Simon Scarrow4_ - The Eagle and the Wolves

'Has he said anything useful?' asked Quintillus.

'Just some native gibberish for the most part.'

'Does he still maintain that Caratacus is coming to his rescue?'

'Yes, sir.'

Vespasian looked at the mutilated flesh on the prince's back with a horrified fascination. 'In your judgement, do you think he's telling the truth?'

Hortensius scratched his neck, and nodded. 'Yes, unless he's got more balls than a herd of billy goats.'

'Interesting expression,' Quintillus remarked. 'Haven't heard that one before. Regional speciality of yours?'

'That's right, sir,' Hortensius replied drily. 'We made it up for the benefit of tourists. Now, shall I get on, sir?' The last remark was directed at the legate, and Vespasian tore his gaze away from Tincommius.

'What? Oh yes, carry on. But if he doesn't change his story soon, you can finish up here and get some rest.'

'Finish up, sir?' Hortensius bent down and pulled the tip of the javelin out of the fire. Against the darkness it glowed more intensely than ever: a fiery yellow on which pinpricks of even brighter light sparkled. The air wavered beside it. 'Do you mean finish off?'

'Yes.'

'Very good, sir.' Centurion Hortensius nodded, and turned back to the Atrebatan prince, lowering the tip of the spear towards Tincommius' buttocks. The legate strode out of the redoubt, making a great effort not to walk too fast in case the centurion and the tribune guessed that he was acutely discomforted by the scene. As soon as Vespasian and Quintillus were outside the redoubt they heard a hiss followed by an inhuman shriek that split the air like a knife. Vespasian strode off towards one of the king's store sheds, which he had made his temporary headquarters, forcing Quintillus to quicken his step to keep up.

'Well sir, what do you think?'

'I'm wondering if Centurion Cato wasn't right to be so cautious after all.'

Quintillus looked at him anxiously. 'You can't be serious, sir. Caratacus coming here? It's not possible. The general's got him pegged to the other side of the river.'

Another scream pursued them, and Vespasian jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'Well, he believes it sure enough.'

'It's like you said earlier, sir, he's just trying to put the frighteners on us.'

'Not much point in that now, if it's not true.'

'Maybe,' Quintillus conceded reluctantly. 'Then perhaps he was lied to in turn.'

Vespasian stopped, and turned towards the tribune. 'Just why are you so keen to keep us here? Nothing to do with you wanting to be the first Roman governor of the Atrebatans, I suppose?'

The tribune did not reply.

'Thought so,' Vespasian sneered. 'There's a little more than your career at stake, Quintillus. Bear that in mind.'

The tribune shrugged, but stayed silent. Vespasian sighed with bitter frustration at the man's inability to acknowledge the potential peril of their situation.

'Tribune, if anything happens to me, you will be the senior officer here, understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And your duty will be to carry out my last orders. In which case you must see to the safety of the men under your command. You will take no risks with their lives. If that means abandoning Calleva you will do it.'

'As you wish, sir.'

'As I command.'

'Yes, sir.'

Vespasian stared at the tribune to reinforce the gravity of the order, before he continued, 'I want you to tell the cohort commanders to have their men ready to move first thing tomorrow. Go.'

The tribune saluted and strode off into the darkness, and Vespasian watched until even the last dim outline of the man had disappeared. If anything did happen to him, and Quintillus took command, Vespasian dreaded the consequences for his men. Perhaps he should put his instructions to the tribune in writing and ask one of the cohort commanders to witness the document. Almost as soon as the idea jumped into his head Vespasian dismissed it with contempt. Much as he disliked the tribune, it would never do to treat him so dishonourably. Quintillus had his orders and was honour-bound to obey them.

His thoughts returned at once to the spectre of Caratacus and his army manoeuvring towards Calleva. It was hard to believe that the British commander had managed to give General Plautius the slip. Yet Tincommius held to his story. In which case, the legate mused, there were a number of possibilities. The prince might be hoping that the Romans, fearing for their lives, would quit Calleva, and then the Durotrigans would return and complete what they had started. Conversely, if Caratacus was coming, surely Tincommius would lie and hope that his ally might catch Vespasian and his six cohorts in Calleva, and thereby destroy the best part of a legion? That would deal a lethal blow to General Plautius' campaign. There was nothing that could be done, he decided, until he had more information.

Back in the storeroom, he undid the ties of his breastplate and stretched his shoulders. Then he sent for the decurion in charge of the small squadron of scouts and ordered the man to assemble his riders. They were to leave the fort at once and begin reconnoitring to the north and west for any signs of a native army. Once the order was given, Vespasian gladly laid himself down on a pile of cured animal skins and fell fast asleep.

Cato woke with a start. The young centurion struggled into a sitting position, bleary-eyed and his mind still fogged with sleep. As he looked around numbly, Cato saw that the royal enclosure was still shrouded in darkness, and away to the east glimmered the faint glow of a false dawn. All about him shadows moved in the gloom as the Roman officers moved down the lines of slumbering soldiers, shaking their men awake. Macro approached him.

'What's happening?' asked Cato.

'Get up. We're moving.'

'Moving?'

'Getting out of Calleva and back to the legion.'

'Why?'

'Legate's orders. Get your men ready. Now move yourself!'

Cato stretched his stiff limbs and rose to his feet with a groan. The enclosure was alive with the low grumbling of men roused from sleep, and the harsh shouts of the centurions aimed at those who were slow to rise. Torches flared by the storehouse being used by the legate and the small staff he had brought with him. Cato saw Vespasian hurriedly briefing the cohort commanders by the glow of spluttering flames. Bending down to retrieve his segmented armour, Cato wriggled his body inside and fumbled with the leather ties. Some of the men from the Wolf Cohort were already awake and gazing around anxiously.

'Centurion!' Mandrax approached him, and Cato realised that it was the first time for some days that he had seen the man without the standard to hand. 'Sir, what's going on?'

'We're leaving.'

'Leaving?' Mandrax looked surprised, then frowned. 'Why, sir? We won. The enemy have gone. Why abandon Calleva now?'

'Orders. Now help me get our men formed up.'

For a brief moment Mandrax stood quite still, staring at his centurion with an expression that Cato read as suspicion. Then he nodded slowly and turned away to see to his duties. Cato felt guilty about the order. These men he had fought alongside looked to Rome as their ally, and this order to quit Calleva would smack of betrayal, even though it made sense. Vespasian must have changed his mind. Or worse, Tincommius had proved to be telling the truth after all. Cato fastened his sword belt, tucked his helmet underneath his arm and strode over to the two lines of his men.

The Wolf Cohort existed in name only: Cato counted thirty shadowy figures standing behind Mandrax and the standard. Many bore dressings on their arms, but each still carried the oval shield, javelin and bronze helmet they had been issued months before. A surge of pride welled up inside Cato as he quickly inspected them. These men had proved themselves the equal of the legionaries in valour and steadfastness, and with more drill they would match their Roman comrades in skill at arms. The bond he shared with them through training and battle was as tight as any he had shared with his comrades in the Second Legion.