The Eagle and the Wolves

'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.

'Well sir, what do you think?'

'I'm wondering if Centurion Cato wasn't right to be so cautious after all.'

Quintillus looked at him anxiously. 'You can't be serious, sir. Caratacus coming here? It's not possible. The general's got him pegged to the other side of the river.'

Another scream pursued them, and Vespasian jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 'Well, he believes it sure enough.'

'It's like you said earlier, sir, he's just trying to put the frighteners on us.'

'Not much point in that now, if it's not true.'

'Maybe,' Quintillus conceded reluctantly. 'Then perhaps he was lied to in turn.'

Vespasian stopped, and turned towards the tribune. 'Just why are you so keen to keep us here? Nothing to do with you wanting to be the first Roman governor of the Atrebatans, I suppose?'

The tribune did not reply.

'Thought so,' Vespasian sneered. 'There's a little more than your career at stake, Quintillus. Bear that in mind.'

The tribune shrugged, but stayed silent. Vespasian sighed with bitter frustration at the man's inability to acknowledge the potential peril of their situation.

'Tribune, if anything happens to me, you will be the senior officer here, understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And your duty will be to carry out my last orders. In which case you must see to the safety of the men under your command. You will take no risks with their lives. If that means abandoning Calleva you will do it.'

'As you wish, sir.'

'As I command.'

'Yes, sir.'

Vespasian stared at the tribune to reinforce the gravity of the order, before he continued, 'I want you to tell the cohort commanders to have their men ready to move first thing tomorrow. Go.'

The tribune saluted and strode off into the darkness, and Vespasian watched until even the last dim outline of the man had disappeared. If anything did happen to him, and Quintillus took command, Vespasian dreaded the consequences for his men. Perhaps he should put his instructions to the tribune in writing and ask one of the cohort commanders to witness the document. Almost as soon as the idea jumped into his head Vespasian dismissed it with contempt. Much as he disliked the tribune, it would never do to treat him so dishonourably. Quintillus had his orders and was honour-bound to obey them.

His thoughts returned at once to the spectre of Caratacus and his army manoeuvring towards Calleva. It was hard to believe that the British commander had managed to give General Plautius the slip. Yet Tincommius held to his story. In which case, the legate mused, there were a number of possibilities. The prince might be hoping that the Romans, fearing for their lives, would quit Calleva, and then the Durotrigans would return and complete what they had started. Conversely, if Caratacus was coming, surely Tincommius would lie and hope that his ally might catch Vespasian and his six cohorts in Calleva, and thereby destroy the best part of a legion? That would deal a lethal blow to General Plautius' campaign. There was nothing that could be done, he decided, until he had more information.