The Eagle and the Wolves Page 4

  ‘That Vespasian’s a mad one!’ Macro chuckled as he gently shook his head. ‘It’s a wonder he’s still alive. Did you see him going at ‘em like he was a bloody gladiator. The man’s mad.’

  ‘Yes, not quite the approved form of behaviour for senatorial types,’ Cato mused.

  ‘Then what’s he up to?’

  ‘I imagine he feels he’s got something to prove. He and his brother are the first of their family to make it into the senatorial class – quite different from the usual run of aristocrats who serve their time as legates.’ Cato looked around at Macro. ‘That must come as quite a refreshing change.’

  ‘You said it. Most of the senators I’ve served under think that fighting barbarian hordes is beneath them.’

  ‘But not our legate.’

  ‘Not him,’ agreed Macro, and emptied his cup. ‘Not that it’s going to do him much good. Without supplies the Second Legion’s campaign is going to be finished for the year. And you know what happens to legates who can’t cut it. Poor sod’ll end up as governor of some flea-bitten backwater in Africa. That’s the way it goes.’

  ‘Maybe. But I dare say there’ll be other legates sharing the same fate unless something’s done about these raids on our supply lines.’

  Both men fell silent for a moment, pondering the implications of the enemy’s switch in strategy. For Macro it meant the inconvenience of reduced rations and the frustration of losing ground, as the legions would have to retreat and construct more thorough defences of their communication lines before taking the offensive once more. Worse still, General Plautius’ legions would have to set about the ruthless destruction of the tribes one at a time. The conquest would therefore proceed at snail’s pace; he and Cato would have died of old age before the multifarious tribes of this benighted island were finally subdued.

  Cato’s thoughts skated over similar ground to his comrade’s, but swiftly moved on to a more strategic level. This particular extension to the Empire might well have been ill-judged. Of course there were shortterm benefits for the Emperor in that it had shored up his uncertain popularity back in Rome. But despite Caratacus’ capital, Camulodunum, falling into Roman hands, the enemy had shown no great hurry to negotiate, let alone surrender. Indeed, their resolve seemed to have stiffened: under the single-minded leadership of Caratacus every effort was bent towards frustrating the advance of the Eagles. The whole enterprise was proving to be far costlier than the imperial general staff could ever have anticipated. It was clear to Cato that the logical thing to do was to exact a tribute and a promise of alliance from the British tribes and quit the island.

  But that would not happen, not while the Emperor’s credibility was at stake. The legions, and their auxiliary cohorts would never be permitted to withdraw. At the same time reinforcements would be drip-fed into the campaign – just enough to keep up a marginal momentum over the natives. As ever, politics overrode all other imperatives. Cato sighed.

  ‘Heads up,’ Macro hissed, nodding towards the depot gateway.

  In the flickering glow of the braziers each side of the track a small body of men marched out into the street. First came four legionaries, then Vespasian, and then another four legionaries. The small party turned in the direction of Verica’s enclosure and tramped off into the darkness, watched by the two centurions.

  ‘Wonder what that’s all about,’ muttered Cato.

  ‘Courtesy call?’

  ‘I doubt the legate will get a warm reception.’

  Macro shrugged with an evident lack of concern about the cordiality of Rome’s relations with one of the very few tribes prepared to ally themselves to Claudius. He concentrated on a far more pressing issue.

  ‘Another drink? My treat.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘Better not. I’m tired. Best get back to the hospital, before some bloody orderly decides to reallocate our beds.’

  Chapter Four

  Despite the thrill of having survived the desperate skirmish outside the gates of Calleva, Vespasian was in a foul mood as he marched up the stinking thoroughfare towards Verica’s enclosure. And not just because he resented the curt summons he had received from the king of the Atrebatans. As soon as he had recovered his breath after entering Calleva Vespasian marched the survivors of the convoy, and the last of his scouts, to the depot. Every spare man had been placed on the walls in case the Durotrigans decided to chance a more ambitious assault on their enemy. At the depot the legate had to deal with a stream of junior officers jostling for his attention. Taking over the small office of the late Centurion Veranius, Vespasian dealt with them one at a time. The hospital was filled with casualties, and the legion’s chief surgeon was demanding more men to set up a new ward. The centurion in command of the convoy requested a cohort of the Second Legion be placed at his disposal to guard his wagons on the journey back to the base on the Tamesis.

  ‘I can’t be answerable for any supplies until I can get adequate protection, sir,’ he said warily.

  Vespasian eyed the officer with cold contempt. ‘You are answerable for supplies under any circumstances, and you know it.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But those bloody Spanish auxiliaries I was given are useless.’

  ‘Seemed to be doing well enough just now.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the centurion conceded. ‘But it ain’t the same as being protected by legionaries. Our heavy infantry put the shits up the natives.’

  ‘Maybe, but I can’t spare you any of my men.’

  ‘Sir—’

  ‘None. But I’ll send a request to the general for some Batavian cavalry tomorrow. Meanwhile I want a full inventory of the supplies in the depot, and then get as many wagons ready to move as you can.’

  The supplies centurion paused a moment, waiting for further explanation, but Vespasian curtly nodded towards the door and beckoned the next man. His priority was getting supplies to his men as soon as possible. Already one of his scouts was riding back to the Second Legion with orders to send two cohorts to Calleva. It might be a disproportionate response but Vespasian needed to be sure that he could transfer as much as possible from the depot to the legion. With the enemy raiding in force there was no chance of guaranteeing a steady flow of supplies.

  Caratacus had presented him with a neat paradox: if he continued to advance, his supplies would be cut off; yet if he concentrated on safeguarding his supply lines, the advance would be stalled. Further north General Plautius’ forces were already stretched perilously thin, and almost none was available for strengthening the convoy escorts, or garrisoning the way stations and this vital depot at Calleva. The miserable show put on by the garrison that afternoon was indicative of the calibre of the men who could be spared for such duties. What Vespasian needed now, more than anything else, was manpower. Fit and well-trained. But, he realised with teeth-clenching bitterness, he might as well wish for the moon.

  There was a further problem. The commander of the garrison was dead. Veranius had been an adequate enough officer – adequate enough to be spared for this command – but the Second Legion could ill afford to send another centurion from the campaign being waged against the hillforts. As always, the casualty rate amongst centurions was disproportionately high, given their duty to lead from the front. There were already a number of centuries being commanded by optios, hardly a satisfactory state of affairs. . .

  It was at that point that a messenger had arrived from Verica requesting Vespasian’s presence at the earliest convenience.

  All of this weighed heavily on his mind as the legate made his way along the dark streets of Calleva, taking care not to slip on the mud and ordure beneath his boots. Here and there orange pools of light spilled across the rutted streets from the open doorways of native huts. Inside, Vespasian could see families clustered about their hearth-fires, but few seemed to be eating.

  A tall gateway loomed ahead of the legate and his escort, and two Atrebatan warriors with spears stepped out of the shadows at the sound of approaching footsteps. They lowered the br
oad leaf-shaped tips of their spears until they could recognise the legate in the gloom. Then they stepped aside and one of the sentries pointed towards the large rectangular building on the far side of the enclosure. As the Romans crossed the open space Vespasian looked round keenly and noted the stables, small thatched storage sheds and a couple of long, low timber-framed buildings within which the loud, raucous voices of men could be heard. This was how Atrebatan royalty lived then – a far cry from the palaces of their peers in the distant eastern lands of the Empire. Another standard of civilisation altogether, Vespasian reflected, and one which Rome might just as well not have bothered with. It would take a very long time to raise these Britons up to the level where they could comfortably take their place alongside the more developed of the Empire’s subjects.

  On either side of the entrance to Verica’s great hall, torches wavered gently in the darkness. By their light Vespasian was surprised to see that the building had been completed since his last visit to Calleva. Clearly the king of the Atrebatans had aspirations towards a higher standard of living. Not surprising, Vespasian considered, given that so many of the island’s nobles had enjoyed years of exile in the comfortable accommodation afforded by Rome.

  A figure stepped out of the imposing entrance hall, a youth in his early twenties, Vespasian guessed. He had light brown hair tied back and was broad-shouldered and tall – taller than Vespasian by a few inches. He wore a short tunic over his check-weave leggings and soft leather boots, a compromise of native and Roman attire.

  The man grasped Vespasian’s arm with an easy familiar smile.

  ‘Greetings, Legate.’ He spoke in faintly accented Latin.

  ‘Do I know you? I don’t recall..

  ‘We haven’t met formally, sir. My name’s Tincommius. I was with my uncle’s entourage when he rode out to greet you, when your legion arrived here at the beginning of spring.’

  ‘I see,’ Vespasian nodded, not recalling the man at all. ‘Your uncle?’

  ‘Verica,’ Tincommius smiled modestly. ‘Our king.’

  Vespasian looked at him again, giving the man a more serious appraisal. ‘Your Latin’s pretty fluent.’

  ‘I spent much of my youth in Gaul, sir. I fell out with my father when he swore allegiance to the Catuvellaunians. So I went and joined my uncle in exile. . . Anyway, if you would care to leave your bodyguards here, I can take you through to see the king.’

  Vespasian ordered his men to wait for him, and followed Tincommius through the tall oak doors. Inside there was an imposing open space, with a high vaulted thatch roof held up by huge timber beams. Tincommius noted that Vespasian was impressed.

  ‘The king remembers his time in exile with a degree of fondness for Roman architecture. This was completed only a month ago.’

  ‘It’s certainly fit accommodation for a king,’ Vespasian replied politely as he followed Tincommius into the hall. Tincommius had turned right and bowed respectfully, and Vespasian followed his lead. Verica was sitting alone on a dais. To one side stood a small table covered with dishes bearing a variety of luxury foods. To the other side, on the floor, rested an elegant iron brazier, from which a small bundle of logs hissed and cracked on red-hot embers. Verica beckoned to them, and with the sharp echoing footsteps of his nailed boots Vespasian approached the king of the Atrebatans. Though Verica was nearly seventy, underneath the wrinkled skin and long grey hair his eyes sparkled brightly. He was tall and lean, and still had the air of command that must have made him an imposing figure at the height of his powers, Vespasian realised.

  Verica slowly finished the small pastry he had in his hand and then brushed the crumbs on to the floor. He coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘I summoned you to discuss this afternoon s events, Legate.’

  ‘I imagined that was the reason, sir.’

  ‘You must stop these enemy raids into Atrebatan lands. They can’t be allowed to continue a moment longer. It’s not just your convoys that are being attacked; my people have been driven from their farms.’

  ‘I understand that, sir.’

  ‘Empathy does not fill stomachs, Legate. Why can’t we have some of the reserves in your depot? You have plenty there, yet your Centurion Veranius refused to release any supplies to us.’

  ‘He was acting on my orders. My legion may require everything that’s in the depot.’

  ‘Everything? There must be far more there than you could ever need. My people are starving now.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt it’ll be a long campaign, sir,’ Vespasian countered. ‘And I’ve no doubt we will lose yet more supplies to the Durotrigans before the season is over. Then, of course, I’ll need to stockpile food at an advance base for next winter.’

  ‘And what of my people?’ Verica’s hand moved over towards a dish of honeyed dates. ‘They can’t be allowed to go hungry.’

  ‘Once we’ve defeated the Durotrigans your people can return to their farms. But we can’t beat the enemy while my troops have no food in their stomachs.’

  It was an impasse, and both men knew it. Tincommius eventually broke the silence.

  ‘Legate, have you considered what might happen if you don’t feed our people. What if the Atrebatans rose up against Verica?’

  Vespasian had indeed considered the prospect, and the consequences of such a rising were deeply disturbing. If the Atrebatans deposed Verica and threw in their lot with the other tribes fighting for Caratacus then General Plautius and his legions would be cut off from the supply base at Rutupiae. With enemies before, behind and between the Roman columns, Plautius would have to retreat to the safety of Camulodunum. And if the Trinovantans there, cowed as they were, took heart from the revolt of the Atrebatans, then only a miracle could save Plautius and his legions from succumbing to a fate similar to that of General Varus and his three legions in the depths of Germania nearly forty years ago.

  Vespasian controlled his anxiety and fixed Tincommius with a steady look. ‘Do you think it is likely that your people will rise up against the king?’

  ‘Not the king. Rome,’ replied Tincommius. Then he smiled. ‘They’re only grumbling right now. But who knows what men might do if they’re hungry enough?’

  Vespasian kept his expression fixed while Tincommius continued, ‘Hunger is not the only danger. There are some nobles who are less than enthusiastic about our alliance with Rome. Hundreds of our best warriors are fighting alongside Caratacus even now. Rome should not take the loyalty of the Atrebatans for granted.’

  ‘I see,’ Vespasian smiled faintly. ‘You’re threatening me.’

  ‘No, my dear Legate!’ Verica interrupted. ‘Not at all. You must pardon the boy. Youngsters are prone to overstatement, are they not? Tincommius was merely stating the possibility in the most extreme terms, unlikely as it might seem.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Be that as it may, you should know that there is a very real threat to my position, one that might be exploited if you continue to let my people go hungry.’

  There was a palpable tension between the three men now and Vespasian’s anger at the naked attempt to blackmail him threatened to erupt in a most undiplomatic flow of invective. He forced himself to suppress his feelings and reconsider the situation. It was bad enough that the Atrebatans were in two minds about their alliance with Rome; there was no point in making matters worse by fostering bad relations with those Atrebatans who still cherished the link.

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Hand over your food supplies,’ Tincommius answered.

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Then give us enough men to hunt down and destroy these raiders.’

  ‘That’s impossible too. I can’t spare a single man.’

  Tincommius shrugged. ‘Then we can’t guarantee the loyalty of our people.’

  The argument was going round in circles and Vespasian’s frustration was turning to anger once more. There had to be a way through this. Then an idea did occur to him.

  ‘Why c
an’t you go after these raiders yourself?’

  ‘With what?’ snapped Verica. ‘Your general permits me fifty armed men. That’s barely enough to protect the royal enclosure, let alone the ramparts of Calleva. What could fifty men do against the force that attacked your convoy today?’

  ‘Then raise more men. I’ll petition General Plautius to suspend the limit on your forces.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Tincommius said calmly, ‘but we have very few warriors left. Many chose to join Caratacus rather than lay down their arms. Some – though not many – stayed loyal to Verica.’

  ‘Start with them then. There must be many more who’d want revenge on the Durotrigans – all those whose farms have been destroyed by enemy raiders.’

  ‘They’re farmers,’ Tincommius said dismissively. ‘They know almost nothing about fighting. They don’t even have proper weapons. They’d be slaughtered.’

  ‘So train them! I can provide the weapons from the depot here – the moment we get permission from the general – enough for, say, a thousand men. That’s more than sufficient to take on those raiders. . . Unless the Atrebatans are too afraid.’

  Tincommius gave a bitter smile. ‘You Romans, so brave behind your armour, your huge shields and all those cheap battlefield traps. What do you know of courage?’

  Verica coughed. ‘If I might make a suggestion. . .’

  The other two turned towards the old man on the throne. Vespasian dipped his head in assent. ‘Please do.’

  ‘It crossed my mind that you might lend us some of your officers to train our men in the ways of the Roman army. After all, it will be your equipment they will be fighting with. Surely you can spare that many men – if it helps solve both our problems?’

  Vespasian considered the idea. It made good sense. Calleva would be able to take care of itself, and such a force might indeed take the strain off the legion’s lines of communication. Well worth seconding a few officers for. He looked at Verica and nodded. The king smiled.