The Eagle and the Wolves

Praxus saluted and strode down the slope to join the colour party of the Fourteenth, casually tying the straps of his helmet as he went along. Plautius watched him go, then turned to see the standards of the Ninth Legion emerging from the camp as the second assault wave moved forward to its starting positions. The general bowed his head as the Emperor's image was carried by. A rather too flattering portrait of Claudius, he decided, and one whose noble features bore comparatively little resemblance to the twitching fool who had been catapulted on to the throne only three years before. The ranks of the First Cohort of the Ninth Legion filed by, and the general briefly acknowledged their salute before focusing his attention back on the enemy defences.

As soon as the palisade was badly torn up Plautius gave the order for the batteries to stop the barrage. After the last bolt-thrower discharged its missile, there was a brief pause and then the headquarters trumpets sounded the advance. The two lines of the Fourteenth Legion rippled forward, the sun glinting off the bronze and tin helmets of nearly five thousand men as they marched down the slope, crossed the narrow floor of the valley and started to ascend the far slope.

'Any moment now…' Plautius muttered to himself. But there was no response from the defenders. No volley of arrows, no rattle of slingshot. The enemy's discipline must have drastically improved, the general mused. In the earlier battles he had fought, the Britons had let loose their first volley the moment they thought the Romans were within range, thereby wasting a great quantity of their ranged munitions, as well as the devastating impact of a closely co-ordinated volley launched at short range.

The front ranks of the first wave of legionaries dipped down as they reached the defence ditch. On the far side, on the rampart, the Britons waited impassively for the Romans to reach them, and Plautius found himself tensing as he waited for the two sides to close in a deadly melee. Out of the ditch came the front rank of legionaries, struggling up the earth rampart and then hurling themselves on the enemy through the gaps in the shattered palisade. Such was the savagery of the final charge that the first five cohorts swept through the defences and into the enemy camp without stopping.

Then there was silence. No war cries. No enemy war horns. No din of battle. Nothing.

'My horse!' Plautius called out, the first dreadful doubt forming in his mind. What if Caratacus knew about the trap the Romans had prepared for him and refused to be taken captive? What if he persuaded his men that Rome would show them no mercy? After all, no mercy had been shown to those whose lands they had laid waste throughout the summer. Plautius felt sick. Had he gone too far? Had he convinced Caratacus that the only way left to defy Rome was suicide?

'Where's my bloody horse?'

A slave came ru

'Out of my way!' he shouted at a group of his men standing quietly in a breach in the palisade. 'Move!'

They hurriedly stepped aside and revealed the Britons' camp beyond. Scores of dead campfires smouldered in the space behind the ram-part. But there was no sign of the enemy. Plautius looked along the ruined palisade and saw hundreds of crude straw figures knocked flat by the artillery barrage, or trampled down by the first assault wave.

'Where are they?' he asked out loud. But none of his men would meet his eye. They no more knew the answer than did their general.

There was a sudden commotion and Praxus emerged on to the ramparts dragging a Briton with him. The man, obviously roaring drunk, slumped down at the general's feet.

'This is the only one I could find, sir. When we got into the camp I saw a small band of them riding off towards the river, that direction.' Praxus nodded towards a serpent standard propped up against the palisade. 'They must have been the ones blowing the horns and waving the standards.'

'Yes,' Plautius replied quietly, 'that makes sense… That makes sense. Question is, where are they now? Where's Caratacus and his army?'

For a moment there was silence, as Plautius looked south towards the river. Then the drunken Briton started singing, and the spell was broken.

'Shall I send the scouts out, sir?' asked Praxus.

'Yes. Get back to headquarters and give the orders at once. I want every direction covered. I want them found as soon as possible.'

'Yes, sir. What about this one? Want him interrogated?'

General Plautius looked down at the man, and the Briton met his gaze with a glazed expression, and then wagged a mocking finger at the Roman. In that gesture Plautius felt struck by a wave of ridicule, and sensed in himself the first inkling of a deep self-loathing and rage. Caratacus had tricked him; made him look a fool in front of his own legions, and as soon as word got back to Rome they would laugh at him there as well.

'Him?' he replied coldly. 'We'll get nothing useful out of this scum. Impale him.'

As Praxus detailed some men to carry the prisoner away General Plautius gazed south again, this time across the river, to the grey haze of the horizon beyond. Somewhere over there, in the distance, was Vespasian and the Second Legion. If Caratacus had turned south then Vespasian would be completely unaware of the enemy army bearing down on him.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Nine

'Open the gate!' Cato shouted.

'No!' Macro grabbed his arm, and leaned over the parapet to call down to the men below. 'Keep the gate closed!'

Cato shook off his friend's arm. 'What the hell are you doing, sir? You trying to get Tincommius killed?'

'No! Something's wrong. Cato, think about it! How'd he get through their lines?'

'I did.'

'And only just made it to the gate. Look at him! Full armour. Just walking up to us. They let him through.'

'Let him through?' Cato frowned. 'Why?'

'We'll know soon enough.' Macro peered over the palisade. 'I never really trusted that bastard…'

Tincommius was standing thirty paces away from the gate, apparently unperturbed by the presence of hundreds of the Durotrigans lurking in the surrounding darkness.

'Macro!' Tincommius called out in Latin. 'Open the gate. We need to talk.'

'So talk!'

The Atrebatan prince smiled. 'Some things are best discussed discreetly. Open the gate and come out.'

'Does he think we're mad?' Macro grunted. 'We'd be dead before we got halfway to him.'

'I guarantee your safety!' Tincommius shouted.

'Bollocks!' Macro replied. 'Step up to the gate! Alone!'

'Can you guarantee my safety?' Tincommius responded in a mocking tone. 'You'd better…'

'Come closer!' Cato pointed directly below the palisade. After a moment's hesitation Tincommius began to walk slowly towards them. The two centurions quickly made their way down the ramp and while Macro gave the order to open the gate, Cato gathered two sections of legionaries in case there was any attempt by the Durotrigans to rush the entrance to Calleva. As the gate creaked open, just wide enough to allow a man to squeeze through, Cato could see the Atrebatan prince waiting for them on the far side. He reached for a torch being held by one of the legionaries.