The Eagle and the Wolves

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 melee. 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 ram-part. 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, slumped 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.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

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.'