The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Our boy Verica doesn’t seem to be taking any risks.’ Macro had to raise his voice above the noisy chatter and loud drunken laughter of the native guests.

  ‘Can’t blame him,’ Cato answered. ‘He’s old and nervous and wants to die peacefully in his bed, I imagine.’

  Macro, who was looking around for something to drink, was not listening. ‘Oh shit!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘There’s only that crap beer again. Bloody barbarians.’

  Cato was suddenly aware of a looming presence at his shoulder and turned quickly. A huge warrior with flowing blond hair and a broad face regarded the two Romans curiously. He had narrow eyes that glinted in slits of reflected firelight.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘You Romans?’ The accent was thick, but comprehensible. ‘Romans who lead the king’s men?’

  ‘That’s us,’ Macro beamed. ‘Centurions Lucius Cornelius Macro and Quintus Licinius Cato, at your service.’

  The Briton frowned. ‘Lucelius. . .’

  ‘Never mind, old son. Let’s keep it simple – Macro and Cato will do for now.’

  ‘Ah! Those are the names I need. Come.’ Without waiting for any reply to the abrupt summons the Briton turned and strode off towards the throne at the end of the hall where his king was seated, drinking goblet in hand, surveying the scene as he chewed on a leg of roast lamb. At the sight of Cato and Macro he tossed it to one side and sat up smiling. A brace of huge hunting dogs pounced on the half-eaten leg and wrestled for its possession.

  ‘There you are!’ Verica called out to the approaching soldiers. ‘My guests of honour.’

  ‘Sire.’ Cato bowed his head. ‘You honour us too much.’

  ‘Nonsense. I was afraid you would be too busy with your paperwork to join us. I know, from all my years in exile, that you Romans are sticklers for making reports,’ Verica smiled. ‘But now Cadminius has found you. You are most welcome. There’s two seats for you at the high table when the food is served. If it’s ever served.’ He turned towards Cadminius and made some sharp remarks that clearly stung the captain of the bodyguard. At his master’s bidding he trotted off towards a small door at the rear of the hall. Through the small opening Macro could glimpse bodies stripped to the waist, glistening as they laboured over suckling pigs slowly roasting over cooking fires. The prospect of some juicy roast pork after several days of field rations made Macro’s mouth water.

  ‘Tell me, Centurion Macro, what are your plans for my cohorts now?’ asked Verica.

  ‘Plans?’ Macro frowned. ‘I suppose we keep training them. They’re, er, they’re still a bit rough around the edges.’

  ‘Rough?’ Verica looked a little unhappy.

  ‘Nothing that a bit of hard drilling won’t improve,’ Macro rushed on. ‘Ain’t that right, Cato?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A man can never have enough drilling.’

  Macro shot him a warning look; this was no time for irony. ‘Lads can’t ever have enough drilling. Keeps them honed and ready to fight the enemy at any moment. You’ll see the benefit of it soon enough, sire.’

  ‘Centurion, I want soldiers – not martinets. I want soldiers for the sole reason of killing my enemies. . . wherever they may be found.’ With the lightest wave of his slender hands Verica indicated the figures crowding his great hall.

  Cato felt a chill tingle the length of his spine at the king’s words. He glanced quickly at the nearest faces amongst the guests, wondering how many amongst them harboured treachery towards their leader. Verica had noticed the change in the young officer’s expression and laughed softly.

  ‘Relax, Centurion! I doubt I’m in much danger, for tonight at least, thanks to your victory over the Durotrigans and their allies. We must enjoy the interlude for as long as it lasts. I merely wished to discover what plans you two have for taking the campaign to the Durotrigans.’

  ‘Campaign?’ Macro was startled. ‘There’s no campaign, sire. The ambush was a one-off – a lucky chance we seized and made the most of. That’s all there is to it. The cohorts, your cohorts, were only raised to protect Calleva and the supply convoys, sire.’

  ‘And yet they’ve proved their worth in the field. Why not make the most of the opportunity? Why not lead them against the enemy directly? Why not?’

  ‘Sire, it’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Simple?’ Verica’s smile abruptly disappeared.

  Cato swallowed nervously and interceded to save Macro any further discomfort.

  ‘What Centurion Macro means to say is that the cohorts need to be trained to prepare for a more demanding role. This victory is only the first of many, and when the Wolves and the Boars next march to war you can be assured they will crush your foes and extend the limits of your glory, sire.’

  Macro looked at him open-mouthed, but Verica was smiling again, and seemed to be satisfied at the prospect the young centurion held up to him.

  ‘Very well then, gentlemen! Later, perhaps, I’ll propose a toast to the continuing success of the partnership between my people and Rome. But here’s Cadminius coming back. The food must be ready – it had better be. Would you two be kind enough to take a place at the table there? I’ll join you in a moment.’

  The two centurions bowed their heads and made their way over to the head table.

  ‘What the fuck was that all about?’ Macro hissed. ‘What are you thinking of? Those two cohorts are for garrison duty, and convoy protection. And that’s bloody well it. They’ll not win him an empire, let alone a proper battle.’

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Cato. ‘What kind of a fool do you take me for?’

  ‘But you said—’

  ‘I said what he wanted to hear, that’s all. He’ll change his mind soon enough, the moment his people start grumbling again. That’s when he’ll want his cohorts as close to him as possible.’

  Macro glanced at his young companion. M hope you’re right. I hope you haven’t planted any stupid ideas in his head.’

  Cato smiled. ‘Who in their right mind would listen to the advice of someone barely old enough to be considered a man?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ grumbled Macro.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The kitchen slaves eventually arrived with the food, straining under the weight of the glistening spitted pigs. Cadminius’ shoulders slumped with relief now that his master had stopped tapping his foot and eagerly eyed the steaming hunk of meat and crackling being carved for him. Verica had quit his throne and lay on a couch, Roman style, overlooking the hall, and his most privileged guests were arranged round the remaining three sides. The head table was on a raised platform so that the king and his party would have the best view of the entertainments. Macro and Cato had been given the place of honour to Verica’s right, and the remaining places were taken up by Atrebatan nobles, and a plump Greek merchant with heavily oiled and scented hair. Close to Cato sat Artax, with Cadminius at his side. Their eyes briefly met, and Cato saw the same sullen arrogance in them that Artax had displayed at their first encounter in the depot. Tincommius, relieved from his duties at the entrance, had joined them and sat with the two centurions.

  Cato gently nudged him as they waited for Verica to start eating. ‘Any idea what the entertainment will be after the banquet?’

  ‘None. The old boy’s been playing it close to his chest. I think Cadminius is in on it. That’s why he’s been so nervous all afternoon – wants to make sure the big surprise is a real treat for the audience.’

  ‘Doubt I’ll last until then if I have to wait for my food a moment longer. . .’

  There was a palpable tension in the great hall as the king’s guests waited silently for their host to take his first mouthful. Only then could they eat from the heaped plates in front of them. With theatrical grace the aged king lifted a sliver of pork to his lips and nibbled a corner. Behind him a bodyguard raised the royal standard, paused and let it slip back down so that it rapped sharply on the flagstone. At once the guests burst into rene
wed conversation and began to cram their mouths with food and beer. Cato lifted his drinking horn and peered into the brew: a dark honey colour with a light froth around the edges. Cato felt sick at the sweet malty smell that filled his nostrils. How could these people drink this stuff?

  ‘Whatever you do,’ said Macro, close to his ear, ‘don’t pinch your nose when you swallow. Take it like a man.’

  Cato nodded and braced himself for the first sip. The bitterness came as a surprise, a pleasant surprise, he decided. Maybe there was a future for British beer after all. He lowered the cup and started chewing on a crudely cut hunk of steaming pork.

  ‘Good!’ He nodded to Macro.

  ‘Good? ‘S bloody wonderful!’

  For a while, the guests at the top table ate in silence, grateful for the food after the lengthy delay. Verica, older and more gracious than his nobles, held his meat in a delicate manner and nibbled steadily at the pork with his remaining teeth. His appetite quickly deserted him and, wiping his greasy fingers in the long fur of one of his hunting dogs, he raised his drinking horn and looked over towards the two Romans.

  A toast to our Roman friends, their Emperor Claudius and the swift defeat of those foolish enough to resist the advance of Rome.’

  Verica repeated the toast in Celtic and his words were taken up by the others seated around the table – although not all of them looked quite as enthusiastic as their king, Cato decided, as he glanced sidelong at Artax. Following the king’s cue Cato raised the horn to his lips.

  ‘You must drink it in one go,’ whispered Tincommius.

  Cato nodded, and as everyone began to down their ale he forced himself to begin, fighting off the impulse to gag at the heavily flavoured brew, and clamping his teeth shut to strain the clutter of sediment and other solids at the bottom of the horn. He wiped the flotsam clear of his lips with the back of his hand and set the nearly empty vessel back down on the table.

  Verica nodded approvingly and signalled to one of his servants to refill the drinking horns before looking meaningfully at Macro, who was busy tearing off a piece of crackling with his teeth.

  ‘Sir,’ muttered Tincommius.

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘You’re supposed to return the gesture.’

  ‘What? Gesture?’

  ‘Make a toast.’

  ‘Oh!’ Macro spat the crackling out and raised his drinking horn. Everyone was looking at him expectantly and suddenly Macro couldn’t think of anything suitable to say. He glanced beseechingly towards Cato but his friend seemed to watching Artax closely and did not notice his appeal for help. Macro quickly licked his lips, coughed and then began with a stammer, ‘R-right then. To King Verica. . . his noble cohorts and. . . his interesting tribe.’

  As Tincommius translated, the native guests frowned at the strange and awkward choice of words. Macro flushed with embarrassment, little used to such social ceremonies. He tried to continue in a more appropriate vein.

  ‘Long may the Atrebatans remain faithful allies of Rome. May they profit from the speedy defeat of the barbarian tribes of this island.’

  Macro raised his cup and beamed at the other guests. With the exception of Verica, they looked uncomfortable. Artax pointedly sipped from his horn before setting it down and glaring at the meat on his Samian ware platter.

  As the other guests looked away Cato whispered, ‘That might have been phrased better.’

  ‘Well then, you do it next time.’

  The Greek merchant delicately placed his drinking horn to one side and started a quiet conversation with his neighbour, neatly drawing the man’s attention away from the tense silence on the head table. Verica was eating some dainty pastries and waved a finger to attract Macro’s attention.

  ‘Interesting toast, Centurion.’

  ‘Sire, I did not mean to offend. To be honest, I’ve never been called on to do this kind of thing before – at least not in front of a king. I just meant to celebrate our alliance, and look forward to the future. . . that’s all, sire.’

  ‘Of course,’ Verica replied smoothly. ‘No offence was taken. At least not by me, although I can’t speak for some of the hotter heads in my family.’ He nodded towards Artax with a laugh. ‘And young Tincommius there – his father was no friend of Rome while I was in exile. Took a while for Tincommius to see that his father was wrong. Now look at him.’

  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 prince?’

  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.

  Τ mean no disrespect to the tribes of these lands,’ Cato continued. Tn 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, sire. 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.’