The First Wolves

20. SMOKE THEM OUT

“General! There is a messenger from the salt mines to the east of us. He says he has important news about the escaped wolves…” A centurion called from behind the new curtain, which gave his bed the illusion of privacy.

It was early in the morning, and Tarquin was disgruntled at being awoken abruptly. But it was the nature of his position to be alerted to everything in camp.

“Hold on a minute,” he called out to his tribune, not alert enough to absorb the information yet.

He quickly placed Antonia’s mask back into its box. Making the recurring promise that this would be the last time he took her out, even though he knew he was lying to himself.

Tarquin felt the cold bite as he swung his legs out of the bed, onto the wolf rug he had selected specifically to replace the old one he had destroyed. He threw on his gown and stepped around his screen into the office. Too tired to speak, he gestured for the messenger to be brought to him.

An old soldier appeared before him. Tarquin thought he should have been put to pasture years ago, but, no doubt, with the core of the army in different territories of the empire, he was being kept on as a guard in some meaningless shithole. The general personally hoped he would die in battle rather than be doomed to such a fate.

“General!’ He smacked his chest with his fist, observing the formal expectations.

“Two days ago, a slaver walked into the salt mines. He said the axel on his wagon had broken, and in exchange for help and sustenance he would let the guards be entertained by the three she-wolves he brought with him.” The guard was interrupted by the General’s irritation.

“Get on with it” Tarquin gritted out.

“They weren’t slavers, they were the wolves from the posters, but this wasn’t realised until after the fact. They liberated all the wolves, both inside and outside of the mine. The centurions in uniform were killed, and the private guards were chained together and resumed the work of the wolves so that the garrison wouldn’t be alerted. The new centurions came to swap this morning, and realised what had happened.” The guard concluded.

“How much has their number increased by, because of your cohort’s incompetency?”

“At least fifty, General.” The soldier replied, having the good sense to look embarrassed.

“Well, that’s just f*****g great. Ride back, and tell those men responsible to wait for their punishment, we will be leaving in the next hour.”

Tarquin was boiling with unrestrained rage, so acute that he could no longer feel the cold of the dark morning. He dismissed the men, instructing his tribune to be prepared to ride within the hour.

He lifted up the scroll he had been sent from the senate, ordering him to solve this embarrassment or risk being called home for judgement on his capabilities. What did those old, useless, prattling men know about vengeance, loss or success? He would never stop until he killed every last wolf who had watched Antonia die. Dressed in his general’s uniform, he rode in silence with five men behind him towards the salt mines. Antonia was on his mind the entire time, how she smiled, the sweet bounce of her breath when she truly laughed, and the way she rolled her eyes at his jokes. Inevitably, his mind replayed the day he told her he had earned the position of tribune in the army.

“You’ll be leaving me then, soldier. I’ll miss you,” She sighed, leaning against the wall in the shade.

“Will you wait for me, Antonia?” The young Tarquin asked hopefully, dismayed by her amused giggle.

“I am my father’s daughter, I don’t have the autonomy to wait for anyone,” she clarified.

Reaching out, she pulled the edge of his red cloak, and tentatively pressed her lips against his own. It had been innocent, virginal, and life-changing for him.

“If you want to have me, you should ask my father for my hand soon. Women don’t wait for offers. They are bartered by their family,” She explained, with a fearful tone to her wisdom.

He had vowed that he would marry her, and love her to his last breath, even after his proposal had been denied. That opportunity to make good on his promise had been stolen from him.

His memories had had such a fixed hold on him that he didn’t realise he was at the mines until after he had passed through the gate. Belatedly, he realised he hadn’t been announced, but his indifference to protocol made his presence more imposing. Firstly, he went to the bunk house where the bodies had remained for investigation, before they were sent to the pyre. Tarquin didn’t think they deserved a traditional funeral, and had half a mind to suggest a mass grave be dug to reflect their lack of judgement. He was impressed that three she-wolves had overpowered so many trained guards. Clearly, every wolf was being prepared for combat. He scrutinised the face of one particular guard. It was mangled, and more akin to raw meat. A highly emotive attack had removed his features, it wasn’t precise like the other ones. He had been the leader, and Tarquin couldn’t find himself concerned about his end.

“Where are the scrolls?” He asked the senior guard.

“The wolves took them, General.”

“Clever animals,” he thought to himself.

On the walk to the mine opening where the slaves had escaped from, Tarquin noticed it was very obscure, not an escape route that wolves who hadn’t been there before would know about. They had to have had help from a wolf already here, the same one who pulverised the soldier’s face, no doubt. He saw the wolf’s face carved into the stone. The previous ones had held expressions that mocked Tarquin and baited him. This one was different. The wolf’s gape was extended, and the sharp canines were long and sharp, the eyes were narrower and smaller, and the fur was spiking up like mini daggers. It looked threatening. It looked angry. It looked deadly. Most humans would have been intimidated, he could see his men were a little unnerved, but Tarquin was pleased. The angrier they got, the more mistakes they would make.

Mistakes were the by-product of undisciplined soldiers, and such a notion was the antonym of his legions. He ordered his tribune to have all the guards who had been posing as wolves to stand to attention and await his arrival. Shaking and shamed, they were staring at the floor when he arrived. Menacingly, he raised his arm and extended his finger, pointing at one of the timid guards.

“Explain how this happened.” Tarquin demanded steadily, fury brimming under the lid of his composure.

“The soldiers had gone to the bunk with the she-wolves. They did that often, so we thought nothing of it. The wolves were sitting on the ground, their hands tied together with wolfsbane. That’s what we were told. Abruptly, the wolves attacked us. Even the man we thought was the slaver joined in, and we were easily subdued. After they returned from the mine with all the slaves, they made us switch places.” The guard finished, chattering over each word in fear.

“Why didn’t you alert the guard from the watch tower sooner?” Tarquin seethed at the stupidity he was having to endure.

“They put the water there so we would have to go in that direction, but strapped the rocks to us, which slowed us down. Not that it would have mattered because no-one was in the watch tower, we told the slaves it was always guarded, and a red cloak was posed to make it look as if there was a guard, but nobody had been there for years. Everybody hated that job. It is only used on the days we use the main entrance,” the guard responded.

Tarquin's wrath was irrepressible. He didn’t even notice that he had punched the guard until he was on the floor clutching his nose.

“This entire shamble is a direct consequence of your negligence. You have shamed our mother: the mighty capital.” Tarquin bellowed, firing spit from his mouth. “Your punishment is that you will be pinned to the ground for the next three days. You will be deprived of food and water. On the third day, if you have survived, you will return home disgraced. I expect the lack of necessities will kill most of you.” The General nodded to his tribune, and watched as his words were acted upon.

He could hear their pleas as he mounted his horse.

A thousand ideas of how he would end the wolves buzzed around his head like persistent flies. The enemy were a hoard of locus eating through the reputation of the legions. It was this very thought which brought him to his next method of vengeance. When locus swarm towards a crop, a farmer lets them land, and burns that field to save the produce in the remaining fields. That was exactly what Tarquin planned to do. Smoke them out. He ordered his tribune to ride back to their camp, and return with fifty soldiers from the cohort who had had the greatest affinity for violence. Using the wet mud from the ground, he imprinted his crest to ensure his instructions would be adhered to. Looking at the faces of his remaining party, he was surprised to see the scouts. He hadn’t noticed them before, too consumed with the precious memories of her.

“Caius, find where those animals have made their den, I want the exact position of their whereabouts. They have to be in the forest somewhere. I will be waiting with my archers on the outskirts of the south side of the forest. Don’t disappoint me,” Tarquin warned the younger scout.

Caius hit his chest in acceptance of his task. Thanking the moon Goddess that he had been put in the position to save the pack from his General. Time was his opponent. The moment Caius was out of sight, he galloped towards the woods where his son and his son’s pack might be. He knew why they had gone to the mine, and even if Ewan had found Pepin it didn’t make him any less his own son. Vows lasted for lifetimes, and he had sworn to give his own life for Ewan’s. He knew this might be the day his promise was acted upon, and if it saved them he was agreeable to the price. Pulling on his reins, he secured his horse and pulled some paper from his small pouch that contained the only things he wouldn’t be without. Having no ink available, he pricked his finger on his dagger and wrote a single word: RUN. Slinging his bow over his arm, and holding an arrow in his hand, he pushed through the dense leaves and tripped over the hostile roots. Following the warmth of community, and laughs of liberation, he found the camp sooner than expected. He kneeled down and picked a tree that was clear for everyone to see, but far away enough not to be unexpectedly obstructed by a passing pack member. He pierced his arrowhead through the paper. Hitching the arrow in place, he let the thin shaft slide along his forefinger, until it hit the iron edge. The feathers brushed against his nose, and he pulled the string until it sang its taut tune. He released. His message whistled a warning, and there was a screech of surprise. Deliberating whether he should run or wait to set eyes on his boy, the latter option won. Luckily, it was Ewan who approached the tree, and pulled off the message that was smelling of blood.

“Dad!” Ewan called out, and Pepin ran to him, but Ewan continued to look at the treeline.

Instantly, Caius was transported to his younger years. When he would take Pepin to the pits, feed him while Magnus was starving the gladiators. He remembered sparring with him, training with him so he could join cohort VIII. He was elated to see his friend, the father and son reunited. He let the sight soak into his heart. Mistake. When he finally decided to withdraw, he stepped back and felt a considerable warm weight throw him to the ground. Stringy saliva dripped on his cheek, and he turned away in disgust. His palms pushed against the wolf’s shoulders, trying to keep the vicious teeth from his neck. Using the gap to his advantage, the wolf extended his claws and slashed across Caius’ abdomen. In return, Caius punched his muzzle. Angered, the wolf leaned forward for the killing bite, but his eyes clouded over with white fog. Ewan had mind linked all the guards informing them to let a human of the man’s description leave untouched. It was a little late for that, but unwilling to defy his Beta, he withdrew backwards, keeping his eyes fixed on the man he had hurt.

Caius stood up with difficulty and staggered away. He contemplated going to the pack and running with them, mending the bond with Ewan that he had broken because of his fear that Ewan’s true identity would be discovered. It was tempting. Logic and sacrifice, his constant companions, cracked through his desires. He could do more as a scout in Tarquin’s army, he could keep them safe and out of reach, and this was what he wanted above all things. Clutching on to his stomach, he made his way to the south of the forest. It had been a slow return, and he hoped that the wolves had moved on. He gave the co-ordinates to the general before collapsing on the floor from his blood loss and exhaustion. The last sight he saw was the fiery arrows making arches in the sky like deadly shooting stars, before darkness claimed him.