The Eagle and the Wolves c-4

by Simon Scarrow4_

  '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 the point of a javelin had been thrust. The iron tip 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. 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 decurion 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 a false dawn. All about him shadows moved in the gloom as the Roman officers moved down the lines of 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 by the glow of spluttering flames. Bending down to retrieve his segmented armour, Cato wriggled 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?'

  '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 the oval shield, javelin and 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 comrades 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?'

  Vespasian answered curtly, 'If that happens, Tribune, you'll have to continue your career in another life… Gentlemen! Let's make sure it doesn't happen. Anyone else?… Good. Back to your units. We march as soon as I give the signal… Centurion Macro! A moment, please.'

  Macro, a man who favoured the back row of any gathering – a hangover from a very brief period of formal education as a child – waited until the other officers had dispersed before approaching the legate.

  'Sir?'

  'You know Centurion Gaius Silanus?'

  'Yes, sir. Second Cohort.'

  'That's him. Or was. He was killed in a skirmish yesterday. I want you to replace him. Take what's left of your garrison with you.'

  'Yes, sir. What about Centurion Cato, sir?'

  'What about him?'

  'Are his men to march with us?'

  Vespasian nodded. 'We need every man who can hold a weapon. Cato's cohort – what is it you call them?'

  'The Wolves, sir.'

  'Wolves? Good name. Anyway, they'll guard the carts.'

  'They won't like that, sir,' Macro replied quietly. 'They'll want to fight.'

  'Really?' said Vespasian with a trace of irritation. 'Well, they'll do as I tell them.'

  'Yes, sir. I'll let Cato know.'

  'You do that.'

  As the first rays of the sun washed the sky, the dense column of heavy infantry, and the remaining handful of their native allies, emerged from the ruin of Calleva's main gate. A pale blue light hung across the landscape and, looking up, Cato could see that it would be a cloudless day. A hot march lay ahead with the sun beating down on them. As soon as the First Cohort cleared the gate it turned south, towards the legion's camp. The wagons carrying the wounded and King Verica were positioned in the middle of the column and on either side marched Cato's men, and the royal bodyguard under Cadminius. Vespasian had made it quite clear that all the native troops were placed under the command of Centurion
Cato, without exception, to the obvious chagrin of Verica and the captain of his personal guard.

  As the tail of the column emerged from Calleva, Cato looked back and saw a line of faces along the palisade, watching them depart in silence. The bitter expressions well told of the betrayal and despair felt by the Atrebatans. To one side, where the watchtower had once stood, a tall pole rose up from the charred timbers. Impaled on the top was the head of Tincommius, his features so bruised and swollen that it was barely possible to recognise the once handsome prince.

  A small column of refugees hurried from the gate, heading in the opposite direction in a bid to escape the inevitable bloodshed when Caratacus and his army arrived before Calleva. Away to the west the tiny figures of a screen of cavalry appeared on a distant hillside and moved towards Calleva with painstaking slowness. Behind them, crossing the brow of the hill, crawled a thick black column of infantry. The Durotrigans who had withdrawn from Calleva the previous night now marched with their allies. Caratacus, it seemed, had made an early start as well. Nearly five miles separated the two sides, by Cato's estimate. Not much of a margin, but one that the hard-marching legionaries should be able to maintain until they reached the Second Legion's fortified encampment.

  Before long the enemy column changed course, moving obliquely away from Calleva and straight towards the Romans. Vespasian's small force crested a low ridge and marched out of sight of the Atrebatan capital. The sun rose and climbed steadily into a clear sky, and not a breath of wind disturbed the air so that the deafening crunch of army boots and the squeaking creak of the wagons' wheels filled the men's ears. Dust was thrown up by the leading cohort and it left grit in the mouths of the men further down the column. By late morning the sun was shining brightly and sweat poured off the men marching without respite, since any stop would close the gap between them and their pursuers.

  So it was that at noon, the head of the column was approaching a narrow vale that curved round a small bare hillock. At the head of the column rode Vespasian and Tribune Quintillus, eschewing the normal practice of riding behind the vanguard. The legate was keen to reunite his forces as speedily as possible and did not want to waste any time having the lay of the land ahead relayed to him.