The Eagle and the Wolves

'Spare us the self-pity.'

'Very well. He had to die for the sake of all the tribes of these lands. What is the blood of one old man, against the freedom of an entire race?'

'So it wasn't that difficult, then?' Cato asked quietly, a growing sense of horror swelling up inside him as he realised how totally he had misjudged Artax. 'And you might have killed him… if it wasn't for Artax.'

'Yes. Poor old Artax – and let's not forget poor Bedriacus… More principles than brains – a common failing in my people. I did try to make Artax see where his true interests lay, but he wouldn't have any of it. He came across me just as I was about to finish the old man off. Knocked me down. I didn't have a chance. He got the king away safely, and then you came on the scene.' Tincommius smiled. 'I could hardly believe my fortune when you went after Artax. Of course I had to make sure that he was killed before he could say anything that might incriminate me.' The Atrebatan prince laughed softly at Macro. 'If it wasn't for your unfortunate appearance, I might have killed the king and Cato here as well.'

'Why, you little bastard…' Macro's hand grasped his sword handle, but Cato clamped his hand on his friend's arm before Macro could draw the weapon.

'That's enough, Macro!' Cato said harshly, glaring into the other centurion's eyes. 'Hold still! We need to hear him out; hear his terms.'

'That's right, Centurion.' A smile flickered across Tincommius' face as he looked at Macro. 'Better rein in that temper of yours, if you want to live. You, and your men.'

For a brief while Cato feared that Macro would explode and not rest easy until he had ripped the Atrebatan prince limb from limb with his bare hands. Then Macro took a deep breath, his nostrils flared, and he nodded.

'All right… All right then, you bastard. Have your say.'

'Most gracious of you. I want you and your men to leave Calleva and rejoin the Second Legion. You may take your weapons with you, and I guarantee your safe passage… as far as the legion.'

Macro snorted contemptuously. 'And your word is worth… what? A pile of shit.'

'Quiet!' Cato cut in. 'Why should we leave?'

'You can't defend the walls, not with that handful of legionaries, and whatever's left of the two cohorts. If you try to resist then you will only die, and many of the people of Calleva will die with you. I'm giving you a chance to save all those lives. Life or death. That's what's on offer.'

'What happens after we leave?' Cato asked.

'Surely you can guess? I finish Verica off and tell the people of Calleva that Verica is dead. The council makes me king, and any man who is misguided enough to oppose an immediate alliance with Caratacus is disposed of. Then we tear your supply columns to pieces.'

'In that case, you know we can't surrender.'

'I was rather hoping you'd say that. Still, I'm in no hurry. I'll give you till dawn to make up your minds. By then there won't be many Atrebatans left who'll be willing to fight on your side. Not after I've told them that it was you who attacked their king.'

'What makes you think you'll live long enough to tell them?' Macro snarled.

Tincommius smiled nervously, and took a step back. This was too much for Macro, and he violently shook off Cato's restraining hand and whipped his sword out of its scabbard. 'You little prick! I've had my fill of you.'

Tincommius turned and sprinted away towards the ring of darkness surrounding Calleva. With an incoherent shout of rage Macro charged after him before Cato could react. The young centurion instinctively dived at his friend's legs and drove Macro to the ground. By the time both men were back on their feet Tincommius was no more than a shadow fading into the night. Enraged, Macro rounded on Cato.

'What the fuck are you doing?'

'Get inside the gate!' Cato ordered. 'Quick!'

Macro was having none of it, and raised the point of his sword threateningly. Suddenly, an arrow whacked into the gate close by, then more whirred out of the darkness, splintering the weathered surface of the timbers. Without another word Macro dived back through the narrow gap behind Cato, and the gate was hurriedly closed in the face of the invisible enemy.

'That was close!' Macro shook his head, then turned to look at his young friend. 'Thanks…'

Cato shrugged. 'Save it. We've got to get out of this mess first.'

Then, from out of the night, Tincommius' voice rose up, calling out in Celtic.

'What's he saying?' asked Macro.

'He's inviting the people of Calleva to join him… Telling them, the survivors of the Wolves and the Boars, to desert their Roman masters and become free men once again…'

'Oh! Nice touch. Boy should have been a lawyer. Come on, we have to put an end to this.'

Macro led the way back on to the rampart. They noticed several of the native troops eye them in a guilty, furtive manner and Cato feared that Tincommius was right: many of these men would be gone before the sun rose, silently slipping over the wall to run and pledge their allegiance to a new king. Some would stay; out of duty to Verica, out of duty to their comrades, maybe even out of duty to the officers they had come to respect with the grudging admiration of one warrior for another. Normally Cato disapproved of such sentimentality between men, but not tonight. Tonight he positively prayed for it with every superstitious fibre of his being. Tincommius continued to call out to the men on the wall, promising them a glorious victory over the Eagle soldiers, and a chance to win back the pride of place amongst all Celtic tribes that had once been the preserve of the warriors of the Atrebatans.

'Can you see him?' asked Macro, squinting into the darkness surrounding the ramparts.

'No. Sounds like he's somewhere over… there.' Cato pointed.

Macro nodded to the cluster of legionaries armed with bows and slings along the palisade. 'You there! Try a few shots. Aim for the voice.'

It was hopeless. The odds of hitting Tincommius were little better than trying to toss a pebble down the neck of an amphora at twenty paces, blindfolded. But it might put Tincommius off his stride and undermine his attempt to talk the native troops round. A steady flow of arrows and slingshot arced into the night, and still Tincommius called upon his people. Macro turned back into the town and shouted down towards the supply cart.

'Silva! Get me some trumpets up here, fast as you can!'

'Better hurry,' Cato muttered. 'He's telling them that it was you who attacked Verica.'

'Bastard!'

'… Now he's saying that we're holding the king prisoner, keeping him from his people. All because Verica has had a change of heart and could see Rome for what it really was… That's why we had to remove Verica.'

'Does he really expect them to swallow that load of bollocks?'

'Unless we start countering it, they might.'

Macro cupped his hands. 'Hurry up with those bloody trumpets!'

After a quick look round at the natives listening to the voice of their prince, Macro turned back to Cato. 'You'd better speak to them.'

'Me?'

'Yes, you. Talk 'em round.'

'What should I say?'

'I don't know. Use your head – you're not usually short of things to say. Just make sure whatever it is, you say it louder than Tincommius.'

Cato stood back from the palisade and, desperately trying to remember some of the stirring speeches he had read as a boy, he began to speak. It was not easy translating the high-flown rhetoric of Roman historians into idiomatic Celtic. He stumbled again and again as he tried to address the Atrebatans and persuade them to ignore the traitor Tincommius, and remain loyal to their king, whom the traitor himself had tried to murder. From the darkness, Tincommius called out more loudly, flatly contradicting everything that Cato said. The centurion smiled and renewed his appeal, abandoning any attempt at producing the classic speech style he had been taught by his Greek tutor. He said anything that came into his head, anything that might appeal to the Atrebatans, anything that might prevent them from hearing Tincommius, who was becoming increasingly shrill as he tried to override Cato. But the centurion was tired, and the well of inspiration was quickly drying up. He knew it, and the men on the rampart knew it, and had it not been for the arrival of Silva, carrying an armful of trumpets from the depot, Tincommius might yet have talked most men round.