The Eagle and the Wolves

Whatever the strategic exigencies of the current situation, Cato felt that the Atrebatans deserved better than this. Good men had shed their blood to defend the supply routes of the legions. He had seen them die. To be sure, they had also been defending themselves from their warlike neighbours, but what had truly impressed him was the mutual respect and, dare he admit it, affection that had forged a bond between the warriors of the Atrebatans and their instructors from the Second Legion. Particularly Figulus, who was familiar with their tongue and, once out of uniform, looked every inch a Celt.

The sounds of the men training across the parade ground were clearly audible through the open window of Macro's office, and Cato was struck by the suddenness with which so much good work was now threatened by coarse power play. The terrible tension following Verica's banquet could be assuaged eventually and the rift in the tribe would heal. But what Quintillus was proposing would unite all but a handful of men against Rome. It was madness, and he must make the tribune see that.

'Sir, we've raised two good cohorts of warriors here. They fight well and they fight alongside Rome because they believe we are friends, not oppressors. In time they might be allowed to serve as auxiliary units, and where they lead, other tribesmen will follow. All of that would be lost if you reduced their kingdom to a province. Worse, you would find them ranged against us… I doubt the general would approve.'

Quintillus frowned for a moment, before his expression relaxed and he smiled. 'You're right, of course. We must not squander this opportunity you two have created. While these cohorts of yours are still around we'd better tread carefully.'

Cato relaxed and nodded. Then the tribune gracefully rose from his chair. Macro and Cato shot up from their seats and stood to attention.

'Now, gentlemen, if you'd excuse me, I really must pay my respects to King Verica, before I cause our ally any further offence.'

After the tribune had gone Macro smiled. 'You got him in a nice twist! Bastard'll have to leave us be, for now at least.'

'I'm not so sure.'

'Come on, Cato! Why do you always have to be so bloody suspicious? You heard the man: he thinks you're right.'

'That's what he says…'

'And?'

'I'm not sure.' Cato looked down between his feet. 'I don't trust him.'

'You think he's dodgy?'

'No. Not deceitful, maybe. Just ambitious. It's not everyday the general hands out procuratorial powers.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning our friend Quintillus might be awfully tempted to exercise those powers, come what may. Even if that means provoking the Atrebatans into open rebellion.'

Macro looked at him a moment, then shook his head. 'No. Nobody would be that foolish.'

'He isn't a nobody,' Cato said quietly. 'Quintillus is a patrician. His kind doesn't serve Rome. The way he sees it, Rome is there to serve him, any way he can make her. If the Atrebatans rise up, then he can use his powers to take command of all available troops to crush the tribesmen. A glorious victory has a funny way of erasing memories of the reasons why a victory was needed in the first place.'

When Cato had finished the older centurion let out a deep laugh. 'The gods help me if you ever decide to take to politics. You've got a bloody devious mind, young Cato.'

Cato blushed a little at the implied criticism, before he shrugged. 'I'll leave politics to those who are bred for it. I just want to survive. Right now, we're sitting on the top of a scorpions' nest. We've got two cohorts of native troops, dangerously cocksure that they can take on anything. We've got a town packed to the seams with a starving rabble, and an old king who's jumping at every shadow because he fears that his own nobles are plotting against him. Outside the walls there are enemy columns raiding Atrebatan lands and butchering our supply convoys. And now… now we have some jumped-up tribune on the make, just itching for an excuse to annex the natives.' He looked at Macro and shook his head. 'What's not to be worried about?'

'You've got a point.' Macro nodded. 'Let's get something to drink.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Nineteen

Tribune Quintillus walked slowly through the soiled thoroughfares of Calleva. Behind him trudged the bodyguards he had brought with him from army headquarters: six men selected for their toughness; each as tall and broad-shouldered as the tribune. He knew what kind of impression he wanted to cast before these barbarians. As a representative of the general, and by extension the Emperor, he must be the very image of the all-conquering race, chosen by the gods themselves to subdue the backward peoples who blighted the world beyond the frontiers of the Empire.

Quintillus glanced curiously around as he made his way between the thatched huts towards the royal enclosure. Most of the townspeople were sitting around the entrances to their huts, a tableau of gaunt faces with desperation etched into their expressions. They had not quite reached the stage where starvation made them too listless and apathetic to act. Accordingly, the tribune calculated, they still constituted a danger. They might yet have the energy to respond to an appeal to rise up against Verica and Rome.

The quiet was eerie after the noise of training in the depot and Quintillus was relieved when he turned the final corner and caught sight of the wooden gates and raised palisade of the royal enclosure. To the tribune's surprise the gates were closed. It would seem that those inside the enclosure were well aware of the simmering tensions wreathing the hot streets of Calleva. At the approach of the Romans one of the sentries on the walkway over the gates turned towards the king's great hall and bellowed notice of the new arrivals. But the gates remained closed as Quintillus strode towards them. He was just beginning to fear that he might face the huge indignity of being denied admission when a face appeared over the palisade above the solid timber gates. Quintillus looked up, squinting into the bright sunshine as he made out the form of a large warrior.

'Do you speak any Latin?' the tribune asked, with a smile.

The man nodded.

'Then please be so good as to tell your king that Tribune Quintillus desires an audience. I have been sent by Aulus Plautius.'

The Briton's eyes widened a little at the sound of the general's name. 'Wait, Roman.'

Then he was gone, and the gate was shut again. Quintillus glared at the shadowed timbers and slapped his hand against his thigh in frustration. The Romans waited in the bright sunshine, between the crude huts lining the rutted street. The stench from a nearby midden, heated to a sharp pungency, filled the still air and the tribune wrinkled his nose in disgust. Flies buzzed lazy looping paths around the tribune and his bodyguards, and a short distance away a dog barked endlessly. Quintillus affected an air of detachment and slowly paced up and down in front of the gate, hands loosely clasped behind his back. The entire town was crying out for demolition, the tribune decided. He began to visualise Calleva as the seat of government for this province: neat ranks of tiled houses arranged around a modest palace and basilica that would proclaim that Roman law and Roman order had triumphed once more.