'Oh, really?' Cato turned to Tincommius. 'What's so special about him?'
'He's one of the warrior caste, raised to be a cavalryman. They're quite touchy about it.'
'I see,' Cato reflected, well aware of the high regard for Celtic cavalry in the legions. 'Any more like him training with us?'
'Yes. Perhaps a few dozen.'
'All right, I'll think about it. Might be as well to have some mounted scouts with us when we start hunting Durotrigans.'
'Sa!' the warrior replied, and drew a finger across his throat with a grim smile.
Just then Cato noticed another man in the group, and froze. Glowering at him from amongst the ranks of the recruits was Artax. His face was covered in black and purple bruising and his broken nose was swollen.
'Tincommius, what's he doing here?'
'Artax? Training with the rest. Joined us this morning. The man's dead keen to learn the Roman way of fighting. Seems you made quite an impact on him.'
'Very funny.'
Cato looked at the man for a while, and Artax stared back, lips fixed in a thin line. The centurion was not sure that he cared to have a man he had so publicly humiliated serve alongside him. There was bound to be resentment simmering in the proud and arrogant Briton's breast. For now, however, it would be good politics to permit Verica's kinsman to remain in the cohort. In any case, if he had been moved to volunteer then maybe there was another side to him. Perhaps he nursed a desire to redeem himself and win back his pride. Maybe, Cato reflected. But it was best to be wary of him, for a while at least.
In the afternoons Macro took over the training and taught the recruits the fundamentals of mass manoeuvre. As ever, it was a slow business getting unaccustomed feet to march in step, but even the Britons could march, halt, wheel and change facing with minimal confusion within a week.
The training day ended with a quick march round and round the outside of Calleva, until dusk. Then the men were led back into the depot and, by sections, issued their rations to take away to cook. The hardest part of the strict routine for the natives to bear was the early end to their evening. As the trumpet sounded the second watch, the instructors strode up and down the lines of tents, screaming at the men to get inside and get to sleep, upsetting cooking pots over any fires that were not extinguished quickly enough. There was none of the drinking and raucous telling of tall tales and crude anecdotes that was so much a part of the Celtic way of life. Men undergoing a harsh training regime needed rest, and Macro refused to give way when Tincommius represented the views of a number of his warriors who had complained bitterly to him.
'No!' Macro said firmly. 'We go soft on them now and discipline goes down the shithole. It's hard, but no harder than is necessary. If they're complaining about being sent to sleep early then they're obviously not tired enough. Tomorrow I'll end the training with a run round Calleva instead of a march. That should do the trick.'
It did, but there was still an underlying resentment evident in the men's faces as Cato did his rounds each morning. Something was lacking. There was a vague sense of looseness, of incohesion, in the two cohorts. He raised the matter with Macro and Tincommius as they met in Macro's quarters one night after the first week of training.
'We're not doing this quite right.'
'What do you mean?' grumbled Macro. 'We're doing fine.'
'We were told to train two cohorts, and we've done it as best as we can. But they need something else.'
'What then?'
'You've seen how the men are. They're keen enough to learn how to use our weapons and manoeuvre as we do. But they don't have any sense of themselves as a discrete body of soldiers. We've got our legions, our eagle standards, our sense of tradition. They've got nothing.'
'What are you suggesting?' Macro smirked. 'We give them an eagle to follow?'
'Yes. Something like that. A standard. One for each cohort. It'll help give them a sense of identity.'
'Maybe,' Macro conceded. 'But not an eagle. Those are reserved for the legions. Has to be something else.'
'All right, then.' Cato nodded and turned to Tincommius. 'What do you suggest? Are there any animals that are sacred to your tribe?'
'Plenty.' Tincommius started counting them off on his fingers. 'Owl, wolf, fox, boar, pike, stoat.'
'Stoat?' Macro laughed. 'What the fuck is sacred about the stoat?'
'Stoat – swift and sleek, king of stream and creek,' Tincommius intoned.
'Oh, great. I can see it now: First Cohort of Atrebatan Stoats. The enemy will piss themselves laughing.'
Tincommius coloured.
'All right, so perhaps we don't use the stoat idea,' Cato interrupted before Macro caused too much damage to Atrebatan sensitivities. 'I like the idea of wolf and boar. Nice sense of wildness and danger. What do you think, Tincommius?'
'The Wolves and the Boars… sounds good.'
'What about you, Macro?'
'Fine.'
'All right then, I'll have some standards made up tonight. With your permission?'
Macro nodded. 'Agreed.'
Footsteps sounded down the corridor outside, and there was a rap on the door.
'Enter!'
A clerk stepped into the glow of the oil lamps. He held out a sealed scroll.
'What is it?'
'Message from the general, sir. Courier's just arrived.'
'Here!' Macro reached for the scroll, broke open the seal and ran his eyes over the message while his companions sat in silence. While Macro could read well enough, it was still something of an effort, and it took a moment to digest the contents of General Plautius' dispatch, as framed in the needlessly ornate language of staff officers with more time on their hands than they know what to do with.
'Well,' he drawled at length, 'apart from a few reservations about our scope of operations, and caveats about the amount of men we place under arms, it seems that the general has given us permission to arm the, uh, Wolves and the Boars.'
04 The Eagle and the Wolves
Chapter Nine
Some thirty miles to the west of Calleva, Vespasian gazed at the smoke billowing around the crest of a hill. The hillfort, scarcely two hundred paces across, was the smallest the Second Legion had razed so far. Yet the people who had built it had chosen the site well: a steep hill tucked into the bend of a fast-flowing river. The exposed flanks of the hill had been heavily fortified with earthworks, thick palisades and an inventive range of anti-personnel obstacles, some of which had clearly been copied, albeit crudely, from Roman originals. Crude copies they may have been, but they had inflicted some crippling injuries on the more unwary of the legionaries who had assaulted the ramparts at noon.
A steady stream of casualties passed the legate on their way to the dressing station just inside the Second Legion's marching camp: men with mangled and bloody feet where the barbed points of caltrops had driven through the soles of their boots; others with deep penetration wounds from being pushed on to the points of abatis by their unwitting comrades behind. Then there were men injured by the missiles that had rained down from the warriors fiercely defending the hillfort's gateway, men struck by everything from spears and arrows, to stones, old cooking pots, animal bones and shards of pottery. Finally, those who had been wounded when the legionaries had at last got to grips with the enemy. These men bore the usual stab, slash and crush injuries delivered by spear, sword and club.
It had been only two days since the legion had pitched camp a short distance from the outer defensive ditch, and already there were over eighty casualties – the equivalent of one century. The full butcher's bill, Vespasian knew, would be waiting for him on the campaign desk in his tent. That was why he was reluctant to turn away from the spectacle of the burning hillfort. If the Durotrigans continued to bleed his forces away at this rate, then before long the legion would be too weak to continue campaigning independently of the main body of General Plautius' army. That would be a bitter blow for Vespasian, who had counted on this opportunity to make
something of a name for himself before his tenure of the legion came to an end. If his political career was to advance when he returned to Rome, then he would need a good military record to trade on. His family was too recently promoted to the senatorial class for him to depend on any help from the old boy network of those with an established aristocratic lineage. It constantly infuriated Vespasian that men less able than he were given greater responsibilities far earlier in their careers. Not only was this not fair, he spurred himself on, it was so obviously inefficient and prone to disaster. For the good of Rome, and her divinely sanctioned destiny, the system had to change…
The hillfort was the seventh settlement his legion had seized and sacked. This had taken only two days to achieve, yet there were certain aspects of the operation that Vespasian was certain could be improved. A handful of the enemy had managed to slip through his picket lines the first night the legion had camped in front of the hillfort. That was quite deplorable, and the optio in charge of the sentries had been broken back to the ranks. Next time, the legate firmly resolved, he would erect a palisade across any likely rat runs.
Then there had been only a limited supply of ammunition for his artillery engines to lay down a demoralising and destructive barrage upon the defenders. Although they had managed to damage the defences around the main gate, and take down a number of the enemy warriors, the catapults and bolt-throwers had failed to make a large enough breach. When the First Cohort had been thrown into the assault they met a far more determined resistance than they had anticipated. Next time the legion would wait until its artillery was able to lay down the kind of barrage that breaks the enemy's will to resist, Vespasian decided.
He felt guilty about rushing the assault, and was honest enough to admit the reason behind the order to attack was based on his ambition to have a high tally of victories to his name. Men had paid for his ambition with their blood. The legate quickly tried to repress the self-criticism by moving his thoughts on to a related problem. The Durotrigans were as fanatical in the final fight as they had been in the preparation of their defences. As a result there had been no survivors when the enraged legionaries had burst through the gateway and swarmed into the hillfort's interior. Every man, woman and child had been put to the sword.
That was a terrible waste, Vespasian reflected. Next time he would insist on taking as many of the enemy alive as possible. A good healthy Celt attracted a premium price in Rome at the moment with the latest fad for barbarian chic raging amongst those with more money than taste. Vespasian's share of the spoils would earn him a small fortune. Just as it would his men, if they could just manage to restrain their bloodlust long enough to realise that the pleasures of rape and pillage were transitory, whereas the profits from slave dealing could provide a nice supplement to their retirement funds. Orders must be given to the centurions to restrain their men when the legion took the next hillfort, Vespasian resolved. There would be no further waste of valuable lives, Roman or Briton.
Only the sheep, cattle and a few pigs had lived through the Roman assault. These livestock were being driven down the sides of the hill towards the camp. The animals would not survive very much longer than their erstwhile owners, and the delighted legionaries would be consuming fresh roast meat once again. Vespasian was pleased to have thus supplemented his supplies. However, the legion would soon be tackling a chain of much larger forts, and once again Vespasian would be reliant on a steady flow of supplies from the depot at Calleva.
Therein lay his most pressing difficulty. With Caratacus sending fast-moving columns to raid the legion's supply lines, Vespasian's men might be forced to live off the land. Worse, there would be no equipment to replace material lost in battle and losses due to wear and tear. It all depended on King Verica and the Atrebatans keeping to the terms of their alliance with Rome, and guaranteeing the safe passage of supply convoys through their territory. The formation of the two cohorts at Calleva might help ease the burden, and lift some of the weight of anxiety from Vespasian's shoulders. The legate was sure he could trust Centurion Macro with the task – and Centurion Cato, for that matter.
Vespasian smiled at the recollection of the moment he had informed the youngster of his promotion a few months earlier. Cato had been laying on a bed in the hospital at the Calleva depot. He had barely been able to blink back the tears of pride. Cato had great promise, and had justified the legate's estimation of his worth time and again. It would be interesting to see how the young man was coping with the responsibilities of his new rank, Vespasian mused. He was not quite in his twentieth year, and once Cato rejoined the Second Legion he faced one of the most daunting experiences a man could ever have in taking charge of the eighty legionaries of his first command.
Vespasian could clearly recall the painful self-consciousness with which he addressed the small patrol he had led when appointed a tribune nearly fourteen years ago. The grim veterans had listened to his introduction without comment but made no secret of their disdain for his lack of experience. At least Cato had that to bolster up his self-confidence. In the short time he had served with the Eagles Cato had already seen more combat than many legionaries did in a lifetime. And the youngster had been fortunate enough to be broken into his army life by Centurion Macro. Macro was as tough and reliable as Cato was intelligent and resourceful; the two complemented each other well.
The legate was sure that they would do a fine job of training Verica's men. Yet he longed to have them back with the Second Legion. When the two officers had fully recovered from their injuries, and the supply lines were safe, he would send for them straight away. A legion was only ever as good as the centurions who led it into battle. Vespasian wanted the Second to be good – to be a crack unit – and that meant making the most of men of Macro and Cato's calibre.
A trickle of sweat traced its way down his side under his linen tunic.
'Shit, it's hot!' he muttered.
One of the staff tribunes raised his head and looked towards the legate, but Vespasian dismissed him with a wave of a hand, as if swatting some annoying fly or gnat. 'It's nothing… Might have a swim later.'
Both men gazed longingly across the slope of the hill towards the river, a quarter of a mile away. The white forms of naked men lay stretched out on the grassy banks, while others waded and swam in the glistening water. Here and there the surface of the river burst into glittering spray where the more exuberant men were indulging in horseplay.
'I'd kill for a swim, sir,' the tribune said quietly as he wiped the sweat from his brow on the back of one hand.
'Some of them already have. Let them have their fun. But there's work to be done.' Vespasian nodded up at the remains of the hillfort. 'Keep 'em at it. I want nothing left by nightfall. Nothing that can be easily fortified.'
'Yes, sir.'
Even though it was late afternoon, the sun was blazing down on the legionaries toiling on the hill. The few native buildings that had escaped the incendiary bolts of the Second Legion's artillery battery had been set alight. Now the centurions were organising teams of men to tear up the palisade and hurl the timber down into the defence ditch. Soon the hillfort would be no more than a few black smouldering wooden frames and rings of ruined earthworks scarring the natural landscape. And after that, merely a fading memory in the minds of the legionaries who had destroyed the settlement and those natives who had ever passed this way.
Vespasian nodded his satisfaction at the progress in dismantling what fortifications remained, then turned away, striding back into the camp towards his headquarters. There were few men around, since most of those who were off duty were sheltering from the blazing sunshine in the shade of the leather tents that stretched out in neat rows on either side of the main thoroughfare. Even with both flaps open Vespasian knew that the interiors of the goatskin section tents would be stifling. That was why he had given permission for the cohorts that were stood down to swim in the river – they might as well be comfortable. Certainly they would be cleaner. To one who
was raised in the Roman custom of frequent baths, the acrid stench of dirty sweating men was quite abhorrent. So the chance for the men to wash their clothes, and at the same time themselves, was to be seized with relish. Besides, the legion's chief surgeon was constantly urging his legate to force the men to adopt more hygienic practices. The men should wash as often as possible. Aesclepus claimed that it reduced the sick list. But then he would, being a follower of the more fancy eastern medical practices. Not that Vespasian lacked faith in Eastern medicine, it was just that he, like most Romans, believed that the East was a corrupt stew of soft, self-indulgent effeminacy.
The men of the headquarters guard stood rigidly at their posts in full armour. Vespasian wondered how they could stand the heat, and saw the glistening trickles of sweat running down their faces as he strode by them into his tent. Inside, the shade offered no respite from the hot, still air; indeed, it was actually far hotter inside the tent than outside. Vespasian beckoned to his steward.
'I want water. From the river. Make sure it's drawn upstream from the camp. I want a light tunic, my silk one. Then have someone take my desk outside and have an awning rigged over it. As fast as you can.'
'Yes, sir.'
When the man was gone, Vespasian stood still as his body slave unfastened the buckles of his armour and then lifted the breastplate away. Beneath, the thick military tunic was drenched with perspiration and clung awkwardly to his body as Vespasian impatiently lifted the hem and pulled it over his head. Outside the tent he could hear the commotion as men struggled to set up his campaign desk and the awning. There was too much to do and he shook his head when the body slave asked if he required a wash.
'Just get me the tunic.'
'Yes, master.'
The silk felt good against his skin – soft and smooth, and scented with dabs of the citron oil his wife had sent him from Rome. After he had briskly rubbed his matted hair in a linen cloth Vespasian made his way out of the tent and sat down at the desk. A clerk sat at one end, ready to take notes, and a neat pile of scrolls and wax tablets was waiting for the legate at the other end, beside the plain Samian jug and goblet. Vespasian poured himself some water and downed it in one go, relishing the cool and refreshing sensation. He poured another goblet and, with a deep breath, began to tackle the day's paperwork.
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