The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  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 naïvety 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.

  ‘Sire, 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 circling 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 a
rm.

  ‘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 slowly 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. Opposite 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 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.’

  A loud chorus shouted in support of their king and an empty goblet sailed across the hall and struck one of the prisoners on the head. Artax was shaking his head as the king spoke, and then raised his voice in protest once again. Tincommius translated for the two Romans.

  ‘He begs the king not to proceed with this, that such an atrocity will turn the people against him.’

  Verica angrily shouted Artax down and gestured to Cadminius to remove the nobleman. Artax continued to shout his protests, even after the captain of the bodyguard had grasped his arm, wrenched Artax towards the entrance of the great hall and thrust him outside. Without any further delay Cadminius strode over to the huddle of prisoners, took the nearest man by the chain binding his wrists together, and dragged him into the centre of the hall. Left alone, the prisoner struggled desperately against his bonds and screamed for help. The dog handlers unleashed the hunting dogs and snapped their fingers to attract the animals’ attention. The victim was pointed out, then there was a moment’s awful silence, even from the prisoner, who watched the dogs, transfixed. Then the word of command was given and the dogs leaped on the helpless man. He screamed, shrill and terrified as the dogs mauled his face, struggling to reach his throat. Then the screams were muffled, and there was only a gurgling whimper. Then nothing. The man went limp. The dogs jerked the corpse around like a straw training dummy.

  There were cheers from the crowd. But as Cato looked round it was clear that many of the guests were horrified by the spectacle, and they watched in silence.

  ‘Shit. . .’ muttered Macro. ‘Shit. . . That’s no way for a man to die.’

  ‘Not even a traitor?’ Tincommius said acidly.

  The handlers pulled the dogs back from the body. It was no easy task now that their killer instincts had been roused. Two men dragged the body away as Cadminius selected his next victim and dragged the man out on to the blood-smeared flagstones where the first man had died. Cato looked towards Verica, hoping that the king might change his mind, even now. But the cold look of satisfaction on Verica’s face was clear for all to see.

  Cato nudged Macro as he stood up. ‘I have to go. I can’t watch this.’

  Macro turned towards him and Cato was surprised to see that even this hardened veteran had seen more than he could stomach.

  ‘Wait for me, lad.’

  Macro heaved himself off the table, and struggled to find his legs under the influence of all the beer he had drunk that evening. ‘Give me a hand here. Tincommius, we’ll see you in the depot tomorrow.’

  Without tearing his eyes away from the fate of the second man Tincommius nodded faintly.

  Cato slipped Macro’s arm over his shoulder and made his way towards the main entrance, keeping as far from the dogs as possible,
while the beasts tore into another victim. Outside the hall Macro could take it no more. He wrenched himself free, staggered a few steps away from his friend and doubled over, vomiting. While Cato waited for Macro to finish, a steady stream of Atrebatan nobles left the great hall, struggling to hide their feelings of horror and disgust as, behind them, fresh screams split the night air.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘When did this arrive, exactly?’ General Plautius tossed the report on to the desk of his chief clerk. The man turned the scrolled parchment the right way up, and by the light of an oil lamp he ran his finger across the top until he found the index notation.

  ‘Just a moment, please, sir,’ the clerk said, rising from his chair.

  The general nodded, and turned away to stare out through the tent flaps. The sky was overcast and even though the sun had only just set it was already quite dark. Dark and hot. The humid air was oppressively uncomfortable, and threatened a break in the good weather of the last few days. Much as a storm might clear the prickly discomfort in the atmosphere, the general dreaded the effect it would have on his transport vehicles. Of all the places he had fought in his career, this ghastly island had to be one of the worst as far as the weather went. Even though this land never knew the long savage cold of a German winter or the seething heat of the plains of Syria, it had a peculiar discomfort all of its own.

  The problem with Britain was that the island was always more or less damp, the general decided. A few hours of rainfall left the ground slick with mud, and any attempt to move even a small force of men and vehicles across it soon churned up a glutinous bog, which sucked the army down and caked everything in filth. And this was on the good ground. Plautius had seen enough of the British marshes to know how impenetrable they could be to his forces. The natives, however, had made good use of their local knowledge and had sited a number of their forward camps on whatever firm ground existed in the vast spread of wetlands west of the upper reaches of the Tamesis. From these bases Caratacus was launching his raiding columns through the thin Roman screen of fortlets. They struck at the legions’ supply convoys, destroyed the farms and settlements of those tribes allied to Rome and, when ambition caused the warlike Celtic blood to rush to their heads, they even took on the odd Roman patrol or minor fortification.