The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘You should see the other man. . .’ Macro chuckled and then burst into a raucous cough. He doubled up for a moment, and then as the coughing fit ended he looked round at Figulus.

  ‘Nearly forgot. . . You’re on a charge, sunshine. Disobey an order again. . . and I’ll have you flogged.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was only—’

  A distant roar of voices sounded from beyond the depot gate.

  Something was wrong. The entrance to the depot was filled with men trying to force their way out of the gate and up the street and the two opposed flows of humanity melded into a hopeless tangle. Cries of anger and desperation rose from the throng.

  Cato pushed his way forwards. ‘Silence! Silence there!’ he roared out. Most tongues were stilled as faces turned towards him.

  ‘What’s going on? Somebody make a report!’

  ‘They’re in!’ someone shouted. ‘The bastards have got into the depot! ‘

  Over the heads of the dense mass of men blocking the gate, Cato looked through the arch and beyond the administration block, towards the grain dump at the rear of the depot. Beyond that, swarming over the rampart, came the Durotrigans. Several bodies in red tunics lay by the palisade and a handful of others were being cut down as they tried to stem the onrush. Already, some of the fainter-hearted of the legion’s noncombatants had thrown down their weapons and were fleeing back across the depot, desperate to escape the howling mass of enemy warriors, already spreading out across the rear of the depot, and racing towards the remaining defenders by the gate.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’d better let me see the legate right now.’ The stranger glared at the optio, who was standing between two legionaries. They looked like the kind of hardy veterans even the toughest criminals back in Rome would cross the street to avoid. Consequently the optio showed only the slightest concern in the face of the mud- stained individual in a filthy tunic who had presented himself at the camp gate as dusk closed in. The small measure of doubt was due to the stranger’s patrician accent. Only a small fortune could have paid for enunciation like that, unless, of course, the man was an actor.

  ‘Who do you think you are, mate?’ asked the optio.

  ‘I already told you.’ The man spoke with elaborate calm. ‘I am Tribune Caius Quintillus.’

  ‘Don’t look much like a tribune to me.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve ridden through the night and today to get here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s something of an emergency back at Calleva.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Yes. The garrison is under attack and I’d rather like the legate to know, so that he can send help to Centurion Macro.’

  ‘Macro? Oh, well, that’s different. If Macro’s in trouble you’d better come in.’ The optio turned to one of his men. ‘Take him to headquarters.’

  Quintillus clamped his mouth shut as he followed the legionary through the gateway of the Second Legion’s marching camp, and up the main thoroughfare towards the complex of tents where the legate had his headquarters. There would be time enough to humiliate that wretched optio later. Right now Quintillus needed to warn Vespasian of the danger to Calleva while there still might be a chance of saving the Atrebatans’ capital. Then the tribune might yet salvage some political capital from the situation. After all, he had risked his life to get the message to Vespasian. Not that he had run into any of the enemy in his desperate ride for help, but he might have. Courage, he reminded himself, consists of action in the knowledge of the probability of peril. He had acted, and was therefore due his portion of admiration. That made him feel far better, and by the time they reached headquarters the tribune was bathing in the warm glow of high self-regard.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Vespasian snapped, once the man was admitted to his quarters. The legate was sitting behind his desk, preparing, by the faint light of the setting sun, the orders for the next phase of the campaign. In two days’ time the Second Legion would be moving west once more, to destroy a string of hillforts along the northern frontier of the Durotrigans’ lands. After that the legion would strike south, laying waste everything in its path until it reached the coast. By then, the Durotrigans must sue for peace, and there would be one less tribe allied to Caratacus.

  Vespasian had just finished reading a report on the condition of the legion’s catapults and had started on a light supper of cold chicken and wine before resuming his work. He continued chewing as the unwelcome visitor introduced himself.

  ‘Tribune Caius Quintillus, sir. Attached to General Plautius’ staff.’

  ‘Never heard of you.’

  ‘I only arrived in Britain a month ago, sir. Replacement.’

  ‘Misplacement, more like.’ Vespasian arched an eyebrow. ‘Bit out of your way, Tribune. Don’t tell me you went out hunting and got lost.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘I was sent by the general to assess the situation in Calleva, sir.’

  ‘I see.’ Vespasian looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. He was uncomfortable about the idea of Aulus Plautius being concerned about a town within the Second Legion’s operational area. Immediately Vespasian wondered if there was something he had overlooked. As far as he could recall, Centurion Macro had made no mention of trouble brewing up amongst the Atrebatans. Yet here was this man, claiming to be a tribune, stating that the general had deemed it necessary to send a senior officer to report back on the situation. Something was amiss, and Vespasian realised he must tread lightly until the precise nature of the general’s anxiety became apparent. He smiled faintly at the tribune. ‘And the situation will meet with the general’s satisfaction, I trust.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Quintiullus looked drained. ‘When I left the town the Durotrigans were about to attack it. Sir, if we don’t act soon, Calleva must fall into enemy hands.’

  Vespasian had been reaching for his wine, but now his hand froze halfway across the desk.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Calleva’s under attack, sir. Or at least it probably is, given what happened yesterday.’

  Vespasian withdrew his hand and leaned back into his campaign chair, forcing himself to remain composed. ‘And what exactly happened yesterday?’

  Tribune Quintillus briefly described the destruction of the two native cohorts, the flight back to Calleva, and his hurried orders for the town’s defence. He went on, in as modest a tone as he could manage, to relate how he had volunteered to ride through enemy lines to find the Second Legion, and bring help to the remains of the garrison holding on back in Calleva. When he finished, Quintillus casually rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn on the back of his hand.

  ‘That’s quite a tale,’ Vespasian said evenly. ‘You must be exhausted. I’ll have some food brought for you. Then you can rest.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But the garrison. . . we must help them at once.’

  ‘Quite. Verica needs our support.’

  ‘Verica? Verica’s been wounded. Badly. Last time I saw him he looked pretty close to death.’

  ‘You let the king ride into this ambush?’ Vespasian said in an icy tone.

  ‘No, sir,’ Quintillus replied quickly. ‘He was attacked by one of his noblemen.’

  Vespasian bit back on his growing anger. Every time the young tribune opened his mouth the situation got worse. ‘I hope there’s nothing else to tell me.’

  The tribune shook his head and then pointed to a chair beside Vespasian’s table. ‘May I sit down, sir?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’

  While the tribune eased his saddle-sore body down into the campaign chair Vespasian’s mind was racing as he reacted to the news of the disaster facing not only the men at Calleva, but his own legion as well. The campaign in the west would be stalled.

  ‘How strong was the enemy force?’

  Ά thousand, maybe two thousand,’ Quintillus guessed.

  ‘But no more tha
n that?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Vespasian’s mood lightened slightly. ‘Right then, we can cope with that. It’s a pain in the arse, and it’ll delay my advance, but that can’t be helped. We’ll deal with the Durotrigans first.’

  ‘Ah. . .’ Quintillus looked up with an anxious expression. ‘I’m afraid there’s a little complication, sir.’

  Vespasian’s lips compressed into a thin, tight line for a moment as he resisted the impulse to give the tribune a stiff bollocking. Then he said quietly, ‘What kind of a complication would that be, Tribune?’

  ‘There’s a small element amongst the Atrebatans that want to side with the enemy, and take the tribe with them. They’re the ones behind the attack on Verica.’

  ‘I see.’ The situation was far worse then. Even if Calleva had fallen to the Durotrigans they would be swiftly ousted by Vespasian’s legion, and the situation stabilised. But if the entire tribe could be persuaded to turn against Rome then not only would the Second Legion be in grave danger, but also General Plautius and the other three legions.

  Vespasian silently cursed this tribune. Unless he acted at once, to defeat the Durotrigans and remove those Atrebatan noblemen conspiring against Rome, there was every chance that the Emperor would lose nearly twenty thousand legionaries, and as many auxiliary troops. Augustus had managed to survive the loss of General Varus and three legions. Just. But Augustus had firmly established his grip on the legions and the empire. Claudius enjoyed no such legitimacy, and would almost certainly be swept from power in the aftermath of such a terrible military defeat. What future could there be for Rome then? Vespasian felt himself in the cold grip of dark fears at such a prospect. . .

  He suddenly realised that he had not heard the tribune’s last words. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, we’ll need to deal with them as well, sir – the Atrebatan traitors.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘If Verica dies, who’s to succeed him?’

  ‘Well, there’s another problem, sir.’

  This time there was no concealing his frustration and Vespasian slammed his hand down on the desk. He glared at Quintillus, gently rapping his knuckles on the wood. With forced equanimity he nodded at the tribune. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The nobleman who attacked him – Artax – was Verica’s heir.’

  ‘This Artax, he’s taken the throne?’

  ‘No, sir. He was discovered in the act by Centurion Macro and Centurion Cato. He was killed on the spot.’

  ‘So the succession to Verica is open, then?’ said Vespasian. ‘Who’d be best suited to succeed him from our point of view?’

  The tribune answered directly. ‘Verica’s nephew seems the best bet; Tincommius. I persuaded the king’s council to choose him to be Verica’s heir after Artax was killed. ‘

  ‘What’s this Tincommius like?’

  ‘Young, but smart. He knows we’ll win. We can count on him, sure enough. He’ll be loyal to Rome.’

  ‘He’d better be, for his tribe’s sake. If he can’t keep control of his people once I’ve settled things, then I won’t take any more chances with our supplies. The Atrebatan kingdom will have to come to an end. I’ll annex it in the name of Rome, disarm the tribe and leave a permanent garrison in Calleva.’

  Quintillus smiled; the legate was playing into his hands and unwittingly helping Quintillus into a position where he would have the chance to wield his procuratorial powers. ‘That would seem to be the wisest course of action, sir.’

  Vespasian leaned back in his seat and shouted for his chief clerk. Moments later the man hurried through the tent flap, wax notebook in hand.

  ‘I want my senior officers in here now.’

  ‘All of them, sir?’

  ‘Every one. Wait there.’ Vespasian quickly shuffled through his papers until he found the most recent strength returns. He read them quickly before continuing. ‘I want the following cohorts assembled and ready to march: Labeo’s, Genialis’, Pedius’, Pollio’s, Veiento’s and Hortensius’. Six cohorts should be enough. They’re to carry arms and equipment, water bottles and light rations. Nothing else, understand? It’ll be a forced march and the cohort commanders are to make sure that they leave behind any man they have doubts about. There will be no stragglers.’

  The clerk could not hide his surprise or alarm at these instructions, but Vespasian refused to enlighten him. It would be most unseemly for a legion’s commander to be seen to explain his orders to a lesser rank. He was determined to remain as detached from his men as possible. It had been hard work, often undone in the thoughtlessness of unguarded moments, which tormented him for many days afterwards.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’ the clerk asked.

  ‘No. Get to it, man!’

  A thin crescent moon rose even as the last rays of the dying sun shrank away beyond the horizon. There was a brief period of darkness before the eye grew used to the pale light of the moon, and then the landscape resolved into a monochrome patchwork of fields, forests and rolling hills. From the eastern gate of the marching camp a long column of men snaked down the track that led towards Calleva, some thirty miles away. Nearly three thousand legionaries tramped along the track in loose ranks, the chinking of their equipment all but drowned out by the thud of iron- studded boots on the dry earth. Vespasian rode behind the lead cohort, a few staff officers and Quintillus spread out behind him.

  If he pushed the men hard, Vespasian calculated that they might reach Calleva by the end of the next day. There might be a hard fight after the march for his tired men, but they were legionaries, trained to a superb level of fitness. Tired or not, they would be more than a match for a few thousand Durotrigans.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ‘How the hell. . .?’ Cato muttered.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Macro snapped back at him. ‘We have to get out of here.’

  ‘Get out of here?’ Cato looked at him in astonishment. ‘And go where?’

  ‘Royal enclosure. It’s all that’s left now.’

  ‘But what about our injured?’ Cato waved at the hospital block. ‘We can’t leave them.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do for those lads,’ Macro said firmly. ‘Nothing. Now get your cohort formed up. Close ranks and follow right behind my century.’

  Macro steered Cato towards the survivors of the Wolf Cohort and then called his men to attention. ‘Close ranks. Form column of fours in front of the gate. Move!’

  As the legionaries ran forward and jostled into formation, Cato began to shout out his orders in Celtic. Driven on by the shouts of the section leaders the two units formed up on the track behind the gate, and closed ranks until they became a compact column, shield to shield along the front and left side. Macro looked round for Figulus.

  ‘Optio! Since you’re so bloody keen on hanging back, you’ve got command of the rearguard. Take two section. Keep ‘em tight and don’t let one of the bastards get by you.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Figulus trotted back to take up position.

  As soon as he saw that the formation was ready, Macro pushed his way through into the front rank.

  ‘Column!’ He called out the preparatory order, and waited until he heard Cato repeat it to his natives, then; ‘Advance!’

  The shields, helmets and javelin tips rippled forward, and the tramp of iron-shod boots echoed under the tower as the legionaries moved forward. Behind them came the Wolves, lighter-armoured, and not quite able to march in step with their legionary comrades at the front and rear of the column. Cato had positioned himself near the rear of his men, and looked back at the Durotrigans, running at full tilt towards the legionary rearguard formed up across the inside of the depot gate. There was no need to issue an order to loose javelins: the men hurled the weapons as soon as the enemy were within close range, and several of them were struck down, pierced through by the heavy iron points. But the instant their bodies fell to the ground they disappeared from sight as the men behind surged on, desperate to hurl themselves upon the
small column edging up the street in the direction of the royal enclosure.

  ‘Form up across the street!’ Macro bellowed from the front, waving his sword to hurry his men into position, so that a wall of shields extended across the gap between the huts on either side. Behind this barrier the head of the column trudged forward once again. Before the rearguard made it out of the depot the first of the Durotrigans slammed into them, slashing at the rectangular shields with their long swords. Both sides fought in silence; the Durotrigans, breathless from their run across the depot, the Romans from grim desperation. The clash of swords and thud of blades on shields sounded to Cato more like a weapons drill than the pitiless fury of battle. Only the cries of the wounded told of the deadly intent with which warrior and legionary fought. The rearguard knew their job well, and kept moving back, fending off blows and only striking when an enemy showed more recklessness than sense, and paid the price.

  Ahead of Macro, the Durotrigans who had managed to climb the walls either side of the burning town gate spilled across the street, clashing their spears against their shields, and shouting out their war cries.

  ‘Keep the formation tight!’ Macro bellowed above the din, raising his shield so that he could just see above the rim. His sword rose to the horizontal, arm bent and braced to deliver the first thrust. The distance between the column and the howling mass of the Durotrigans narrowed at a measured pace. When there was no more than twenty feet between them, the first of the Durotrigans raised his spear and charged the shield wall. Immediately the rest roared out their battle cry and ran after their comrade.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ Macro shouted as the man to his left faltered. ‘Move forwards. Don’t stop for anything.’

  The column met the Durotrigans on a narrow front and there was no room for the enemy’s weight of numbers to pin the legionaries down. Macro and the other men at the front slammed their shields forwards, thrust, recovered and advanced before repeating the sequence, an automatic rhythm they had practised hundreds of times. The Durotrigans attacked with ferocity and courage, but were no match for the Romans. They were forced back or cut down and then crushed by the column as it marched over them.