The Eagle and the Wolves

Cato looked down the street that led to the main gate. Two figures burst round the side of a native hut a hundred paces away. Figulus, taller and leaner, had a short lead over Macro, whose thick, muscular legs pumped hard as he struggled to keep up. Moments later they drew up beside Cato and bent over as they gasped for breath.

'You all right?' asked Cato.

Macro looked up, chest heaving. His face was blackened and the hairs on his arms and legs were singed. The sharp tang of burned hair still clung to him and Cato made a face.

'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 parade ground, and racing towards the remaining defenders by the gate.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

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.

'All right then.' 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 himself 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?'