The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  Tincommius paused before translating. ‘You want me to translate all ofthat, sir?’

  ‘Of course I bloody do! Get on with it!’

  ‘Right.’ Evidently the linguistic education of Tincommius had been more refined than vernacular. He shouted out in Celtic and there was a roar of laughter from the volunteers.

  ‘SHUT UP!’ roared Macro. The volunteers fell silent without the need for translation. ‘Now, then, each man raise his right arm horizontally, like me. Your hand should rest on the next man’s shoulder. If it doesn’t, then move yourself until it does.’

  The natives started to shuffle around the moment Tincommius had finished translating and a soft babbling of Celtic broke out.

  ‘IN SILENCE!’

  With stilled tongues they continued positioning themselves, all save one poor soul, who caught Macro’s eye almost at once.

  ‘You there! You trying to make a fool of me? Right arm, I said, NOT YOUR BLOODY LEFT! Cato! Sort him out!’

  The junior centurion trotted over to the object of Macro’s rage. The native was short and thickset, with a dull bovine expression of incomprehension. Cato resisted the temptation to give him a friendly smile by way of greeting, and pushed the man’s left arm down to his side. He tapped him on the right shoulder. ‘This one!’ Cato said in Celtic.

  ‘Right arm. . . right arm. Got it? Right arm up!’ Cato raised his hand to demonstrate and the native nodded like an idiot. Cato smiled and took a step back before trying again. ‘Dress ranks!. . . No, the right arm, I said! Like everyone else!’

  ‘What are you doing, Centurion Cato?’ shouted Macro as he stormed over. ‘Here! Get out of my way. There’s only one way to teach dumb bastards like him.’

  Macro stood in front of the tribesman, who was still grinning, more nervously now.

  ‘What you smiling at? Think I’m funny, do you?’ Macro grinned. ‘Is that it? Well, let’s see how fucking funny you think I am then!’

  He brought up his vine cane and slashed it against the man’s left arm.

  ‘LEFT ARM!’

  The man yelped in agony, but before he could do anything else Macro whacked the cane against the man’s other side.

  ‘RIGHT ARM!. . . Now, let’s see if we’ve learned anything. . . Left arm!’

  The native quickly shot his left arm into the air.

  ‘Right arm!’

  Down came one arm, up shot the other.

  ‘Bravo, mate! We’ll make a soldier of you yet. Carry on, Centurion Cato.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Once the volunteers could form up to Macro’s satisfaction then came the time to assess their fitness. Section by section the Atrebatans led off into a steady run around the perimeter of the depot. Cato and Macro were posted diagonally opposite each other and urged each section on as it rounded the angle and started down the next length. In a short space of time the sections had merged into a stream of men, puffing and panting their way round the depot. As Macro had expected, the warriors clustered to the front, along with the fittest of the others and quickly began to move ahead of the rest.

  ‘It’s not a race!’ Macro roared, cupping a hand to his mouth, ‘Cato! Tell ‘em I want to see how long they can keep it up. Slow ‘em down.’

  All morning he drove them on. After a while the first men began to drop out: the weakest and those too old to keep up. They were immediately escorted to the depot gates and shown out. Most took their rejection in good enough spirits. Some were evidently ashamed and snapped surly comments over their shoulders as they emerged on to the street outside. The rest forced themselves to keep going, round and round, many with grim expressions of determination.

  At midday Macro sauntered across the depot to join Cato at the parade ground.

  ‘I think that’s enough. We’ll give this lot some food and rest and have a look at the next batch. Let me know how many we’ve got left as soon as you can.’

  As the volunteers reached him, Cato waved them down and ticked the numbers off on a slate before directing them over to the headquarters building where some of the garrison were handing out flatbread and cups of watered wine. As the last man staggered away Cato made his report.

  ‘Eighty-four remaining.’

  ‘Any of Tincommius’ warriors fall out?’

  ‘Not one.’

  ‘Impressive. Wonder how they’ll do in full equipment? Let’s have a look at the next lot.’

  And so the process went on for the next three days, until Macro had his two cohorts. At dusk on the third day, a cohort of the Second Legion arrived to escort the supply convoy back to the legion. Every wagon that Macro could lay his hands on had been made ready and fully loaded with supplies. Vespasian would be able to maintain his army in the field for a few more weeks, but the men in the depot now depended upon the safe arrival of the next convoy from Rutupiae, due in less than twenty days. Only a small escort could be spared to protect it when it set out on the last leg of its journey from the fortress on the Tamesis. Unless a covering force from Calleva could meet it on the way, there was a good chance that it would be detected by the scouts of the Durotrigans and ambushed. With a thousand extra mouths to feed from the supplies in the depot the two cohorts were going to have to earn their keep.

  ‘We’re not going to be ready in time,’ said Cato that night, as he sat at the table in Macro’s quarters, eating cold chicken.

  Macro and Tincommius looked up from their platters. Macro finished his mouthful and used the back of his hand to wipe the grease from his lips. ‘Not unless we get the all clear to issue weapons we won’t. Can’t send men out armed with sticks and scythes – that’d be plain murder.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Tincommius.

  ‘We start drilling them. We’ve got some marching yokes on the inventory. I’ll get the carpenters to cut them into lengths. At least we can begin basic sword practice.’

  Tincommius nodded, and wiped his platter clean with his last hunk of bread. He pushed the platter away from him. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, sir, I’ve got to get back to the royal enclosure for the night.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The king’s gathered some of his nobles together for a drinking session.’

  ‘Drinking?’

  ‘Well, there’ll be dog-fighting, some wrestling and a few tall stories. But mostly drinking.’

  ‘Make sure you’re back here at dawn. We’ll start training as soon as it’s light.’

  ‘I’ll be there, sir.’

  ‘You’d better be.’ Macro nodded his head meaningfully towards his vine cane in the corner of the room.

  ‘Are you serious?’ asked Tincommius. ‘You’d really strike a member of the royal household?’

  ‘You’d better believe it, old son. The discipline of the legions applies to all men, or no men. That’s how it is – how it must be – if we’re going to sort out those bloody Durotrigans.’

  Tincommius stared down at the centurion for the moment, and then nodded slowly. ‘I’ll be back before dawn.’

  When the two Romans were alone Macro eased himself back from the table and patted his stomach. A burp rumbled up his throat, causing Cato to look up with a frown.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s nothing, sir. Sorry.’

  Macro sighed. ‘There’s that “sir” thing again. I thought you’d got over that.’

  ‘Creature of habit.’ Cato smiled weakly. ‘But I’ll work on it.’

  ‘You’d better.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you’ve been a bit drippy these last few days. If you’re going to help me train these Atrebatans so they can take on the enemy, you’re going to have to buck up your technique.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Trying’s not good enough, lad. Training men for war’s a serious business. You have to be hard on them from day one. You have to punish them hard for every single mistake they make. Be as cruel and nasty as you can, because if you don’t, then you place them at a disadvantage when t
hey face the enemy for real.’ Macro stared at him to make sure the point had got through. Then he smiled. ‘Besides, you don’t want them calling you a pansy wanker behind your back, do you?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Decisive as ever. Now then, weapons drill starts tomorrow. You’re in charge. I’ve got to catch up on some paperwork. Being a bloody garrison commander’s a right pain in the arse. I’ve got to sort out accommodation and provisioning for Verica’s boys. I’ll have them issued with tents. They can set them up along the inside of the rampart. Then I have to make sure the inventory is bang up to date before we start issuing tunics and boots to the natives. Otherwise some bloody clerk on the imperial general staff’s going to bill me for any discrepancies. Bloody auditors.’

  Cato’s eyes lit up as the obvious thought occurred to him. ‘Would you prefer me to deal with the inventory? You can do the sword drill.’

  ‘No! Damn it, Cato, you’re a centurion now, so act like one. Besides, you know some of the lingo. Tomorrow, you’re going to go out there and stick it to ‘em. You can pick some men to help you, but you’re on your own now, lad. . . Right, I’m off. You’d best get some rest now yourself.’

  ‘Yes. Soon as I’ve finished.’

  Alone at the table Cato stared at his food, appetite completely gone. Tomorrow he would go out in front of a thousand men and tell them how to fight with the short sword of the legions. A thousand men; some far older, some with far more experience of fighting and none of them likely to take kindly to being given their orders by a centurion of two months’ standing, who had only recently reached the legal age of manhood. He would feel like a fake, he knew it, and dreaded that most of the men on the parade ground would see through him in an instant.

  Then there was the fact that the last three days had left him feeling drained. Two months of convalescence had weakened him dreadfully. His side ached abominably and Cato was beginning to doubt that any amount of exercise was going to make it comfortable.

  Chapter Seven

  Cato cleared his throat and turned towards the volunteers. One hundred of the Atrebatans stood silently in front of him, formed up, as they had been taught, along one side of the parade ground. In front of them stood the ten men from the garrison, selected for their skill at arms and chosen by Cato for training duties. Once this hundred had finished training for the morning they would split up and pass their learning on to the rest of the Atrebatan recruits. With only Tincommius to help with translation there was no other practical way to teach weapons skills. Cato turned to Tincommius.

  ‘Ready?’

  Tincommius nodded, and prepared to translate.

  ‘Today, you will be introduced to the gladius, the short sword of the legions. There are some who claim this is our secret weapon. But a weapon is just a tool like any other. What distinguishes a tool from a weapon is the person wielding it. The short sword, in itself, is no more or less deadly than any other sword. Indeed, unless it is used properly it is no match for a cavalry sword, or the long swords you Celts choose to bear. In single combat it lacks reach, but in the press of battle there is no finer weapon for a man to carry.’

  Cato went for his own sword, and remembered just in time that he no longer wore it on the right, as he had done as an optio. With a smile he grasped the ivory handle and drew it out of its scabbard, raising it for all to see.

  ‘The weapon’s most obvious feature is the tapered point. It’s designed for delivering one type of blow in particular – the thrust. From this moment on there is one rule you must take to your hearts: a few inches of point is far more deadly than any length of edge. I’m happy to tell you this from personal experience. A few months ago someone was foolish enough to use an edged weapon on me. He’s dead and I’m still here.’

  Cato paused to let the moral of the story sink in, and as he listened to Tincommius’ translation he remembered the druid’s attack in vivid detail, and the terrible pain as the scythe sliced into his ribs. Cato felt more of a fraud than ever. If only these fools knew how terrified he had been. He gritted his teeth at the precise recollection and tried to banish the thought. After all, the druid had gone to meet his dark gods, and Cato was alive. If the druid had thought to use a pointed weapon instead, things might have been different.

  Tincommius had finished, and was waiting for Cato to continue.

  ‘It may not look very glamorous, but when you’re in tight formation, with your shield pressed into the body of your enemy, and his face inches away from your own, then you’ll know the true value of this weapon. Listen closely to your instructors, learn how to use the short sword as we do, and soon those bastards, the Durotrigans, will just be a nasty memory!’

  A burst of cheering greeted the translation of the last remark, and Cato was wise enough to indulge it a while before raising his hands for silence.

  ‘Now, I know how keen you are to get started, but before you can be permitted to wield the real thing you must be trained in the basic movements, as we legionaries have been. In battle you must be confident of your ability to use your weapons with ease, and without tiring quickly. To that end you will begin your training with these. . .’

  Cato stepped over to a cart and threw back its leather cover. Inside were bundles of staves, cut to the approximate length of a short sword, but thicker and heavier. Deliberately so. As with all training equipment used in the legions the aim was to develop strength as well as technique. If and when these men were equipped with the real thing they would delight in the comfort of its use at once. Cato picked up one of the short staves and raised it for the volunteers to get a clear view. A ragged groan of disappointment rippled through the ranks, as Cato had anticipated, and he smiled. He had once shared this sentiment.

  ‘It’s not much to look at, but I can assure you it still hurts to be on the wrong end of it! Now, stand still!’ He turned towards a small group of legionaries leaning against the corner of the nearest barrack block. ‘Figulus! Get your instructors over here!’

  The legionaries trotted over and drew their training weapons, enough for five pairs of combatants each. Figulus, a huge man from Narbonensis, had been chosen by Cato to act as his optio.

  ‘Keep it basic for today,’ Cato reminded them. ‘Block, parry, thrust and advance for now.’

  The legionaries set off for their assigned sections and distributed the weapons. As Figulus and other instructors introduced their trainees to the correct postures, Tincommius accompanied Cato as the centurion moved round each group and helped with translation where needed. The trainees were pushed into line and mimicked the actions of the legionaries as faithfully as they could. As with all training, the morning was punctuated with cries of anger and frustration from the instructors as they cajoled and kicked their charges. Cato, mindful of Macro’s advice of the previous night, forced himself not to intervene, but hoped that his presence might at least cause his instructors not to be gratuitously rough.

  A sudden shriek of pain drew Cato and Tincommius over to one group. The legionary instructor was standing over a figure on the ground, and whacked him on the back even as the centurion thrust his way through the line of Atrebatans for a closer look.

  ‘What the fuck is the matter with you?’ roared the instructor. ‘How much more bloody simple can I make it for you, you stupid prick! It’s block, parry, thrust and advance! Don’t make it up as you go along!’

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  The instructor snapped to attention. ‘This twat’s trying to take the piss, sir. Making out he can’t remember four simple bloody steps.’

  ‘I see,’ Cato nodded, looking down at the figure crouched on the ground. The man slowly turned his head and grinned up at the centurion,

  ‘Oh, no! Not you again. What’s your name?’ Cato asked in Celtic.

  ‘Bedriacus.’

  ‘Bedriacus, eh? You call me “sir”.’

  The man grinned again, displaying a jagged set of teeth. He nodded and pointed a finger at h
imself. ‘Bedriacus, sir! Bedriacus, sir!’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I think we’ve established that,’ Cato smiled back, before turning to Tincommius. ‘Know anything about him?’

  ‘Oh yes. He’s a hunter. Lost his family in a Durotrigan raid. He was injured, half dead when he was discovered.’

  ‘Half-witted more like,’ muttered the instructor.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Cato snapped. He nudged Tincommius. ‘I’m not sure he’s up to it.’

  ‘He’s good. Especially with a blade. Saw him turn over a couple of our warriors yesterday.’

  ‘Strength isn’t everything.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not. But this man wants vengeance. Deserves it.’

  Cato nodded with understanding. The desire for revenge was as powerful a motive as anything else in life, and the centurion had seen enough of the bloody work of the Durotrigans and their druids to be sympathetic to their victims.

  ‘Fair enough. We’ll take him, if he can be trained. Instructor!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘You can carry on, Marius.’

  Cato was suddenly aware of a commotion over by the main gates of the depot and turned round for a better look. A group of horsemen had been admitted and were trotting over towards the parade ground. They were tribesmen, but Cato recognised only one face.

  ‘Verica. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Come to see how the training’s getting on,’ replied Tincommius.

  Cato gave him a cold look. ‘Well, thanks for the warning.’

  ‘Sorry. He mentioned something about it last night. Just remembered.’

  ‘Right. . .’ Cato punched Tincommius on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’

  They left the instruction groups and walked over to meet the king of the Atrebatans and his retinue. Verica reined in and slowly dismounted before he waved a greeting to his kinsman and Cato. Tincommius looked at his uncle with apparent concern.

  ‘It’s all right, boy. Just feeling a bit stiff. Happens at my age,’ the king smiled. ‘Now then, Centurion Cato, how is my army coming along?. . . What on earth are they doing with all of those sticks? Where are their weapons?’