Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

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

'To prove I mean what I say, please observe…' Tincommius nodded to a man standing to one side of the column. Unlike the other natives he was carrying only a heavy wooden club. He strode forward, and stood over the Roman on the ground, bracing his feet apart. Then he swept the club up and smashed it down on the shin of the Roman's left leg. Cato and Macro clearly heard the bone crack from the gateway of the royal enclosure, fifty paces up the street. The scream from the Roman was audible from far further away. And it got worse when the warrior broke the prisoner's other leg – a shrill animal screech of pure agony that chilled the blood of all who heard it. The Roman writhed in the dirt of the street, his lower legs twisting obscenely below the knee, causing even more torment. His screams only ended when he finally passed out.

Tincommius allowed the silence to have its effect before continuing to address the defenders. 'That's the first. There'll be more, until you come to your senses and surrender. Those that survive can be taken with you when you quit Calleva. It's your decision, Macro. You can end this any time that you wish.'

Above the gate Cato noticed that Macro was gripping the pommel of his sword so tightly that his knuckles were white and the tendons leading back towards the wrist stood out like iron nails under the skin. Cato felt more sick than enraged. The spectacle had made him want to throw up, and the roast pork and fine bread he had been enjoying so much only moments earlier now churned in his stomach.

'Bastard,' Macro whispered through clenched teeth. 'Bastard… Bastard… BASTARD!'

His shout of rage carried down the street, and Tincommius smiled as Macro let his anger spill out.

'Fucking bastard! I'll kill you. I swear it! I'll kill you!'

'Centurion, you're welcome to come out here and try it. I dare you!'

'Sir,' Cato placed his hand on Macro's shoulder, 'You mustn't…'

Macro glanced round angrily. 'Of course not! Think I'm stupid?'

'No… just angry, sir. Angry and helpless.' Cato nodded at the other men who crowded the palisade, staring down the street with expressions of horror and rage. 'We all are.'

Macro turned to look in the direction Cato had indicated and saw that not only had all the remaining legionaries clambered up on to the palisade, but also the Wolves and some of Verica's bodyguards. He swept Cato's hand from his shoulder and roared at the men.

'What the bloody hell do you think this is? A fucking freak show? Get off the wall and get back to your positions! Want them to just bloody hop over the wall while you're gawping at that twat? The only men I want up here are the sentries. Move!'

The legionaries backed away from the palisade with guilty expressions and clambered back down into the enclosure, followed by the Wolves, who had no need of Cato's shouted translation. Macro glowered at them for a moment and then turned back towards Tincommius.

When he saw that he had the centurion's attention again Tincommius called out, 'Macro, will you surrender? Answer me!'

The centurion stood still and silent, lips compressed into a tight line on his weathered face. A terrible despair gnawed at his guts and a fathomless anger and hatred for Tincommius filled his soul as Macro watched helplessly.

'Very well. The next man, then.' Tincommius beckoned for the second prisoner to be brought forward.

The Atrebatan warrior selected a youth, scarcely more than a boy, whom Cato recognised as one of the mule herders from the depot. The boy shrank back, shaking his head, but his captor grabbed him roughly by the hair as he slipped the knot that bound the boy to the rest of the prisoners. With a savage wrench the warrior hauled the boy out of the column and dragged him, writhing and screaming for mercy, towards the prone form of the first victim. Macro stood still, but Cato could watch no more, and turned away. He hurried to the ladder and swung himself down into the enclosure. As he reached the ground he heard the sickening crunch of a blow being landed and the boy's scream cut through the morning air like a knife thrust deep into Cato's guts.

All morning it went on, and the broken bodies stretched across the street. There was no pause in the screams and cries of the Romans now that so many of them had been crippled and left to suffer the agony of their shattered limbs. Macro made himself stay on the gate, silent and unyielding in the face of Tincommius' regular demands for surrender. And each time, when Macro refused to reply, the next captive was dragged forward, in full view of the defenders on the gate, and beaten savagely on the legs until they broke. To add emphasis to the process Tincommius ordered the warrior with the club to begin breaking arms as well and once he had broken both shins he began on their elbow joints.

For Cato, even well away from the gateway, there was no respite from the horror, as the screaming continued unabated. No one in the royal enclosure spoke. Most sat staring at the ground, visibly shaken every time a new victim added his cries to the shrill, nerve-shredding chorus. Some men spent the time sharpening their swords with vigorous rasping strokes of their whetstones that did little to drown out the hellish din from over the wall. Finally, Cato could stand it no more and climbed up to join Macro. The older officer had not moved, and stared down the street with a fixed, implacable expression. He spared himself only the briefest of glances at Cato.

'What is it?'

'I'm worried about how much more of this the men can take… sir.' Cato nodded discreetly towards the men in the enclosure. 'It's wearing 'em down.'

'Wearing you down, you mean,' Macro sneered. 'If you can't stomach this, then what are you doing in that uniform?'

'Sir!' Cato protested, shocked by Macro's vehemence. 'I… I…'

'You what? Go on, say it.'

Cato struggled for a response, but his mind was too tired to develop a line of reasoning to excuse himself. Instinctively he knew that Macro was right: he was thinking more about himself than the responses of the men, and he looked down guiltily. 'Nothing… I can't bear it.'

The veteran looked at him closely, a bitter expression on his face, the muscles of his cheeks tightening and twitching. For a moment Cato thought that Macro would explode and shout him down in front of all the men. The humiliating vision filled his mind to the exclusion of anything else, so profound was Cato's fear of shame and inadequacy. Then Macro looked past Cato, aware of the faces that had turned towards the two centurions. He breathed in deeply through his nose and forced himself to release the tension that gripped his body like a vice.

'Well, you have to bear it,' Macro said quietly. 'This is as bad as it gets, Cato. And you have to be calm, control yourself and not give way. Or at least, try to be as calm as you can.' Macro shook his head sadly as he recalled his initial wave of rage when the first prisoner had been broken.

'Is there nothing we can do about it?'

Macro shrugged. 'What did you have in mind?'

'I don't know. Perhaps we might try to rush them, and get our men back.'

'Cato, they're dead either way. If we rescue them, what then? They'll live a few more hours before the royal enclosure falls, that's all. And if our rescue attempt goes wrong, we all die a bit sooner.'

'So what difference does it make?'

'Not much,' admitted Macro. 'I just know it's our duty to guard the king, and hold out for as long as possible.'

'And we just let them carry on with that?' Cato pointed down the street.