Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (47 page)

‘Sir, if we lose these six cohorts and a legate, there won’t be a strategic situation to worry about, only a rout.’

‘Really!’ The tribune laughed and turned to Vespasian. ‘I think this young man has become physically and mentally exhausted over the last few days, sir. It’s only natural he might have an inflated fear of the enemy.’

This was too much for Macro. His bull neck swung forward. ‘Afraid? Cato afraid? It wasn’t Cato who ran off when they gave us that first pasting-’

Vespasian stepped between them and raised his hand, speaking in an urgent undertone. ‘That’s quite enough, gentlemen! I’ll not have my officers arguing in front of the men.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Quintillus continued quietly, ‘I will not stand for a common centurion inferring that I’m a coward. I was the one that rode for help.’

‘Quite,’ Macro smiled sweetly. ‘And I wasn’t inferring that you’re a coward . . . sir.’

‘Enough!’ said Vespasian. ‘Centurion Cato, given how things have turned out, I think we can discount anything Tincommius may have said. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s managed to fool a Roman officer.’

Quintillus tightened his lips.

Had he not been so weary Cato might have been a bit more circumspect in his approach to the commander of the Second Legion, but he had to press upon the legate the seriousness of their situation. ‘Sir, he said that Caratacus and his army would be arriving tomorrow. If we’re not well clear of Calleva by then-’

‘I’ve made my decision, Centurion. We stay. I’ll have the scouts out at first light. They can warn us of any approaching danger.’

‘It might be too late by then, sir.’

‘Look here, this Tincommius is a liar. He deceived you.’

‘He deceived all of us, sir.’

‘Quite. So why should we believe him now? How can you be sure he’s speaking the truth? Let’s accept that Tincommius wasn’t lying. I doubt Caratacus would have given General Plautius the slip. He’d be fighting a rearguard action all the way. He’d have more reason to worry about us than we about him. Look, it was probably no more than a simple ploy by Tincommius to get you to surrender. Surely you can see through that?’

Macro glanced down to hide his anger at the accusation they could have been so easily gulled.

‘But what if he was telling the truth, sir?’ Cato persisted. ‘We’d be caught here in Calleva and cut to pieces. Verica would be killed, Tincommius placed on the throne and the Atrebatans would change sides.’

Vespasian gave him a stony look. ‘A commander of a legion does not let himself be ruled by hysterical hypotheses. I want proof.’

He looked closely at the two centurions. ‘You two need rest more than anyone else - you and your men. I order you to get some sleep right away.’

It was a cheap and crude way to end the discussion, but Vespasian had made his decision and would no longer brook any questioning of it. But still Cato made one last effort as Macro saluted and turned to quit his commander’s presence.

‘Sir, the price of sleep now may be defeat and death tomorrow.’

Vespasian, who had not slept for over two days himself, was fractious, and snapped irritably back at his subordinate, ‘Centurion! It is not for you to question my orders!’ He raised his finger threateningly. ‘One more word from you, and I’ll have you reduced to the ranks. Now get out of here.’

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.’

‘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.