The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Of course, such a force would need to be adequately provisioned in order to be effective. . . You said it yourself, Legate. Soldiers are only any good if they have full bellies.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Tincommius nodded, and continued with a cynical edge to his voice, ‘I dare say that the prospect of a decent meal will lead to no shortage of recruits. And a full belly has a wonderful way of dispersing rebellious instincts.’

  ‘Now wait a moment.’ Vespasian raised a hand, anxious not to commit himself to more than he could deliver. He was angry with the old man for manoeuvring him into this position, but accepted the cogency of his argument. The scheme might even work, provided, of course, that General Plautius agreed to the arming of the Atrebatans. ‘It’s an interesting proposition. I need to think about it.’

  Verica nodded. ‘By all means, Legate. But not for too long, eh? It takes time to train men, and we have very little time if it’s to make a difference. Give me your response tomorrow. You may go.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Vespasian smartly turned and marched out of the hall, under the silent gaze of the two Britons. He was anxious to be free of them and be somewhere quiet where his tired mind could think the plan through, without having to worry about being manipulated by the shrewd king of the Atrebatans.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Lift this please, Centurion.’ The surgeon handed Cato a sword. He took it in his right hand and slowly raised it to his front. The early morning sunlight glinted along the blade.

  ‘That’s good. Push it out as far as you can, then hold.’

  Cato looked down the length of his arm and grimaced at the effort of keeping the blade up; he could not stop the tip of the sword from wavering, and soon his arm began to tremble.

  ‘To the side now, sir.’

  Cato swept his arm round and the surgeon ducked beneath its arc. Macro winked at Cato as the surgeon straightened himself, well away from the blade.

  ‘Well, no problem with the muscles there! Now then, how does your other side feel?’

  ‘Tight,’ Cato replied through gritted teeth. ‘Feels like something’s stretching badly.’

  ‘Painful?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You can lower the sword now, sir.’ The surgeon waited until the blade had been returned to its scabbard and then returned to the corner of the room. Cato stood before him, bare-chested and the surgeon ran his finger along the thick red line that curved round the left side of Cato’s chest and a third of the way across his back. ‘The muscles are quite tight under the scar tissue. You need to loosen them up. It’s going to take plenty of exercise. It’ll be painful, sir.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ replied Cato. ‘All I want to know is how soon I can get back to the legion.’

  ‘Ah. . .’ The surgeon made a face. ‘That may take some time, and, well, frankly, you’d better not build your hopes up too much.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cato said with a quiet intensity. ‘I am going to recover.’

  ‘Of course you are, Centurion. Of course you are. It’s just that you might have difficulty bearing the weight of a shield on your left arm, and the added strain of wielding a sword might well cause the muscles down the left side to tear. You’d be in agony.’

  ‘I’ve endured pain before.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But this would be quite incapacitating. There’s no easy way to say this, sir, but your army career might well be over.’

  ‘Over?’ Cato replied softly. ‘But I’m only eighteen. . . It can’t be over.’

  ‘I didn’t say that it was, sir. Just that there is a chance that it might be. With thorough exercise and favouring of that side, there’s a chance you could return to active service.’

  ‘I see. . .’ Cato felt sick. ‘Thank you.’

  The surgeon smiled sympathetically. ‘Well, then, I’ll be off.’

  ‘Yes. . .’

  Once the door was closed Cato pulled on his tunic and slumped down on his bed. He ran a hand through his dark curls. It was unbelievable. He had not even completed two years of service with the Eagles, and had only recently been promoted, and the surgeon was telling him it was as good as over.

  ‘He can get stuffed,’ said Macro, in an awkward attempt to cheer his friend up. ‘You just need to get some exercise, get yourself back in shape. We’ll work on it together, and I’ll have you in front of your own century before you know it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Macro was only trying to be kind, and Cato, despite his inner agony, was grateful to the man. He straightened up and forced a smile on to his face. ‘Better get started on the exercise as soon as possible then.’

  ‘That’s the spirit!’ Macro beamed, and was about to offer some more encouragement when there was a sharp rap on the door.

  ‘Come!’ yelled Macro.

  The door opened and a cavalry scout stepped smartly into the hospital room.

  ‘Centurions Lucius Cornelius Macro and Quintus Licinius Cato?’

  ‘That’s us.’

  ‘Legate requests your presence.’

  ‘Now?’ Macro frowned as he looked up through the open shutters. The sun was well above the horizon, by some hours. He looked at Cato with raised eyebrows. ‘Tell him we’ll be there directly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  When the scout had closed the door behind him Macro quickly reached for his boots, and gave Cato a gentle nudge. ‘Come on, lad.’

  Vespasian waved his hand at a bench in front of the low table where he was eating his breakfast. There was a platter of small loaves, a bowl of olive oil and ajar of fish sauce. Macro met Cato’s gaze and gave a disappointed shrug. If this was how legates ate, you could keep it.

  ‘Now then,’ Vespasian began, as he spread the dark fish sauce over a hunk of bread, ‘how far have you two recovered from your wounds? Are you fit enough for light duties?’

  Macro exchanged a quick look with Cato as their legate tore off a chunk of bread and popped it into his mouth. ‘We’re pretty much up for it, sir. Are we getting sent back to the legion?’ Macro asked hopefully.

  ‘No. Not yet, at least.’ Vespasian couldn’t help smiling at the centurion’s eagerness to get back in the fight. ‘I need two good men for something else. Something very important to the success of our campaign.’

  Cato frowned. The last special task to which he and Macro had been assigned had nearly got them both killed. The legate read his expression accurately.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing like last time. Nothing dangerous. Or at least, not likely to be dangerous.’ Vespasian bit off another chunk of bread and started chewing. ‘You shouldn’t even have to leave Calleva.’

  Cato and Macro relaxed.

  ‘So then, sir,’ Macro continued, ‘what do you need us for?’

  ‘You’re aware that Centurion Veranius was killed yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We were watching from the gatehouse.’ Macro was momentarily tempted to add some phrase to register the sadness he imagined he was supposed to feel. But he refused to cheapen himself, especially since he had never particularly rated Veranius.

  ‘He was the only officer I could spare to command this garrison.’

  There was an implied judgement in that sentence and Macro was mildly surprised that the legate shared his view of the dead centurion.

  ‘And now I need a new garrison commander. The duty should not be too onerous for you while you recuperate.’

  ‘Me, sir? In command of the depot?’ Now Macro’s surprise was more pronounced. Then the prospect of his first independent command filled him with a warm glow of pride. ‘Thank you, sir. Yes, I’d be happy – honoured – to do the job.’

  ‘It’s an order, Macro,’ Vespasian replied drily, ‘not an invitation.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  ‘There’s more.’ The legate paused a moment. ‘I need you and Centurion Cato to train a small force for the king here in Calleva. A couple of cohorts were what I had in mind.’

  ‘Two cohorts?’ Cato’s eyeb
rows rose in surprise. ‘That’s over nine hundred men. Where are we going to find them, sir? I doubt there’s enough men of the quality we need here in Calleva.’

  ‘Then have Verica spread the word. I doubt you’ll be short of volunteers in the current situation. Once they come forward, you pick them, train them in our way of waging war, and then you will serve as their commanders, personally responsible to Verica.’

  Macro chewed his lip.

  ‘Do you think that’s wise, sir? Arming the Atrebatans? In any case, I thought the general’s policy was to disarm the tribes. Even those allied to us.’

  ‘It is his policy,’ Vespasian admitted, ‘but the situation’s changed. I can’t afford to spare any more men to protect Calleva, or to deal with these raids on our supply columns. I’ve no choice but to use the Atrebatans. So you start training them as soon as possible. I have to return to the legion today. I’ve sent word of my plans to General Plautius and asked him for permission to equip Verica’s men from our stores here in the depot. Train them, and feed them, but don’t arm them until you get word from the general. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Macro.

  ‘Do you think you can do it?’

  Macro raised his eyebrows and gently rocked his head from side to side. ‘I should think we can make something of them, sir. Can’t promise to supply you with front-line troops.’

  ‘So long as they make Verica and his people feel safe, and make those damn Durotrigans think twice before they attack our convoys. Above all, make sure that no harm comes to Verica. If he is deposed, or dies, the Atrebatans might turn against us. If that happens. . . we may have to abandon the conquest of this island. You can imagine how well that will go down in Rome. The Emperor will not be pleased with us.’ Vespasian stared at the two centurions to underline the significance of his warning. If Britain was lost, then there would be no mercy shown to the officers most directly accountable: the legate of the Second Legion and the two centurions he had entrusted with defending Calleva and protecting the Atrebatan king. ‘So keep Verica alive, gentlemen. That’s all I ask of you. Do a decent job and then you two can get back to the legion the moment you’re fit enough.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now then,’ Vespasian pushed his platter to one side and rose from his stool, ‘I’ve got a few things left to do before heading back to the legion. I want you to move into these quarters and take command of the garrison right away. As for the other matter, you’ll need to go to the royal enclosure and see one of Verica’s advisors. Tincommius is his name. Tell him what you need and he’ll make the appropriate arrangements. He seems reliable enough. Right then, I’ll see you two when I can. Good luck.’

  Once Vespasian had left the room Macro and Cato sat down at the table.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Cato. ‘Legate’s taking a risk arming these natives. How loyal to Verica will they be? How far can we trust them? You’ve seen what they’re like in the streets. There’s no love lost for Rome there.’

  ‘True. But even less lost for the Durotrigans. Cato, think about it. We’ve got a chance to create and command our own army!’

  ‘It’ll be Verica’s army, not ours.’

  ‘His in name only, by the time I’ve finished with them.’

  Cato saw the excited gleam in his friend’s eyes, and knew it was pointless to try to contradict him for the present. He could foresee that training native levies was going to be more of a challenge than training recruits to the legions. There were so many factors to consider, language not the least of them. He had picked up a basic grasp of Celtic during the months spent in Calleva, but Cato knew he would have to improve on that as quickly as possible if he were to make himself understood to native levies. In one thing Macro was right: it was an exciting opportunity. They could quit the hospital and take the first tentative steps back towards proper soldiering.

  Chapter Six

  The sun had not yet reached the top of the depot palisade when Centurion Macro emerged from the headquarters building. He was in full uniform, from nail-studded boots, silvered greaves, chain-mail vest with its harness of medallions, right up to the transverse crested helmet, gleaming dully in the shadow of the ramparts. In his hand was a vine cane, symbol of the right conferred upon him by the Emperor, Senate and People of Rome to beat the otherwise sacrosanct body of a Roman citizen. He twirled the cane between the fingers of his right hand as he marched up to the silent mass of natives gathered together on the depot’s training ground. Since news of the formation of the native cohorts had spread from the Atrebatan capital, thousands of men from the surrounding lands joined those from Calleva in coming forward to be selected.

  After nearly two months in hospital recovering from his head wound, Macro felt good to be getting back to the familiar routines of a centurion’s life. No, he corrected himself, barring the odd skull-splitting headache, life didn’t just feel good, it felt bloody marvellous. He puffed out his chest, whistling contentedly to himself as he approached his new recruits.

  Centurion Cato was standing to one side of the crowd, talking with Tincommius. It was the first time that Cato had worn the uniform and equipment of a centurion and Macro thought it suited him no better than that of an optio. Cato was tall and thin, and the chain mail seemed to hang on the youngster rather than fit him. The vine stick was held awkwardly and it was difficult to imagine Cato wielding that across the back of some recalcitrant legionary, or even one of these natives. Cato’s recovery in hospital had been unkind to his already skinny body and the muscle wastage to his legs was evident in the way that the back of his greaves actually overlapped slightly.

  Tincommius, by contrast, was evidently in rude health, and though even taller than Cato, he was broad in proportion and looked like he might be quick on his feet as well as strong. The young Atrebatan nobleman had been tasked by his king to serve as translator and advisor, and was keen to learn the ways of the Roman legions. Tincommius could only have been a year or two older than Cato, and Macro was pleased to see them laughing together as he strode over to join them. Let Cato befriend the man then; it would save Macro having to. The older centurion had an intuitive distrust of most foreigners, and all barbarians.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he called, ‘we’re not here to crack jokes. There’s a job to be done.’

  Cato turned to face his superior and stiffened to attention. Even though both men held the same rank, seniority counted for everything, and Cato would always be outranked by Macro, unless – by some perverse whim of providence – Cato was given command of an auxiliary cohort, or promoted to the First Cohort of the Second Legion, neither of which was remotely likely for many years to come.

  ‘Ready, lad?’ Macro winked at Cato.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Right then!’ Macro tucked his cane under one arm and rubbed his broad hands together. ‘Let’s get ‘em in formation. Tincommius, how many of this batch have any military experience?’

  Tincommius turned to the crowd and nodded. To one side, haughty and aloof, stood a small band of men, perhaps twenty or thirty, all in the prime of life.

  ‘They’re from our warrior caste. All weapon-trained from childhood. They can ride too.’

  ‘Good. That’s a start then. Tincommius?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Macro leaned close to him. ‘Just a word about protocol. From now on, you’re to call me “sir”.’

  The Atrebatan nobleman’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. To Macro’s intense irritation Tincommius glanced questioningly over towards Cato.

  ‘You look at me when I’m talking to you! Got that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, what?’ Macro said with a menacing edge to his voice. ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s better! Now don’t forget.’

  ‘Yes. . . sir.’

  ‘Now, then. The rest of them – what experience have they got?’

  ‘None, sir. Nearly all of them are farmers. Should be fit enough, bu
t the nearest they’ve ever come to a fight is keeping foxes out of their chicken coops.’

  ‘Well, let’s see how fit they really are. We can only afford to take the best so we’d better start weeding out the rubbish. We’ll use your warriors to form the rest of them up. Get ‘em over here. Cato, you got the pegs?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nudged a small sack with his boot.

  ‘Then why aren’t they already set out?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I’ll see to it straight away.’

  Macro nodded curtly and Cato snatched up the bag and strode off a short distance from the native volunteers. He stopped and rummaged inside before drawing out a numbered peg, which he thrust into the ground. Then Cato took ten paces and planted the next peg, and so on, until there were two lines of ten pegs each; enough for the first batch of two hundred men. Over the next few days the two centurions would recruit twelve centuries of eighty men, nine hundred and sixty in all, from the far greater number that had responded to Verica’s call for volunteers. The mere promise of good rations had been enough to attract men from all over the kingdom.

  ‘Tincommius!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Position one of your warriors by each of those pegs. Tell them they’re going to be my section leaders. Once that’s done, take nine out of the rest and line ‘em up beside the first man. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Carry on.’

  Macro stood patiently as Tincommius led the volunteers over to the pegs and Cato then pushed and shoved his charges into position. The sun had long since cleared the ramparts by the time everyone was in place, and Macro’s highly polished helmet gleamed as he faced the Atrebatans to address them. To his right stood Tincommius, ready to relay the centurion’s words. To Macro’s left stood Cato, stiffly to attention.

  ‘First thing!’ Macro bellowed, then paused to allow Tincommius to translate. ‘Whenever I give the order “Form up”, I want you all to go to exactly the same place you are standing now. Memorise it!. . . Second, right now you’re a fucking mess. We need to dress these lines.’