The Eagle and the Wolves

'No,' Vespasian decided, as he glanced round the shadows lengthening across the scattered bodies in the royal enclosure. 'It's out of the question. There's too much to be done here. We're staying.'

Cato exchanged an anxious look with Macro. Surely the legate would see the danger?

'Sir, we can't stay,' said Cato.

'Can't stay?' Quintillus, at his commander's shoulder, repeated with a slight smile. 'Centurion Cato, the truth is we can't afford to leave. Even you must be aware of the strategic situation? Verica will die soon. His warriors are nearly all dead. This kingdom will fall to the first enemy that passes through the gate you two saw fit to burn down. Only Rome can guarantee order here now.'

Cato placed his hand behind his back and clenched his fist, pressing his nails into the flesh of his palm. He was exhausted and angry, and needed his wits to be sharp.

'Sir, if we lose these six cohorts and a legate, there won't be a strategic situation to worry about, only a rout.'

'Really!' The tribune laughed and turned to Vespasian. 'I think this young man has become physically and mentally exhausted over the last few days, sir. It's only natural he might have an inflated fear of the enemy.'

This was too much for Macro. His bull neck swung forward. 'Afraid? Cato afraid? It wasn't Cato who ran off when they gave us that first pasting-'

Vespasian stepped between them and raised his hand, speaking in an urgent undertone. 'That's quite enough, gentlemen! I'll not have my officers arguing in front of the men.'

'Nevertheless,' Quintillus continued quietly, 'I will not stand for a common centurion inferring that I'm a coward. I was the one that rode for help.'

'Quite,' Macro smiled sweetly. 'And I wasn't inferring that you're a coward… sir.'

'Enough!' said Vespasian. 'Centurion Cato, given how things have turned out, I think we can discount anything Tincommius may have said. It wouldn't be the first time he's managed to fool a Roman officer.'

Quintillus tightened his lips.

Had he not been so weary Cato might have been a bit more circumspect in his approach to the commander of the Second Legion, but he had to press upon the legate the seriousness of their situation. 'Sir, he said that Caratacus and his army would be arriving tomorrow. If we're not well clear of Calleva by then-'

'I've made my decision, Centurion. We stay. I'll have the scouts out at first light. They can warn us of any approaching danger.'

'It might be too late by then, sir.'

'Look here, this Tincommius is a liar. He deceived you.'

'He deceived all of us, sir.'

'Quite. So why should we believe him now? How can you be sure he's speaking the truth? Let's accept that Tincommius wasn't lying. I doubt Caratacus would have given General Plautius the slip. He'd be fighting a rearguard action all the way. He'd have more reason to worry about us than we about him. Look, it was probably no more than a simple ploy by Tincommius to get you to surrender. Surely you can see through that?'

Macro glanced down to hide his anger at the accusation they could have been so easily gulled.

'But what if he was telling the truth, sir?' Cato persisted. 'We'd be caught here in Calleva and cut to pieces. Verica would be killed, Tincommius placed on the throne and the Atrebatans would change sides.'

Vespasian gave him a stony look. 'A commander of a legion does not let himself be ruled by hysterical hypotheses. I want proof.'

He looked closely at the two centurions. 'You two need rest more than anyone else – you and your men. I order you to get some sleep right away.'

It was a cheap and crude way to end the discussion, but Vespasian had made his decision and would no longer brook any questioning of it. But still Cato made one last effort as Macro saluted and turned to quit his commander's presence.

'Sir, the price of sleep now may be defeat and death tomorrow.'

Vespasian, who had not slept for over two days himself, was fractious, and snapped irritably back at his subordinate, 'Centurion! It is not for you to question my orders!' He raised his finger threateningly. 'One more word from you, and I'll have you reduced to the ranks. Now get out of here.'

Cato saluted, turned away and marched stiffly to catch up with Macro as they headed back to where their men were resting outside the redoubt. Most were asleep, curled up on their sides, heads pillowed on their bent arms.

'Not very bright of you,' Macro said quietly.

'You heard Tincommius – why didn't you back me up?'

Macro drew a deep breath to stave off his irritation with the younger officer. 'When a legate makes a decision, you don't question it.'

'Why not?'

'Because you don't fucking do it. All right?'

'I'll let you know this time tomorrow.'

Cato slumped down beside Mandrax, who was snoring loudly, propped up against a wheel with the standard planted firmly in the ground beside him. Macro remained silent as he carried on walking towards the pitifully small cluster of sleeping men that were all that remained of his first independent command.

Just before he turned on to his side and promptly fell asleep Macro remembered Tincommius' shouted warning that Caratacus was bearing down on Calleva. The Atrebatan prince might have been telling the truth… Well, they would know soon enough. Right now, sleep was the thing. A moment later, a deep rumbling snore added to the chorus of other sounds of slumber.

'On your feet, you!' Cadminius swung his boot into the prone figure lying in the dim corner of the hall, furthest from the guarded entrance of the royal quarters. Night had fallen and a few torches hissed in the wall brackets. Tincommius shuffled away from him before Cadminius could land another blow, and the captain of the royal bodyguard quickly grabbed the length of rope tied around the prisoner's neck and gave it a jerk.

'Shit!' Tincommius choked, raising his bound hands to his throat. 'That hurt.'

'Shame you won't live to get used to it,' grinned Cadminius. 'Now, on your feet. King wants a word with you. Perhaps your last word, eh?'

The Atrebatan prince was led by the rope like a dog, cringing before the hatred in the eyes of everyone he passed down the centre of the hall. A wounded man with a ragged dressing covering most of his head propped himself up on an elbow and tried to spit at him as Tincommius went by, but he was too weak and the spittle ended up on his breast. Tincommius stopped and sneered.

'You're pathetic! Have the Romans made you so weak that that's the best you can do?'

Cadminius stopped as the prince started speaking, but now he gave the rope a harsh tug. 'Come on, my beauty, let's not get spiteful.'

As Tincommius gasped at the rope snapping tight around his neck, the men in the hall gave a ragged cheer and shouted insults at the traitor. He swallowed nervously and coughed to clear his throat, but his voice came out only as a croak.

'Laugh now… while you still can… you slaves!'

When Cadminius reached the entrance to Verica's quarters he hauled the prisoner inside. Verica was propped up in his bed, but his skin still looked drained of colour and he gestured feebly to the captain of his bodyguard to have Tincommius brought closer. Beside the bed, on stools, sat Vespasian and Tribune Quintillus. A stocky centurion stood close by, powerfully built, with a hard and cruel expression on his face. Verica tried to lift his head, but couldn't find the strength, and rolled it to the side, looking down his cheeks at his treacherous kinsman as the latter was forced to his knees at the foot of the bed.

'Bring him nearer,' Verica said softly, and Cadminius nudged his captive along with his knee.

For a moment no one spoke, and the only sound was the faint wheezing of the king, and the occasional cries of the wounded in the hall.

'Why, Tincommius?' Verica shook his head. 'Why betray us?'