The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

‘Keeping the Durotrigans out of sight while he calls for us to surrender. I imagine he thinks he can make this look like some kind of internal tribal squabble that can be easily settled.’

  ‘Will our lads go for it?’

  ‘It might have an effect on some,’ Cato conceded, then his eyes widened as he saw the next prisoner being led forward, picking his way over the twisted bodies of the earlier victims. ‘Oh, no. . .’

  ‘What?’ Macro strained his eyes. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Figulus.’

  ‘Figulus? Shit. . .’

  As Tincommius beckoned to Figulus’ escort, Cato looked round into the enclosure, calling out in Celtic. ‘It’s Figulus! They’ve got Figulus!’

  There was a spontaneous groan from the Wolves, who had come to admire and like their Roman instructor. Cato called out to them, waving at them to come to the wall. ‘They’re going to kill him. See! See!’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asked Macro.

  Cato flashed a quick smile at Macro. ‘Time to play Tincommius at his own game.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just watch.’

  As the Wolves reached the palisade they began to shout down the street, howling their protest and begging their former comrades to spare Figulus. The optio had dropped to his knees and the man with the club was standing to one side, looking from the prisoner, to Tincommius, to the other warrior guarding the Roman prisoners, up towards the enclosure and back to the prisoner again. Tincommius was shouting angrily at him and thrusting a finger towards the kneeling Roman. Figulus just looked round, bewildered and terrified. Now, one of the warriors trotted forward and spoke with the Atrebatan prince, who shouted an order into his face. The man glanced at Figulus and shook his head.

  ‘This looks promising Γ Macro smiled.

  Cato felt someone tugging the sleeve of his tunic and turned to see the surgeon with an excited expression on his face.

  ‘Sir! It’s the king!’ The surgeon had to shout to be heard above the din. ‘He’s regained consciousness.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Groggy, but lucid enough. Cadminius told him about our situation. He wants to see you. Both of you.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Tell him we’re a little busy.’

  ‘No!’ Cato interrupted, with an excited expression. ‘Can Verica be moved?’

  ‘I suppose so, if it’s really necessary. Can’t make his condition any- worse, I’d say.’

  ‘Good!’ Cato slapped the surgeon on the arm. ‘Then get him up here. Right away.’

  The surgeon shook his head. ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘All right, I’ll make it simple.’ Cato drew his sword and raised the tip under the surgeon’s chin. ‘I order you to bring him here immediately. That good enough?’

  ‘Er, yes, sir.’

  Off you go then.’

  As the surgeon ran off to fetch his patient Macro laughed. ‘That was all centurion. You’re coming on nicely, Cato;

  Cato was looking back down the street. Tincommius was surrounded by his men and he was arguing furiously, arms waving to emphasise his point. But they would not be moved by his pleas and shouted their protest back in an equally emphatic manner. To the side kneeled Figulus, silently watching the confrontation and not daring to move for fear of drawing attention to himself. Behind him stood the man with the club, waiting for a decision to be made.

  ‘With any luck,’ said Macro, ‘they’ll start laying into each other any moment now.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Cato replied. He had seen Tincommius at work and knew that the prince was more than capable of turning things round. They had already underestimated him once. It would not pay to do so again. Cato looked behind him. ‘Where’s that bloody surgeon?’

  As they waited for Verica to be fetched the smooth-talking Tincommius began to wear his men down. He was doing nearly all the talking while most of them hung their heads and listened to the haranguing and rhetorical appeals in silence.

  ‘Here he comes,’ said Macro, and Cato turned to see the surgeon emerging from the great hall, closely followed by a stretcher with a bodyguard at each corner. Walking beside the stretcher was Cadminius, anxiously looking down at the pale face resting on a soft cushion.

  ‘Hurry!’ Cato shouted. ‘Up here! Quick as you can.’

  The small party trotted across to the gate, trying hard not to jolt the king. When they reached the wall the burly bodyguards heaved the stretcher poles up to the hands of the men on the palisade. While Verica was carried carefully to the wider platform above the gate, Cato glanced back towards the confrontation between Tincommius and his men. The prince had had enough, and pushed his way through them, drawing his sword as he made for Figulus.

  ‘Stop!’ Cato cried out in Celtic. ‘Stop him!’

  Tincommius spared him a brief glance and continued towards the kneeling Roman. But before he could reach Figulus, the man with the club stepped forward and placed himself between the prince and Figulus, shaking his head.

  ‘Out of my way!’ Tincommius’ cry of rage could be heard above the cheers of the defenders, as Cadminius helped his king off the stretcher and gently supported him as Verica took two unsteady paces towards the palisade. As the king came into view the Atrebatan warriors in the street looked up in astonishment.

  ‘Sire, Tincommius told them you were dead,’ explained Cato. ‘He told them that we had murdered you.’

  The old man still looked a little dazed, and winced painfully as he turned his head towards Tincommius. The shouts of the men on the wall of the enclosure died away as they gazed at their king. Then the only sounds remaining were the sobbing and cries of the broken Romans lying in the street. Verica’s body trembled.

  ‘Sire?’ Cadminius tightened his grip on the king’s waist.

  ‘I’m all right. . . all right.’

  Cato leaned closer to him, talking quickly and quietly. ‘Sire, you must tell them who attacked you. You must let them know that Tincommius is a traitor.’

  ‘Traitor?’ the king repeated with a hurt expression.

  ‘Sire, please. That man’s life depends on it.’ Cato pointed towards Figulus.

  Verica stared at the kneeling Roman, and his nephew for a moment, and then coughed – a terrible racking cough that left him breathless and clutching his head, wincing at the agony. Then he forced himself to stand as straight as possible and called out to his countrymen at the end of the street.

  ‘It was Tincommius. . . Tincommius who attacked me.’

  ‘It was Artax!’ Tincommius screamed. ‘It was Artax! I saved the king!’

  Verica shook his head sadly.

  ‘He lies!’ Tincommius cried out in desperation. ‘The king is being forced to lie by those Romans! See them beside him! Making him say this.’

  ‘No!’ Verica shouted, his voice cracking with the effort. ‘It was you, my nephew! YOU!’

  The warriors at the end of the street turned to look at the prince, and he was aware of the doubt and contempt in their faces.

  ‘He lies, I tell you!’

  Cato tore his gaze away from the drama and called out to his men. ‘Mandrax!’

  ‘Here, Centurion!’

  ‘Pick twenty men, and get ready to fetch those prisoners when the gate opens.’

  ‘What are you up to?’ asked Macro. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’m going to try to get Tincommius if I can. Then return here as fast as possible.’

  ‘You’re quite mad,’ said Macro, but made no attempt to stop him when Cato climbed down from the gate, snatched up his helmet and shield and turned to the legionaries positioned there. ‘When I give the order I want the gate opened as fast as you can.’

  His heart was beating fast with the anticipation of renewed action, and all the exhaustion of earlier had disappeared as Cato’s senses quickened. As soon as Mandrax and his party were ready, Cato drew a breath and shouted, ‘Open the gate!’

&
nbsp; The legionaries slipped the restraining bar to one side and dragged the gate back.

  ‘Follow me!’ Cato called over his shoulder and ran out into the street. He made towards the men clustered around Tincommius, and resisted the impulse to draw his sword; it was vital that he did not look as if he was about to attack them. Tincommius turned towards the enclosure and thrust his arm out towards Cato.

  ‘Get them!’

  ‘Wolves! Boars!’ Cato called out. ‘Hold him. Hold Tincommius!’

  For a horrible instant, Tincommius’ men turned towards Cato and the centurion was sure they would fight, that he had badly misjudged their mood. But they simply stood their ground and watched as Cato and his men quickly covered the short distance from the gate. Tincommius looked round at his men with a terrified expression and then he turned and ran.

  ‘Stop that traitor!’ shouted Cato. But it was too late. Tincommius had burst through the ring of men and was sprinting towards the corner, and the safety of his Durotrigan allies. He might have made good his escape, but the man with the club hurled it after the prince and struck him on the back of the knee. The club was deflected between his legs and Tincommius tumbled headlong into the small huddle of the remaining Roman prisoners. With savage cries of rage they fell on him, beating him with their tethered hands. Cato stopped by the ring of men, who stared at him with uncertain expressions as they held their weapons ready. Cato immediately turned to the crippled men lying in the street and snapped out his orders.

  ‘Get the live ones inside the enclosure! Move! The Durotrigans will be here any moment!’

  Whatever authority and urgency there was in his tone, it had its effect. The men hurried towards the Romans on the ground, and began dragging them up the street, the need for speed making them ignore the renewed screams from their former prisoners.

  Cato swung round to Mandrax. ‘Get the rest of the prisoners up! Make sure you don’t leave behind whatever’s left of Tincommius!’

  Mandrax grinned. ‘Yes, Centurion.’

  Leaving the men to carry out his orders, Cato trotted further down the street, round the corner that led towards Calleva’s main gate. Then he stopped. Thirty paces away, and stretching all the way down the street were the Durotrigans, resting quietly between the huts that lined the streets. Hundreds of them. Almost at once there was a cry of alarm and one of the warriors jumped to his feet, pointing towards Cato. Others sprang up, reaching for their weapons.

  ‘Whoops!’ Cato muttered. He spun round and started sprinting back towards the royal enclosure, as the savage cries of his pursuers rang out. The centurion raced round the corner, and saw that most of his men, the prisoners and the surviving victims of the morning’s horror had nearly reached the gate.

  ‘Move yourselves!’ he screamed. ‘They’re coming!’

  The growing roar from down the street was all his men needed to hear, and they rushed the remaining distance up to the enclosure and through the gate, heedless of the added agony they caused the injured men they were dragging. Then it was just Cato left, running towards the safety of the gate, already being swung back into place by its defenders. Not again, he thought wryly. Cato glanced over his shoulder, just as the Durotrigans burst round the corner no more than twenty paces behind, shrieking for his blood. Weighed down by his armour Cato could not hope to outrun them, and threw down his shield as he pounded towards the narrowing gap. Above the gate Macro and the others leaned over, shouting desperate encouragement. Cato jumped over the prone forms of the prisoners who had died from their injuries, head ducked low, nailed boots pounding on the hard packed earth of the street. A dark shadow whipped past his head and a dozen feet ahead, a spear thudded into the ground.

  ‘Come on, Cato!’ bellowed Macro. ‘They’re right behind you!’

  He looked up, saw the gate directly ahead of him, then sensed danger at his shoulder and dodged to one side. A sword blade swished through the air and bit down into the earth as the man who wielded it hissed a curse. Cato threw himself forward through the gap left for him and rolled over inside the gate. Immediately the legionaries heaved it into place, but caught, between the gate and the stout timber of the support post, the shoulder and head of the man who had tried to cut Cato down with his sword. With a dull crack the man’s skull was crushed, a legionary thrust the misshapen mass back through the gap and the gate was barred once more. The thud and clatter of the enemy on the far side testified to their rage and frustration as Cato strained to catch his breath on all fours.

  ‘Cato!’ Macro called down to him. ‘You all right?’

  Cato waved a hand.

  ‘Good! Then you’d better get up here and deal with this bloody wasps’ nest you’ve gone and stirred up!’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ‘Get the wounded into the hall!’ Cato ordered, heaving himself up the ladder to join Macro. Verica’s bodyguards thrust themselves in front of the king as Cadminius eased the old man back on to his litter.

  ‘What about him, sir?’ asked Mandrax, nodding towards the bloody and bruised Atrebatan prince groaning on the ground at the foot of the Wolf standard.

  Cato glanced over his shoulder. ‘Take Tincommius into the hall. Make sure he’s tied up. He’s not to be harmed, understand?’

  Mandrax, looking disappointed, prodded Tincommius with the end of the standard. ‘On your feet, you.’

  Cato spared the traitor no more thought as he pushed his way past the bodyguards to the palisade. On either side legionaries and natives from the Wolf Cohort were hurling anything to hand on to the Durotrigans packed into the street below. There were only a few missiles hurled in return as the heaving mass of warriors made it difficult for any man trying to throw a spear or stone back at the defenders, and far more men were being struck down before the gateway than on it.

  ‘They never learn,’ Macro shouted into his ear.

  ‘Yes they do,’ Cato replied breathlessly, still blown from his run back to the gate. He raised his arm and pointed. ‘Look there!’

  A short distance down the street were a number of small alleys leading off into the maze of huts clustered about the royal enclosure. The Durotrigans were streaming into the alleys and disappearing from view. Macro turned to Cato. ‘I’ll take care of things here. You find out where those alleys lead and make sure that you cover any approaches to the wall.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Cato turned round and grabbed the nearest native warrior. ‘Do any alleys pass close to the walls of the enclosure?’

  ‘Some might do, sir.’

  ‘Might?’ Cato eyed him coldly, biting back on his temper. ‘All right, then, get some men, anyone who’s not on the gate, and send them up on to the wall. I want them evenly spaced. There must be no blind spots. Understand?’

  ‘I – I think so, sir.’ The man was exhausted.

  Cato grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted into his face. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Go!’

  As the warrior ran off to carry out his orders, Cato turned and pushed his way along the narrow walkway until he was clear of the gate and began to run round the circumference of the enclosure. He had walked the perimeter a few hours earlier, as a diversion from Tincommius’ display, to ensure that his sentries were alert to any dangers. An indirect approach to the walls of the enclosure was no mere possibility; it was a certainty. Now that Tincommius’ final effort to achieve a quick surrender had failed the Durotrigans had no choice but to launch a final bloody assault. Somewhere amongst the tangled outlines of thatched roofs the enemy was groping for a way through to the wall.

  As Cato hurried along the walkway he saw that most of the huts did not back directly on to the royal enclosure and left a gap of perhaps five or six paces between their daubed walls and the line of timbers stretching round the great hall. But, as with all things Celtic, after a while the rule was gradually ignored and newer buildings and extensions to old ones had encroached on the wall. The defensive ditch had long ago been filled in with
rubbish, and bones and shards of pottery poked through the foul- smelling topsoil. Many of the huts belonged to small enclosures of their own, fenced in wicker, with empty pens in which animals had been kept before food ran short. It would not take the enemy long to cut a path through to the wall, and wherever they emerged, the defenders would be hard-pressed to meet the threat in time to prevent the Durotrigans scaling the low walls. If they managed to attack in several places at once there would be no stopping them, Cato realised. The Durotrigans would stream over the wall and flood across the enclosure before the defenders could react. The Romans and the Wolves would be cut to pieces, unless they managed to reach the redoubt at the entrance to the great hall. After that there was no further retreat, and there they would fight to the end.

  Cato stepped aside as Mandrax trotted past with a small party of warriors. The standard bearer quickly posted a man and the remainder ran on. The centurion glanced round and saw that they could muster only a pitiful screen to keep out the enemy. Over at the gate Macro and his legionaries were holding their own for now. The Durotrigans had brought up ladders, and as he watched, Cato saw the parallel shafts swing forward against the wall, only to be desperately shoved back by the defenders.

  ‘Here they come!’

  Cato turned and saw one of the Wolves close by, pointing over the palisade. Below him a mob of Durotrigans had burst through a pig sty and charged up to the wall. Already one man was being hoisted up by his comrades, and his hands were reaching for the top of the wall. Then, a short distance beyond, more of the enemy emerged from the huts and ran towards the wall.

  ‘Wolves! To me!’ Cato cried out, drawing his sword. ‘To me!’

  He sprinted along the walkway towards the sentry who had raised the alarm. Some of his men were hurrying from the other direction. The first of the Durotrigans had reached the top of the palisade and was straining to lift his body over the wall. Before he could swing his leg over, the sentry thrust a spear through his throat and the man toppled back, clutching at his neck with both hands as blood sprayed out in a crimson shower over his comrades. Revenge was almost instantaneous as several javelins flew up towards the sentry. He raised his shield to protect his face and warded off the first missile, but in doing so bared his midriff, and two javelins struck him in the stomach simultaneously, the impact driving him back off the walkway and down into the enclosure. Before any of the defenders could reach the spot another enemy warrior was climbing over the palisade and at once he was on his feet, shield up and sword raised to strike.