Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

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?'

Tincommius was ready with his answer and snapped straight back. 'I betrayed you, Uncle, because you betrayed our people.'

'No, young man… I saved them. Saved them from slaughter.'

'So they could be the slaves of your friends here?' Tincommius chuckled bitterly. 'That's some salvation. I'd rather die on my feet than-'

'Quiet!' Verica snapped. 'The times I've heard young hotheads utter that rubbish!'

'Rubbish? I call it an ideal.'

'What are ideals?' Verica asked mockingly. 'They just blind men to the horrors they set in motion. How many thousands of our people are you willing to see die for your ideal, Tincommius?'

'My ideal? Old man, do you not realise that they share my vision?'

'They? Who, exactly?'

'My people. You don't believe me? Then ask them. I challenge you to let us both address them and see what they think.'

'No.' Verica made a thin smile. 'You know that's not possible. In any case… an old man… would lack the persuasiveness of an impassioned youth. People do not like the odour of mortality. They want to hear their dreams fashioned by unblemished lips. Your voice would sound strident and clear. You would make the world simple for them. Too simple. How could I compete with that, burdened as I am by my knowledge of the way the world really is? Tincommius, you would sell them a dangerous dream. I can only peddle painful truths…'

'Coward! What is the point of all this? Why not just murder me now?' Tincommius suddenly looked hopeful. 'Unless…'

'Tincommius, you will die,' Verica said sadly. 'I just needed you to understand why you were wrong… You were like a son to me. I wanted you to know… to know I would give anything not to have you executed.'

'Then don't execute me!' Tincommius cried.

'You leave me no choice.' Verica turned his face away and mumbled, 'I'm sorry… I'm sorry. Cadminius, let the Romans have him now.'

Tincommius glanced over at the legate and the tribune, then beyond to the hardened face of the centurion. He turned and threw himself on to the bed.

'Uncle! Please!'

'Get up!' Cadminius shouted, grabbing the prince by his shoulders, and tearing him away from the old man. Tincommius writhed in his grip, pleading to his uncle, but the captain of the bodyguard pulled him back, got his head in an armlock and dragged him over to Vespasian.

'The king says he's your now. To dispose of as you please.'

Vespasian nodded sternly, and beckoned to Centurion Hortensius. 'Take him into the redoubt, and soften him up a little,' Vespasian said quietly, so that Tincommius would not hear his words. 'Don't hurt him too badly, Hortensius. He'll need to talk.'

The centurion stepped forward and pinioned the struggling prince before lifting him off the ground and dragging him from the chamber.

'Now then, sir, do be a nice quiet gent, or I'll have to get rough with you straight away.'

When Tincommius kept begging for his uncle's mercy the centurion threw him against the stone wall. Tincommius howled with agony, bleeding from a gash on his forehead. The centurion calmly picked him up and placed him back on his feet. 'No more nonsense then, there's a good gentleman.'

After they had eaten a quick meal in the royal kitchens Vespasian and Quintillus made their way to the redoubt. The semi-circle inside was lit by a small fire into which the point of a javelin had been thrust. The iron tip rested in the wavering heart of the fire and glowed orange. To one side Tincommmius was bound to a wagon, and leaned limply against the rough planks. On his bare back were scores of bruises and raw scorch marks. The air was thick with the pungent smell of burned flesh.

'Hope you haven't killed him,' said Vespasian, the back of his hand pressing against his nostrils.

'No, sir.' Hortensius was affronted by the legate's lack of faith in his expertise. There was more to being a torturer than merely inflicting a painful death. Far more. That's why the legions trained men so carefully in this most arcane of military skills. There was a fine line between hurting men enough to guarantee they would speak the truth, and overdoing it and killing them before they were ready to crack. As any half-decent torturer knew, the trick was to inflict more pain than the victim could bear, and keep it at that level of intensity for as long as possible. After that, the victim would tell the truth all right. The terror of not being believed and thereby inviting further agony saw to that. Hortensius nodded towards the fire. 'He's just a little cooked.'