Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'In that case…' Cato cast a map of Calleva into his mind's eye. 'In that case, we'll have to fall back on the depot when the time comes. The depot, or the royal enclosure.'

'Not the enclosure,' said Macro. 'Too close to the rest of the town. We'd never see them coming until the last instant. Besides, there's plenty of supplies we can draw on in the depot. It's our best chance.'

'I suppose.'

'Cato! Macro!' a voice called out from the darkness beyond the wall. The two centurions looked warily over the palisade.

'Cato! Macro!'

'Who the hell's that?' muttered Macro. He turned to a group of bowmen crouching nearby on the walkway, and mimed stringing an arrow. 'Get ready!'

The voice called out again, closer this time.

'I don't like this,' said Macro. 'It's bound to be some kind of a trick. Well, we'll be ready for the bastards!'

Cato peered into the night, straining his eyes towards the direction of the voice. Then, it came again, closer and clearer – and now he was certain.

'It's Tincommius.'

'Tincommius?' Macro shook his head. 'Bollocks! It's a trick.'

'It's Tincommius, I tell you… Look there!'

In the red wavering light from the dying flames of the last faggot to be hurled over the wall, a figure emerged from the darkness. He paused a moment, indistinct and shimmering beyond the heated night air.

'Cato! Macro!' he called again.

'Step into the light where we can see you,' Macro bellowed. 'Slowly now! Any tricks and you'll be dead before you can even turn round!'

'All right! No tricks!' the man called back. 'I'm coming closer.'

He picked his way round the faggot and slowly approached the gate, one arm raised to show that he carried no weapon. In the other hand he carried an auxiliary shield, one of those issued to the Wolves and the Boars. He stopped thirty paces from the gate.

'Macro… It's me, Tincommius.'

'Fuck me!' whispered Macro. 'So it is!'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

General Plautius was growing tired of the game being played by Caratacus. For some weeks now the legions had steadily advanced along the north bank of the Tamesis, trying to close with the Britons. But as soon as the Roman army moved forward, Caratacus simply withdrew, abandoning one defensive position after another and leaving the Romans nothing but the warm ashes of his campfires. And all the time the gap between Plautius' army and the smaller force commanded by Vespasian grew dangerously wider, almost inviting a sudden thrust by the enemy should he ever guess at the truth. Plautius had tried to force Caratacus to give battle by ordering his troops to burn every farm and settlement they came across. Every farm animal was to be likewise destroyed. Only a handful of the people would be spared so that their lamentations would ring in the ears of their chiefs, who in turn must beg Caratacus to put an end to Roman despoiling of their lands by turning round and falling upon the legions.

Finally it seemed to have worked.

Plautius stared across the shallow valley towards the fortifications Caratacus had prepared on the far ridge: a shallow ditch and, beyond, a small earth rampart with a crude wooden palisade. It would not present much of a challenge to the first wave of assault troops forming up on the slope in front of the Roman camp. Behind them were arranged several small batteries of bolt-throwers, preparing to lay down a terrible barrage of heavy iron shafts that would smash the flimsy palisade and kill any man standing directly behind it.

'Should be over long before the day's finished!' grinned the weathered prefect of the Fourteenth Legion, the unit Plautius had chosen to lead the assault.

'I hope so, Praxus. Go in hard. I want them finished once and for all.'

'Don't worry about my lads, sir. They know the score. But there won't be many prisoners…'

There was no mistaking the disapproving tone and Plautius had to bite back on his irritation. There was far more at stake here than enhancing the retirement fund of a legionary prefect.

That bloody man Narcissus had announced to all and sundry in Rome that Britain was as good as conquered when the Emperor had returned from his sixteen-day visit at the end of the last campaigning season. A triumph had been held to celebrate the conquest of the island and Claudius had made an offering of spoils from his victories in the temple of peace.

Yet here the army was, nearly a year later, facing the same enemy. An enemy who was quite oblivious to the fact that they had already been defeated, according to the official history. And now the imperial general staff in Rome were getting a little uncomfortable about the discrepancy between the official account and conditions on the ground. Elsewhere in Rome, the families of young officers serving in Plautius's legions were increasingly perplexed by letters they received that recounted the endless raids of the enemy, the daily attrition of the army's strength and the failure to bring Caratacus to battle. Veterans and invalids returning from the distant front only confirmed the details in the letters, and the talk on the streets of Rome was starting to turn quite ugly. The dispatches General Plautius was receiving from Rome were getting increasingly impatient. Finally, Narcissus had written a terse and brutally frank note. Either Plautius finish the job by the end of the summer, or his career was over, and more besides.

The Fourteenth had finished assembling and the ten cohorts of heavy infantry stood in two lines, ready for the command to advance. Across the valley there was little sign of activity from Caratacus, no skirmishers or scouts out in front of the main body of his army, only the massed ranks of his warriors lining the palisade, waiting for the Roman attack. Here and there a standard waved slowly to and fro, and the shrill bray of war horns echoed across the valley to General Plautius, who smiled with satisfaction.

Very well, he decided, if Caratacus wants us to come and get him, then come and get him we shall. Plautius was further gratified by the knowledge that even now, two cohorts of auxiliary cavalry and the Twentieth Legion were completing their sweeping march round the flank of the enemy to seal off his line of retreat. A trusted local chief had offered to guide them through the wetlands that Caratacus had assumed was guarding his left flank. The guide had not volunteered to do this out of any loyalty to Rome, but for the promise of great reward, and the sparing of his family who were being held hostage in Plautius' camp. That, the general thought confidently, was enough to guarantee the man's good faith.

'Permission to start the bombardment, sir?' asked Praxus.

Plautius nodded, and the signalman raised a red banner. He paused, until the artillery signallers had raised their banners to show that they were ready to carry out the order. Then he dropped the banner. At once the air was filled with the sharp cracks of the torsion arms flying forward as they launched their heavy iron shafts over the heads of the Fourteenth Legion and into the Britons' defences. Holes suddenly appeared in the palisade as the barrage tore through, taking out files of soldiers behind.

'Damn! They're good!' Praxus shook his head. 'Just sitting there and soaking it up. Never seen discipline like it.'

'Maybe,' Plautius said grudgingly. 'But they'll still be no match for our lads. You'd better get in position. Your legate is going to need the benefit of your experience today.'

'Yes, sir.' Praxus gave him a wry smile. Not all legates were up to the job and those that weren't had to be carried by their senior professional officers until their tour of duty was complete. To be fair, Plautius reflected, the imperial general staff soon realised if a man did not measure up to the job and quickly reappointed him to a less vital government post back in Rome.