates no conflict, that forces its subjects to live in peace with each other, or face terrible consequences. That's why Rome must prevail.'

  Macro watched Tincommius closely. The man seemed sincere enough. But you could never really tell with these Britons, Macro reflected as he downed another horn of ale.

  'As long as I can remember the Atrebatans have been fighting other tribes,' Tincommius continued. 'Always the Durotrigans, and lately the Catuvellaunians, who so cruelly threw you out, sire.'

  Verica frowned at the tactless mention of his eviction from the throne by Caratacus and his tribe.

  'I never knew any different. War was our way, the way of all the Celtic tribes of this island. It's why we live in these poor huts, why we can never have our own empire. We have no common purpose, so we must bind ourselves to one who has… the Emperor.'

  'Although Caratacus hasn't been doing too badly on that score!' Macro chipped in, with a faint slur to his voice. Cato did a quick calculation and realised with alarm that Macro was already into his fourth horn of beer – on top of all the wine he had been drinking that afternoon. Macro nodded at Tincommius. 'I mean, look how many tribes he's managed to line up against us so far. If we don't kill the bastard quickly, who knows what trouble he's going to cause our general?'

  'Quite!' The merchant gave an oily smile. 'But we wouldn't want to give any credence to the idea that the enemy has any realistic chance of defying the legions, would we, Centurion? What does the other Roman officer think, I wonder?'

  Cato, who had been looking down in embarrassment while Macro spoke, raised his head to see that everyone was looking at him expectantly. He swallowed nervously, and made himself pause a moment to avoid blurting out anything that might make him look foolish. 'I speak with little authority on the matter. I've been serving with the Eagles for less than two years.'

  The merchant's eyebrows rose. 'And already a centurion?'

  'A good one!' Macro nodded, and might have continued to say more, but Cato quickly continued.

  'In that time I've fought the Germans as well as the Catuvellaunians, the Trinovantans and the Durotrigans. They're all fine warriors, as are the Atrebatans. But none of them can hold their own against the legions. When a nation takes up arms against Rome there can only ever be one result. The outcome may be delayed by the odd setback, or by an enemy who resorts to the kind of hit-and-run tactics Caratacus seems to be employing against us now. But the legions will always be on the advance, grinding down every enemy strongpoint under their heels. In the end, even Caratacus will not be able to keep the field. There will be no one left to supply him with new men, new equipment and, above all, food and shelter.'

  Cato paused to allow Tincommius to translate his words to those with little or no Latin. Artax snorted with contempt and shook his head.

  'I mean no disrespect to the tribes of these lands,' Cato continued. 'In fact, I have come to admire them, in many ways.' A vision of the gory trophies his men had taken after the ambush flashed through his mind. 'There are many great warriors amongst them, and that's their weakness. An army comprised of a multitude of such men has little value unless it is moulded into a single entity with unity of purpose, unity of action and subordinate to one will. That's why the legions will beat Caratacus. That's why they will destroy everyone that opposes them until Caratacus submits. By now he should know that he cannot win. He should know that he can only prolong the suffering of the tribes by continuing to resist, and it makes me grieve.'

  'Grieve?' interrupted Verica. 'You grieve for your enemy?'

  Cato nodded. 'Yes, my lord. I desire peace above all else. A peace in which both Rome and the Celtic people can profit. Peace will come one way or another, but always on Rome's terms. The longer some other tribes persist in refusing what you and the Atrebatans have come to accept, the longer the suffering on all sides will continue. It's pointless to resist. No, it's worse than pointless. It's immoral to cause suffering to continue when you know you can't prevail.'

  There was a short silence after Cato's words had been translated. Then Artax spoke quietly.

  'I wonder if it's immoral for us to be to be forced into such a position in the first place. Why has Rome come to these shores? What need has she of our poor hovels, when she has great cities, and immeasurable wealth of her own. Why does Rome seek to take what little we have?' Artax glared at him.

  'You may have little now, but join the Empire and you will have more in the future.' Cato replied.

  Artax laughed bitterly. 'I doubt that Rome is here for our benefit.'

  Cato smiled. 'You're right, for now. But in the end you might live to see this land a better place, thanks to Rome.'

  Tincommius frowned. 'But I still don't understand why Rome would want to come here if there was no profit in it.'

  'Politics!' said Macro. 'Bloody politics. Gives the nobs a chance to grab themselves a little glory. They get a nice write-up in the history books, while us rankers get ourselves killed. That's the way it is.'

  'So it's all about making Emperor Claudius look good?'

  'Of course.' Macro looked shocked at the naivety of the British prince. 'Besides,' he continued, wagging his finger, 'what makes you think it's any different over here? That's what all war is about – making some bastard or other look good. Now, where's the bloody beer gone? Slave! Come here!'

  While Macro waited for his horn to be filled up Cato quickly changed the subject.

  'My lord, when do we get to see this mysterious entertainment you've arranged for us?'

  'Patience, Centurion! First we must eat.' Verica nodded towards some of the noblemen's wives talking loudly at one of the nearest feasting tables. 'I doubt some of the more sensitive stomachs would care to continue eating when they see what I have in store for them.'

  When the last platters had been taken away by the kitchen slaves, Cadminius called for the guests to rise while the long trestle tables were pushed to the sides of the hall by the kitchen slaves. Verica retired to his high throne with a commanding view down the length of the hall, and those at the head table joined the rest of the packed throng sitting and standing at the cleared tables. More jugs of beer emerged from the kitchen and were distributed amongst the crowd, already loudly drunk, and the smoky rafters echoed to their shouts. The Celts kept to themselves and the foreigners formed a small, conspicuous group close to Verica's throne. Only Tincommius remained with them. Artax and the other high nobles had joined their warrior friends and were competing amongst themselves to see who could drink the most ale in one go. A handful of those with weaker stomachs had already passed out, while others were puking against the stone walls of the hall.

  'Your king certainly knows how to throw a party,' Macro smiled approvingly as he looked
round the crowd. 'Can't bloody wait for the main event.'

  'Won't have to,' Tincommius replied. 'Look there.'

  The main doors were swung open and some of the bodyguards manoeuvred a covered wagon into the centre of the hall. The noise from the crowd took on an excited tone as everyone strained to get a good view of the wagon. The wheels ground on the flagstones as something lurched under the cover and Cato heard a deep grunt above the hubbub of the guests. The bodyguards heaved the wagon into position just short of the dead centre of the hall. The covers were drawn back and the guests gave gasps of surprise and delight at the sight of two cages. In the larger was a huge boar, wild with fright and rage. In the smaller cage were three long-limbed hunting dogs, with deep chests and grey wiry hair, which rose stiffly along their backs as they growled at the boar.

  'This should be good!' Macro beamed, and drained his cup. 'Haven't seen a decent animal fight since Camulodunum.'

  Cato nodded.

  While some of the guards levered the cages into position others began lighting torches from the fire at the far end of the hall. They then formed a loose circle around the end of the wagon, casting a bright pool of illumination over the makeshift arena. When all was ready Cadminius gave the signal for the cages to be opened. The boar was first, goaded out of the cage and off the end of the wagon with prods from the spears of the men assigned to control the beast. It lumbered forward and made for a gap between the torch carriers. They hurriedly closed ranks and waved the crackling brands before its snout until it retreated to the centre of the hall, grunting deep in its throat as its dark eyes rolled at the sight of the drunken raucous crowd. The dogs were led out of their cage on leashes, already straining to get at the boar, and requiring all the strength of their handlers to hold them back. The boar eyed them nervously, swaying as if dancing to some slow music. The dog handlers pulled in the leashes, unslipped the chains and then held on to the collars tightly.

  On his throne Verica sharply rapped a goblet against the end of the wooden arm rest, the sound carrying over the general laughter and excited taking of bets. His guests dutifully fell silent, and then there were just the strangled whines of the dogs and the crackle of the fires and torches. Rising from his chair Verica's voice carried the length of the hall. Cato whispered a translation to Macro.

  'He apologises for the hounds, but there were no wolves to be had in such a hurry. He means the fight to honour the Wolf and the Boar Cohorts, and their commanders. The winner of the fight will be given the chance to do one more deed to complete the evening's entertainment.'

  'One more deed?' Macro turned towards Tincommius. 'What's that all about?'

  Tincommius shrugged. 'No idea. Honestly.'

  'As long as the old boy keeps the show going,' said Macro.

  Verica raised his arm, held it up for a moment, then swept it down with a dramatic flourish. The dog handlers released their grips on the collars and scurried for safety behind the ring of torches. The crowd roared as the hunting dogs bounded towards the boar, still swaying on its feet, but now with its shoulders hunched and jaws open and ready to deal terrible injury to its attackers.

  The first dog to reach its prey jumped for the boar's neck, jaws open, ready to clamp shut on the boar's throat and tear it out. But the boar struck first, swatting the hunting dog to one side with its snout as if it weighed no more than a sack of feathers. The dog crashed to the stone floor with a sickening thump and a pained yelp. The crowd cried out: a strangely dissonant chorus of groans from those who had backed the dogs, and cheers from those who had bet on the boar. The other dogs, true to the intelligence of their breed, swerved aside and took up positions either side of the boar, feinting with sudden darting movements and snaps of their great jaws. Slowly shifting round, the boar kept its tusks lowered, ready to deal slashing blows at any dog that came within reach.

  'No two dogs alive are ever going to kill that beast,' Macro yelled above the roar of the crowd. Cato nodded his agreement; the first dog was still struggling to get back on to its feet.

  'Don't be too sure, sir,' Tincommius shouted back. 'Have you ever seen this breed before?'

  Macro shook his head.

  'They come from across the sea.'

  'Gaul?'

  'No. The other way. I think you Romans call it Hibernia.'

  'I've heard of it,' Macro bluffed.

  'From what they say, it's so inhospitable that I doubt even a Roman would consider invading it. They breed good hunting dogs, though. Like those three. That boar's in for the fight of its life.'

  'Care to take a wager?'

  'What's the stake?'

  'Wine. I'd kill for something to take away the taste of this beer.'

  'You haven't had a problem with it so far.'

  Macro slapped a friendly arm around the young Celt's shoulder as he grabbed the nearest jug of beer. 'Soldiers will drink anything to get shit-faced. Anything, old son. Even this crap. Cheers!'

  'An amphora of wine on the dogs then, sir,' said Tincommius, as he casually shrugged off the centurion's arm.

  'Done.' Macro raised the jug to his lips and guzzled a deep draught, brown drips spilling from each side of his mouth.

  The first dog had finally regained its feet, and took position between the other two, warily waiting for a chance to dash in and snap at the boar. The latter now had to keep watch in three directions and its great dark head was constantly turning this way and that. Cato watched the spectacle with a curious mixture of sentiment. He had been to the games in Rome a few times and had witnessed the bloody contests between beasts before. They had always struck him as somehow distasteful, even as he had thrilled to the tense atmosphere, and the excitement of the fights themselves, but afterwards he was left feeling guilty, sordid. Now, this fight between the hunting dogs and the boar induced that same sense of compulsive interest and repulsive self-awareness.

  There was a sharp yelp of agony as the injured dog feinted towards the boar's leg and retreated too slowly to avoid the tusks. Now it lay where it had fallen, belly and chest ripped open. Glistening intestines slipped out into a smeared pool of blood as the dog jerked its legs in a pathetic attempt to rise back to its feet.

  Macro smacked his thigh. 'I can taste that wine already!'

  The boar took advantage of the fallen adversary, padded over and slashed at the stricken dog. In doing so, it brought about its own destruction. In a blur of grey one of the other dogs leaped on to the boar's back and buried its teeth in the boar's bristling neck. The third dog flew in from the side and clamped its teeth round the boar's throat. Instantly the boar lowered its head, frantically trying to shake its attackers loose, but the powerful jaws held firm, crushing its windpipe. Slowly the beast weakened, the flailing of the trotters gradually fading. At last the boar swayed a moment before its legs gave out and it slumped to the ground, with the dogs' jaws still clamped below its head. A roar of delight erupted from the crowd, drowning out the groans of those who had backed the boar.

  'Fuck!' Macro shouted. 'Where'd they get that boar from? Bloody fight was rigged!'

  Tincommius laughed. 'Shall I collect my wine in the morning, Centurion?'

  'Do what you like.'

  Cato ignored them, and watched in sick fascination as the dogs tore out the boar's throat with all the vicious efficiency of many years of training for their role in the hunt. Once the boar was quite dead the handlers moved in and carefully replaced the leashes on their charges. The dead dog was heaved back into the wagon, then half a dozen bodyguards strained with the loose mass of the boar, struggling to lift it on top of the mangled form of its erstwhile foe. Then the wagon was trundled out of the hall again, and a fresh murmur of excitement rippled through the crowd as they waited for the final entertainment of the evening.

  After a short pause the bodyguards returned to the hall. Between each pair of men was a prisoner, bound hand and foot, eight of them in all. The prisoners were dragged to one side of the hall, close to the guests sitting on the tables. Opposit
e them were the hunting dogs, blood dripping from their muzzles and flanks still heaving from the frenzied effort of their attack on the boar.

  'What the hell's going on?' asked Macro, turning to Cato. 'They're our bloody prisoners!'

  Cato looked at the prisoners. 'I know them. They're the Atrebatans we captured… Oh, no. He can't mean to…' The colour drained from Cato's face.

  'What?' Macro asked. 'What's going on? Who are you talking about?'

  Verica was back on his feet, and the guests needed no prompting for silence as their gaze flickered between the king of the Atrebatans and the bound prisoners, glancing anxiously at the dogs. Verica started to speak. This time there was no warmth in his voice, no hint of his earlier hospitality.

  'The traitors are to die. If they had been Durotrigans they might be spared with a less terrible end. There can be no easy death for those who turn on the tribe that gave life to them and demands loyalty unto death in return. Therefore, they will die like dogs, and their bodies will be cast into Calleva's midden for the carrion to feed on.'

  'He can't be serious,' Cato whispered to Tincommius. 'Surely?'

  'Not with my bloody prisoners!' Macro added indignantly.

  Before they could raise any protest, a figure leaped from the crowd and ran into the space between the hunting dogs and the huddle of bound prisoners. Artax pointed to the prisoners and addressed his king and the guests in a deep, commanding voice.

  'What's he saying?' asked Macro.

  Cato could understand some of the words, but Artax's passion had been inflamed. That, and far too much beer, made the torrent of words hard to follow. Cato grasped Tincommius' arm and nodded at Artax.

  'He knows those men,' Tincommius explained. 'One is his half-brother. Another is his wife's cousin. He wants them spared. No member of our tribe should die like this.'

  A grumble of assent accompanied Artax's words, but Verica pointed a trembling finger at the prisoners and replied in tones of indignant anger, 'They will die. They must serve as an example to all those who would side with the enemies of the Atrebatans and Rome. The lesson must be learned. All those who even think of betraying their king must learn of his terrible revenge.'