There was no mistaking the disapproving tone and Plautius had to bite back on his irritation. There was far more at stake here than enhancing the retirement fund of a legionary prefect.
That bloody man Narcissus had announced to all and sundry in Rome that Britain was as good as conquered when the Emperor had returned from his sixteen-day visit at the end of the last campaigning season. A triumph had been held to celebrate the conquest of the island and Claudius had made an offering of spoils from his victories in the temple of peace.
Yet here the army was, nearly a year later, facing the same enemy. An enemy who was quite oblivious to the fact that they had already been defeated, according to the official history. And now the imperial general staff in Rome were getting a little uncomfortable about the discrepancy between the official account and conditions on the ground. Elsewhere in Rome, the families of young officers serving in Plautius’s legions were increasingly perplexed by letters they received that recounted the endless raids of the enemy, the daily attrition of the army’s strength and the failure to bring Caratacus to battle. Veterans and invalids returning from the distant front only confirmed the details in the letters, and the talk on the streets of Rome was starting to turn quite ugly. The dispatches General Plautius was receiving from Rome were getting increasingly impatient. Finally, Narcissus had written a terse and brutally frank note. Either Plautius finish the job by the end of the summer, or his career was over, and more besides.
The Fourteenth had finished assembling and the ten cohorts of heavy infantry stood in two lines, ready for the command to advance. Across the valley there was little sign of activity from Caratacus, no skirmishers or scouts out in front of the main body of his army, only the massed ranks of his warriors lining the palisade, waiting for the Roman attack. Here and there a standard waved slowly to and fro, and the shrill bray of war horns echoed across the valley to General Plautius, who smiled with satisfaction.
Very well, he decided, if Caratacus wants us to come and get him, then come and get him we shall. Plautius was further gratified by the knowledge that even now, two cohorts of auxiliary cavalry and the Twentieth Legion were completing their sweeping march round the flank of the enemy to seal off his line of retreat. A trusted local chief had offered to guide them through the wetlands that Caratacus had assumed was guarding his left flank. The guide had not volunteered to do this out of any loyalty to Rome, but for the promise of great reward, and the sparing of his family who were being held hostage in Plautius’ camp. That, the general thought confidently, was enough to guarantee the man’s good faith.
‘Permission to start the bombardment, sir?’ asked Praxus.
Plautius nodded, and the signalman raised a red banner. He paused, until the artillery signallers had raised their banners to show that they were ready to carry out the order. Then he dropped the banner. At once the air was filled with the sharp cracks of the torsion arms flying forward as they launched their heavy iron shafts over the heads of the Fourteenth Legion and into the Britons’ defences. Holes suddenly appeared in the palisade as the barrage tore through, taking out files of soldiers behind.
‘Damn! They’re good!’ Praxus shook his head. ‘Just sitting there and soaking it up. Never seen discipline like it.’
‘Maybe,’ Plautius said grudgingly. ‘But they’ll still be no match for our lads. You’d better get in position. Your legate is going to need the benefit of your experience today.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Praxus gave him a wry smile. Not all legates were up to the job and those that weren’t had to be carried by their senior professional officers until their tour of duty was complete. To be fair, Plautius reflected, the imperial general staff soon realised if a man did not measure up to the job and quickly reappointed him to a less vital government post back in Rome.
Praxus saluted and strode down the slope to join the colour party of the Fourteenth, casually tying the straps of his helmet as he went along. Plautius watched him go, then turned to see the standards of the Ninth Legion emerging from the camp as the second assault wave moved forward to its starting positions. The general bowed his head as the Emperor’s image was carried by. A rather too flattering portrait of Claudius, he decided, and one whose noble features bore comparatively little resemblance to the twitching fool who had been catapulted on to the throne only three years before. The ranks of the First Cohort of the Ninth Legion filed by, and the general briefly acknowledged their salute before focusing his attention back on the enemy defences.
As soon as the palisade was badly torn up Plautius gave the order for the batteries to stop the barrage. After the last bolt-thrower discharged its missile, there was a brief pause and then the headquarters trumpets sounded the advance. The two lines of the Fourteenth Legion rippled forward, the sun glinting off the bronze and tin helmets of nearly five thousand men as they marched down the slope, crossed the narrow floor of the valley and started to ascend the far slope.
‘Any moment now. . .’ Plautius muttered to himself. But there was no response from the defenders. No volley of arrows, no rattle of slingshot. The enemy’s discipline must have drastically improved, the general mused. In the earlier battles he had fought, the Britons had let loose their first volley the moment they thought the Romans were within range, thereby wasting a great quantity of their ranged munitions, as well as the devastating impact of a closely co-ordinated volley launched at short range.
The front ranks of the first wave of legionaries dipped down as they reached the defence ditch. On the far side, on the rampart, the Britons waited impassively for the Romans to reach them, and Plautius found himself tensing as he waited for the two sides to close in a deadly mêlée. Out of the ditch came the front rank of legionaries, struggling up the earth rampart and then hurling themselves on the enemy through the gaps in the shattered palisade. Such was the savagery of the final charge that the first five cohorts swept through the defences and into the enemy camp without stopping.
Then there was silence. No war cries. No enemy war horns. No din of battle. Nothing.
‘My horse!’ Plautius called out, the first dreadful doubt forming in his mind. What if Caratacus knew about the trap the Romans had prepared for him and refused to be taken captive? What if he persuaded his men that Rome would show them no mercy? After all, no mercy had been shown to those whose lands they had laid waste throughout the summer. Plautius felt sick. Had he gone too far? Had he convinced Caratacus that the only way left to defy Rome was suicide?
‘Where’s my bloody horse?’
A slave came running over, leading a beautifully groomed black stallion. The general snatched the reins and placed his boot on to the interlaced fingers of the slave. With a quick heave he swung his leg over and dropped on to his saddle. Plautius wheeled the horse towards the enemy fortifications and galloped down the slope. Some of the rear ranks of the men in the Ninth saw him coming and shouted a warning to their comrades. A path quickly opened up through the dense mass of legionaries and the general swept by, his sense of dread deepening with every beat of his heart. He urged his horse on, steering a path through the rear cohorts of the Fourteenth as he rode up the far slope. Plautius reined in at the ditch and swung himself down to the torn-up earth. He ran down the ditch and scrambled up the far side, then up on to the rampart.
‘Out of my way!’ he shouted at a group of his men standing quietly in a breach in the palisade. ‘Move!’
They hurriedly stepped aside and revealed the Britons’ camp beyond. Scores of dead campfires smouldered in the space behind the rampart. But there was no sign of the enemy. Plautius looked along the ruined palisade and saw hundreds of crude straw figures knocked flat by the artillery barrage, or trampled down by the first assault wave.
‘Where are they?’ he asked out loud. But none of his men would meet his eye. They no more knew the answer than did their general.
There was a sudden commotion and Praxus emerged on to the ramparts dragging a Briton with him. The man, obviously roaring drunk, slump
ed down at the general’s feet.
‘This is the only one I could find, sir. When we got into the camp I saw a small band of them riding off towards the river, that direction.’ Praxus nodded towards a serpent standard propped up against the palisade. ‘They must have been the ones blowing the horns and waving the standards.’
‘Yes,’ Plautius replied quietly, ‘that makes sense. . . That makes sense. Question is, where are they now? Where’s Caratacus and his army?’
For a moment there was silence, as Plautius looked south towards the river. Then the drunken Briton started singing, and the spell was broken.
‘Shall I send the scouts out, sir?’ asked Praxus.
‘Yes. Get back to headquarters and give the orders at once. I want every direction covered. I want them found as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir. What about this one? Want him interrogated?’
General Plautius looked down at the man, and the Briton met his gaze with a glazed expression, and then wagged a mocking finger at the Roman. In that gesture Plautius felt struck by a wave of ridicule, and sensed in himself the first inkling of a deep self-loathing and rage. Caratacus had tricked him; made him look a fool in front of his own legions, and as soon as word got back to Rome they would laugh at him there as well.
‘Him?’ he replied coldly. ‘We’ll get nothing useful out of this scum. Impale him.’
As Praxus detailed some men to carry the prisoner away General Plautius gazed south again, this time across the river, to the grey haze of the horizon beyond. Somewhere over there, in the distance, was Vespasian and the Second Legion. If Caratacus had turned south then Vespasian would be completely unaware of the enemy army bearing down on him.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Open the gate!’ Cato shouted.
‘No!’ Macro grabbed his arm, and leaned over the parapet to call down to the men below. ‘Keep the gate closed!’
Cato shook off his friend’s arm. ‘What the hell are you doing, sir? You trying to get Tincommius killed?’
‘No! Something’s wrong. Cato, think about it! How’d he get through their lines?’ ‘I did.’
‘And only just made it to the gate. Look at him! Full armour. Just walking up to us. They let him through.’
‘Let him through?’ Cato frowned. ‘Why?’
‘We’ll know soon enough.’ Macro peered over the palisade. ‘I never really trusted that bastard. . .’
Tincommius was standing thirty paces away from the gate, apparently unperturbed by the presence of hundreds of the Durotrigans lurking in the surrounding darkness.
‘Macro!’ Tincommius called out in Latin. ‘Open the gate. We need to talk.’
‘So talk!’
The Atrebatan prince smiled. ‘Some things are best discussed discreetly. Open the gate and come out.’
‘Does he think we’re mad?’ Macro grunted. ‘We’d be dead before we got halfway to him.’
‘I guarantee your safety!’ Tincommius shouted.
‘Bollocks!’ Macro replied. ‘Step up to the gate! Alone!’
‘Can you guarantee my safety?’ Tincommius responded in a mocking tone. ‘You’d better. . .’
‘Come closer!’ Cato pointed directly below the palisade. After a moment’s hesitation Tincommius began to walk slowly towards them. The two centurions quickly made their way down the ramp and while Macro gave the order to open the gate, Cato gathered two sections of legionaries in case there was any attempt by the Durotrigans to rush the entrance to Calleva. As the gate creaked open, just wide enough to allow a man to squeeze through, Cato could see the Atrebatan prince waiting for them on the far side. He reached for a torch being held by one of the legionaries.
‘Leave that!’ Macro snapped. ‘Want to make a fine target of yourself ?’
Cato lowered his hand.
‘Come on then, lad. Let’s see what Tincommius is playing at.’
Macro led the way, easing himself through the gap and stepping aside for Cato, all the while keeping a close watch on the man waiting for them. With Cato at his side he slowly walked forward until they were two sword lengths away from Tincommius.
‘What’s going on?’ Macro growled.
‘What do you think?’ Tincommius replied with a thin smile.
‘I’m too tired, and too pissed off for games. Get on with it.’
‘We want you to surrender.’
‘We?’
‘My allies out there.’ Tincommius jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, then nodded at the Calleva gateway. ‘And in there.’
‘You’ve sold us out mighty quickly,’ Cato said softly. ‘How long did it take them to make you change sides, you coward?’
‘Change sides?’ Tincommius arched his eyebrows. ‘I haven’t changed sides, Centurion. I’ve always been on the same side. The side that hates Rome, and all that it stands for. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Working hard for it. Now, you will surrender and let me take my rightful position on the throne.’
Macro stared at the young nobleman and then turned to Cato with a harsh laugh. ‘He’s joking!’
‘No. No, he’s not.’ Cato felt sick inside; the hollow despairing ache of a man who has just realised how completely he has been fooled. By the light cast from the torches on the palisade above he looked Tincommius in the eye. ‘All the time we’ve served together?’
‘Longer. Much longer, Roman.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Macro snorted. ‘Why do you think? The little lad here wants to be king. Problem is, your lot already have a king, traitor! ‘
Tincommius shrugged. ‘For the moment, maybe. But Verica will be dead in a few days, one way or another. Then I’m king. I’ll lead my people against the legions, at the side of Caratacus.’
‘You’re mad!’ Macro shook his head. ‘Once the general hears about this, the Atrebatans will be crushed like an egg in a mill.’
‘I think you seriously underestimate the gravity of your situation, Macro. Our lands lie right across the general’s supply lines. In a matter of days we’ll be able to hamstring your legions. I reckon you’ll be lucky to escape from Britain with your lives. What do you think, Cato?’
Cato did not reply. He could see the strategic situation unfolding in his mind’s eye and knew that the Atrebatan prince was right. Here in Calleva, feeling had been steadily turning against Verica, and the Romans he so closely associated himself with. There was a good chance that Tincommius would win enough support amongst his people to lead them in a rising against Rome. And Tincommius was right about the wider effects of such a revolt. The success or failure of the Roman bid to add these lands to the Empire rested on the edge of a blade.
A further terrible thought struck him.
“Verica. . . You attacked him?’
Of course I did,’ Tincommius replied quietly enough so that only the two centurions could hear him. ‘He had to be got out of the way. It wasn’t an easy thing to do. After all, he is my kinsman.’
‘Spare us the self-pity.’
‘Very well. He had to die for the sake of all the tribes of these lands. What is the blood of one old man, against the freedom of an entire race?’
‘So it wasn’t that difficult, then?’ Cato asked quietly, a growing sense of horror swelling up inside him as he realised how totally he had misjudged Artax. ‘And you might have killed him. . . if it wasn’t for Artax.’
‘Yes. Poor old Artax – and let’s not forget poor Bedriacus. . . More principles than brains – a common failing in my people. I did try to make Artax see where his true interests lay, but he wouldn’t have any of it. He came across me just as I was about to finish the old man off. Knocked me down. I didn’t have a chance. He got the king away safely, and then you came on the scene.’ Tincommius smiled. ‘I could hardly believe my fortune when you went after Artax. Of course I had to make sure that he was killed before he could say anything that might incriminate me.’ The Atrebatan prince laughed softly at Macro. ‘If it wasn’t for your unfortunate a
ppearance, I might have killed the king and Cato here as well.’
‘Why, you little bastard. . .’ Macro’s hand grasped his sword handle, but Cato clamped his hand on his friend’s arm before Macro could draw the weapon.
‘That’s enough, Macro!’ Cato said harshly, glaring into the other centurion’s eyes. ‘Hold still! We need to hear him out; hear his terms.’
‘That’s right, Centurion.’ A smile flickered across Tincommius’ face as he looked at Macro. ‘Better rein in that temper of yours, if you want to live. You, and your men.’
For a brief while Cato feared that Macro would explode and not rest easy until he had ripped the Atrebatan prince limb from limb with his bare hands. Then Macro took a deep breath, his nostrils flared, and he nodded.
‘All right. . . All right then, you bastard. Have your say.’
‘Most gracious of you. I want you and your men to leave Calleva and rejoin the Second Legion. You may take your weapons with you, and I guarantee your safe passage. . . as far as the legion.’
Macro snorted contemptuously. ‘And your word is worth. . . what? A pile of shit.’
‘Quiet!’ Cato cut in. ‘Why should we leave?’
‘You can’t defend the walls, not with that handful of legionaries, and whatever’s left of the two cohorts. If you try to resist then you will only die, and many of the people of Calleva will die with you. I’m giving you a chance to save all those lives. Life or death. That’s what’s on offer.’
‘What happens after we leave?’ Cato asked.
‘Surely you can guess? I tell the people of Calleva that Verica is dead. The council makes me king, and any man who is misguided enough to oppose an immediate alliance with Caratacus is disposed of. Then we tear your supply columns to pieces.’
‘In that case, you know we can’t surrender.’
‘I was rather hoping you’d say that. Still, I’m in no hurry. I’ll give you till dawn to make up your minds. By then there won’t be many Atrebatans left who’ll be willing to fight on your side. Not after I’ve told them that you’ve murdered their king.’
The Eagle and the Wolves Page 27
