The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Thirty-Five

A strange silence settled over Calleva once night had fallen. In the royal enclosure Macro had ordered most of the men to rest. After the enemy had pulled back Macro had thrown his men into constructing an inner redoubt around the entrance of the great hall. All the spare wagons and carts had been heaved together to form a small semi-circle backing on to the stout stone walls of the hall. Wicker baskets were filled with soil and crammed beneath the wagons to reinforce them and hold them in position, and benches were brought from inside the hall to provide the defenders with a breastwork to fight behind. If the outer wall fell, which it must, thanks to its being little more than a glorified fence, then everyone would retreat to this last redoubt, and after that a last stand inside the great hall, guarding the king's bedchamber.

Once the work was complete Macro told his men to rest. They lay across the ground, dark shapes curled up by their weapons in the flickering glow of the torches that were ranged along the palisade. Verica's household slaves had been sent to bring the exhausted defenders food and drink from the royal kitchen, and the king's bodyguards were keeping watch for any signs of the enemy. Beyond the enclosure, the huddled mass of thatched roofs was silent, there were no cries for mercy, or the usual horrified shrieks that accompanied the fall of a town. Macro sat with his head cocked towards the burned-out remains of the town's gate. The only noises that rose up in the distance were the periodic choruses of dogs barking, and once in a while a shouted order from the enemy.

After a while Macro gave up and nudged Cato, who had fallen asleep shortly before.

'You hear anything?'

Cato struggled up on one elbow, blinking away the ache in his eyes, fearful that Macro had detected the approach of the enemy.

'What? What is it?'

'Shhh! Listen…'

Cato sat up and strained his ears, but all was quiet. 'I can't hear anything.'

'That's what I mean,' said Macro. 'There should be more noise. They've taken the town; they should be enjoying the spoils.'

Cato shook his head. 'They're trying to win the Atrebatans over. I doubt Tincommius is going to permit them even the smallest amount of rape and pillage. Not if he's as bright as he needs to be.'

Macro looked at Cato, his features barely visible in the dark. 'You admire him?'

'No. No, I don't. He's a fool. If he succeeds in turning the Atrebatans, one way or another they'll be slaughtered. That's the kind of king people really don't need.'

'No…' Macro looked away. 'There's something else that worries me.'

'Oh?'

'Tincommius said that Caratacus was coming.'

'Yes. So?' Cato rubbed his eyes. 'I doubt it'll make much difference. We're not going to be around that long.'

'Maybe. But what if Quintillus has found the legion?'

'I doubt the tribune made it. They must have caught him.'

'What if they didn't? What if he reached the legion and Vespasian sends a relief force?'

Cato was silent for a moment before he replied, 'We can only hope he didn't make it. Best lose a few hundred of us than a few thousand.'

'True. We can see that, but Vespasian can't. Far as he knows the only opposition he'll face is the force that ambushed us. Even that coward Quintillus will find it hard to overestimate their strength enough to keep the legate away. If Vespasian comes, he'll bring most of the legion with him, right into the path of Caratacus.'

Cato paused as he contemplated this awful possibility. He looked at Macro. 'Then we've got to warn him, assuming Tincommius was telling the truth.'

'How?' Macro responded sourly. 'We're surrounded. The moment anyone tries to make a break for it they'll be bagged and killed on the spot, if they're lucky.'

'Somebody has to try,' Cato said quietly. 'If there's a chance that the legate might attempt to save us.'

'No. It's pointless. We need every man right here.'

'What difference does it make?' Cato persisted. 'We're all dead in the end. Let me go.'

'No. You stay. That's an order. I'll not send any man on a bloody stupid suicide mission. As I said, there won't be a relief force sent to us. All that's left is to hold on, and take as many of the buggers with us as we can.'

'Or surrender and take our chances.'

'Some chances!' Macro laughed harshly. 'Oh, they might spare our native lads, and they might even let Verica live long enough to die from his wounds. But not us. They'll have something special sorted out for us. You can count on it.'

'All right then,' Cato conceded, 'but they might spare the Wolves, and Cadminius and his men. We could offer terms for their surrender and fight on ourselves.'

Macro stared at him, but in the dark Cato could not read his expression and he continued his line of argument. 'There's no point in more deaths than necessary. If the Wolves and the bodyguards are spared because we were seen to save them, it might count for something in the longer term. It might leave some sympathy for Rome.'

'It might. Then it might not. If they die with us, then their kin might blame the Durotrigans for their deaths. Better still, blame that bastard Tincommius.'

'I hadn't thought of that,' Cato replied quietly. He was silent for a moment. Then: 'Should we talk it over with Cadminius and the others?'

'No,' Macro said firmly. 'The moment we start giving in, the fight will go out of our lads. Think about it, Cato. Think about how you'd feel watching the natives marching out of here and leaving us to die. Not the best way of keeping your pecker up, is it? And what guarantee do we have that they'd let the native lads live? You'd trust their lives to Tincommius? He'd have their heads on the ends of stakes in a trice.'

'Which might well have a useful impact on the loyalty of the Atrebatans, from our point of view,' Cato replied coldly.

'Cynic!' Macro laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder.

Cato smiled. 'But you're right. We can't trust Tincommius with their lives. I guess they'll have to take their chances with us. I doubt they'll protest. The bodyguards aren't very fond of Tincommius – even the ones who think we might have had a hand in that attack on Verica.'

'They seriously believe that?'

Cato shrugged. 'Hard to say. I've heard some of them muttering about it, and I get the odd suspicious glance. Seems that Tincommius' words might have had some effect after all. The only one who can convince them of the truth is Verica.'

'Have you heard anything about him?'

'No. But I think we should find out. If there's a chance that he can recover enough to confirm that he was attacked by Tincommius, it might help.'

'All right then, you go and see. But don't be long. Our friends might try something.'

'Do you really think they will?'

'No… They must be as exhausted as we are. They'll want a rest. I doubt they'll be in any great hurry. We're bottled up in here with no way of escape, and they've got Caratacus and his whole bloody army on the way to help them out. I think they can wait until dawn before making the next move.'

'I hope so.' Cato yawned as he struggled back on to his feet. The short rest seemed to have made him feel more tired than ever. Every limb ached and felt stiff and heavy, and the night air seemed too cold for summer. His head ached and his eyes stung and for a moment he let his mind indulge itself in a vision of sleep in his warm comfortable bed back at the depot. The fantasy was so alluring that he felt a warm ripple flow through his body and he allowed himself to surrender to it.

'Oi! Watch it!' Macro called out, bracing Cato with his arm. 'You nearly fell on me.'

'Sorry.' Cato was now wide awake, ashamed of his weakness and afraid that it might happen again. He stretched his shoulders and walked over to a water trough, removed his helmet and swept the strands of hay covering the surface to one side before ducking his head in, rocking his face from side to side as the cool water quickened his senses. Then he stood up, not bothered by the drops of water cascading down his face and on to his segmented armour and tunic. With a last stretch, and rubbing his eyes Cato set off for the great hall. He climbed through the gap between two of the wagons and dropped down into the redoubt.

Cadminius and some of the bodyguards sat by the entrance to the hall, talking quietly and drinking from some wine jars in the glow of a small fire. They looked up as Cato strode across to them. The centurion was frowning. He beckoned to Cadminius and entered the hall. Cadminius took his time finishing off the wine in his cup, and then rose slowly and followed Cato inside.

'Drinking? Is that wise?' Cato asked with a look of contempt. 'You'll hardly be in a fit state to defend your king tomorrow.'

'Roman, drink is our way of life.'

'Fine, but it can ruin a good death. Is that how you want to die tomorrow? A drunken rabble so pissed you can hardly strike a straight blow.'

Cadminius raised his fist and for a moment Cato felt sure the warrior would hit him. But Cadminius slowly relaxed his expression and muttered, 'We'll be all right. I give you my word.'

'I'm counting on it. Now, I must see the king.'

'No point. He's just the same.'

'Nevertheless, I must see him. Macro has ordered me to report on his condition.' Cato did not give Cadminius any chance to protest further. He swung round and marched towards the door leading into the king's private quarters. A sole guard stood on duty, and he pushed his back away from the wall and reached for his spear, but Cadminius waved him aside.

The royal bedchamber was brightly lit by oil lamps and torches, and stank of smoke. A small crowd of nobles sat and stood about the king's table, talking in muted tones. Verica was almost impossible to see, swathed in fur covers up to his chin. Above them, his white hair flowed over a purple bolster. The king's skin was almost as white as his hair and the faint rasp of his breathing was audible even from the doorway. The surgeon from the depot hospital looked up as Cato entered and smiled.

'The king stirred briefly a few moments ago.'

'He regained consciousness?' asked Cato as he joined the surgeon at the bedside and looked down at the frail old man.

'Not exactly. He opened his eyes, muttered a few words and was unconscious again.'

'Words? What words? What'd he say?'

'Nothing I could make out, except Tincommius' name. The king seemed a bit agitated.'

'That's it? Nothing more?' The surgeon shook his head, and Cato's lips briefly tightened in frustration. 'If there's any change, either way, you send for me at once. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato took a last look at the king and was turning to leave when the surgeon grasped his arm.

'Has anyone made it from the hospital?'

'No.'

'I see.' The surgeon looked Cato in the eye. 'What are our chances, sir?'

'Not good. Just do your duty, for as long as you can.'

'And when the end comes…?'

'Protect the king. That's all.'

Once he had reported back to Macro, Cato made a quick round of the palisade to make sure that the men were awake and watching for any sign of the enemy. With so few of the defenders left, even one unobservant sentry could lead to the death of them all. Then, satisfied that there was no more he could do, Cato found himself a place close to the gate, leaned back against a support post and almost at once fell into a deep sleep. He did not wake when the guard was changed, and it was only the urge to urinate that finally woke him, shortly before dawn. Consciousness returned quickly, and an instant fear that he had slept far too long. At once Cato tried to clamber up on to his feet. The stiffness of his muscles and the aching heaviness of total exhaustion almost denied him the ability to stand, and he groaned as he forced himself to straighten up.

Although it was still dark and gloomy overhead, away in the east the horizon was lit by the pearly grey of the coming dawn. The air was cool and the breath of the few men stirring around the royal enclosure came in faint wisps. There was a peculiar stillness in the air, and the sky was overcast, promising rain later on, or more likely the depressing drizzle that was so much a feature of this island's climate. It saddened Cato to think that the drama of his death would unfold against such a dour backdrop. A paltry skirmish in some dark corner of a crude collection of barbarian hovels that scarcely dignified its description as a town. That's where he, Macro, Silva and the others would find their graves – in obscure, uncivilised and backward Calleva. No place in the history books for them.

Stretching his back and shoulders Cato walked stiffly over to a small fire in the centre of the enclosure. Macro was supervising a small party of kitchen slaves as they cut a pig up into portions. The aroma of roast pork made Cato realise how hungry he was and this time he willingly helped himself to a hunk of meat with plenty of crackling on it. He nodded a greeting to Macro.

'You'll break your teeth on that,' Macro smiled.

'What good is life if we can't enjoy it?' Cato replied. 'Any bread going?'

'There, in that basket.'

Cato squatted down beside the fire and began to eat, chewing slowly and relishing the taste of every mouthful of pork and the king's finest bread. It felt strange to enjoy his food so much, and Cato realised that in ordinary circumstances he had had to bolt his meal down in order to get on with all the duties of the day. Today, by contrast, there was nothing to rush. Breakfast could go on for as long as he wanted, or at least for as long as the Durotrigans permitted.

Once the slaves had been sent round to rouse the defenders and hand them their food Macro sat down beside Cato and munched contentedly on a strip of roast loin as he warmed himself. Neither man spoke. Around them, as the pale light strengthened, the defenders awoke from deep sleep and huddled over the food brought to them. Most had enough appetite to tuck into the choice pickings of the royal foodstore, but some were too exhausted, or too preoccupied, and let the food grow cold at their sides as they sat and waited.

They were not kept long. A legionary sentry on the palisade above the gate called out to Macro, and the two centurions immediately threw down their food and ran across the enclosure. They climbed the ladder quickly, their earlier stiffness forgotten as they responded to the urgency of the sentry's tone.

'Report!' ordered Macro.

'Sir, down there!' The legionary pointed along the street. 'A couple of 'em just popped round the corner, had a quick look and ran back.'

'And you spoiled my breakfast for that?'

'Yes, sir. You said-'

'I know what I said, thank you. You did the right thing, son. We'll wait here a while and see if anything happens.'

'It's happening,' said Cato. 'Look.'

From round the corner, perhaps fifty paces away, strode a single figure, brash and bold. He stopped, at a safe range and cupped his hands to his mouth.

'So, you're both still alive!' Tincommius called out. 'I'm relieved.'

'He's relieved.' Macro raised an eyebrow as he exchanged a glance with Cato. 'I'm touched…'

'I've come to offer you one final chance to surrender, and save yourselves and those of my tribe who are misguided enough to serve the ends of Rome.'

'On what terms?' Macro called out.

'Same as before. Safe passage to your legion.'

'I don't think so!'

'I thought you'd say that!'

Cato was sure that he could see Tincommius smile for a moment. Then the Atrebatan prince turned round and shouted an order. There were sharp cries of pain and some shouting from beyond the bend in the street. Then a column of figures shambled into sight. Many wore bandages, some had streaks of dried blood on their faces and limbs. Some wore the red tunic of the Roman legions, and were tethered together by leather straps. Ranged alongside them were men armed with spears, prodding any of the prisoners who stumbled along too slowly. Cato recognised a few faces: men who had once served in the Wolf and Boar Cohorts and some of the Greek and Roman merchants who had hoped to make their fortune in Britain. Tincommius gave an order and the column halted. The first man was untied from the others and brought forward, hands still tightly bound. His escort kicked him behind the knees and the Roman fell down with a cry. He lay on his side, groaning, until Tincommius stepped over and kicked him in the head. The Roman tucked his head down, drew his knees up and fell silent.

Tincommius turned back to the gateway, pointing down at the man on the ground. 'You'll surrender to me now, or this man dies. And then the rest, one by one.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves