The surgeon leaned closer, looking over Cato's shoulder in the direction of the doorway. 'He's a bit of a sod. Grumbles all the time, but I'm sure he'll respect your privacy and pipe down a bit. Sorry, but there's nowhere else I can stick him.'
'Does he have a name?' muttered Cato.
Before the surgeon could reply, there was a commotion at the door and muttered curses.
'Watch it, you bloody fbols!' growled a familiar voice.
'This isn't a bloody batteripg ram you're playing with.'
More muttered curses followed.
'Who's this you've landed me with? If he talks in his" sleep I'll have your balls off.'
The orderlies struggled 'round the end of Cato's bed and set their patient down with a thump on the bed next to him.
'Oi! Careful, you hopeless wankers. I've got your number!'
Cato looked over, smiling fondly. Centurion Macro looked as white as a t6ga, his face pallid and gaunt beneath the tightly bound bandage. But there he was, very much alive and on form. With Maco snoring in the same room, he'd never get another decent night's sleep.
'Hello, sir.'
'Hello yourself!' Macro snapped back, then his eyes blinked wider and he propped himself up on an elbow, grinning with unrestrained pleasure at the sight of his optio.
'Well, I'll be buggered! Cato! Well, I… I… It's good to see you again, lad!'
'You too, sir. How's the head?'
'Hurts like hell! An every-hour-of-every-day hangover.'
'Nasty.'
'And you? What happened?'
'Druid stuck a sickle in my back!'
'Get away! A sickle in the back? That's bollocks, that is!'
'Centurion Macro,' interrupted the surgeon. 'This patient needs his rest. You mustn't excite him. Now, please settle down – and I'll see to it that you get some wine.'
At the promise of wine, Macro clamped his mouth shut.
The surgeon and the orderlies left the room. Only when he was sure that they were out of earshot did he turn to Cato and continue in a whisper, 'Heard you got the general's wife and son – minus a finger, I'm told, but otherwise intact.
Bloody good job! Should be a gong or two coming our way.'
'That would be nice, sir,' Cato replied wearily. He wanted more sleep, but the sheer pleasure of seeing his centurion again made him smile.
'What's up?'
'Nothing, sir. Just glad to see you sill with us. I really thought you'd had it.'
'Dead? Me?' Macro sounded offended. 'Take more than some bloody Druid with an attitude to top me! Wait till I have another crack at those bastards. They'll think twice before they wave a sword in my direction again, I can tell you.'
arrow 'Glad to hear it.' Cato's eyelids suddenly felt very heavy; he knew there was one more thing that needed saying, but for the moment it eluded him. Beside him Macro was complaining about being confined to bed, and if he heard the surgeon tell him to sleep one more time he'd have the man's guts for garters. Then Cato remembered.
'Excuse me, sir.'
'Yes?'
'Can I beg a favour of you?'
'Of course you can, lad! Name it.'
'Could you make sure that I get to sleep first, before you Macro glared at him a aoment, then angrily launched his bolster across the gap at hi.s companion. ,.
A few days later they had visitors. Cato had been shifted round and lay on his bac,.k, still bandaged, but much more comfortable. A boad'lay between the edge of his bed and Macro's and they were playing dice, at Macro's insistence. The run of the luck had been going Cato's way all morning, and the piles of.pebbles they were using as stakes were very uneven. Macro looked ruefully at Cato's latest cast of the dice and atthe few remaining pebbles before him.
'Don't suppose you could sb me a few of yours if I lose this one?'
'Yes, sir,' Cato replied, clamping his jaws together to stop a yawn escaping.
'Good of you, lad!' Macro smiled, swept the dice up into his cupped hands and shook them. 'Come on! Centurion needs new boots…'
He opened his hands, the dice dropped, tumbled over and came to rest.
'Six! Pay up, Cato!'
'Oh, well done, sir!' Cato smiled in relief.
The door opened and they looked round as Vespasian stepped into the room, clutching a woollen bundle to his chest. The legate waved a hand at them as both men ridiculously tried to struggle towards some equivalent of coming to attention.
'Relax.' Vespasian smiled. 'It's a private visit. Aside from being diverted from the campaign to Sort out a little problem Verica is having with his subjects. I brought some people to see you before they head back home.'
He stood aside to allow Boudica and Prasutagus to enter.
The Iceni warrior had to duck under the doorframe, and seemed to take up a rather larger portion of the room than was really fair. He smiled broadly at the two Romans in their beds.
'Ha! Sleepy heads!'
'No, Prasutagns old son,' replied Macro. 'We've been injured. But I suppose you wouldn't know about that. Being built like a bloody rock and all.'
When Boudica translated, Prasutagus roared with laughter. In the close confines of the room the sound was deafening, and Vespasian flinched. Prasutagus finally got control of himself and beamed down at Cato and Macro. Then he said something to Boudica, and the words came hesitantly, as if he was embarrassed.
'He wants you to know he feels a brother bond with you,'
Boudica translated. 'If you ever want to join our tribe, he'll consider it an honour.'
Macro and Cato exchanged an awkward look, before Vespasian leaned over them, whispering anxiously.
'For Jupiter's sake, watch what you say. That's quite an honour he's suggesting. We don't want to offend our Iceni allies. Understand?'
The two patients nodded, then Macro replied.
'Tell him that's, er, very kind of him. If we ever quit the legions then I'm sure we'll look him up.'
Prasutagus beamed halpily, and Vespasian puffed his cheeks and relaxed.
'Anyway,' Macro continue'd, 'when are you heading off?'
'Soon as we leave you] replied Boudiea.
' Camulodunum?'
'No. Back to our tribe? Boudica looked down at her hands. 'We've got to prepare for our wedding.'
'Sa!' Prasutagus nodded happily, placing his paw on Boudica's shoulder.
'I see.' Macro forced a smile. 'Congratulations. I wish you both well.'
'Thank you,' said Boudica. 'That means a lot to me.'
A difficult silence thickdned uncomfortably, before Vespasian stirred.
'Sorry. I meant to tell you straightaway. The general sends his greetings to all four of you. In fact, what he said was, he trusts that the mission you undertook to rescue his family will be emblematic of the relations between Rome and her Iceni allies. Plautius does not think any reward he could give you would do justice to the great deed you have done… Anyway, that was the gist of the message.'
Macro winked at Cato and smiled bitterly.
'I think he really meant it,' Vespasian continued. 'I really do. I dread to reflect on what might have happened if they'd been killed. The whole invasion would have degenerated into a massive effort to wreak vengeance on the Druids. Not that he'd ever admit it. And while he might not have provided you with a reward, he did authorise me to arrange a decoration, and organise a little adjustment in rank.'
Vespasian laid the bundle he was holding on the end of Macro's bed and carefully unwrapped the folds. First out came two phalerae, ebony inlaid with gold and silver, one each for Macro and Cato.
While Cato reverently handled the medallion, his legate continued unwrapping the bundle.
'One last thing, for you, Optio.' The legate suddenly drew up, smiling to himself.
'Sir?'
'Nothing. I just realised that's the last time I can call you that.'
Cato frowned, not yet understanding. Vespasian flicked back the last fold of wool to reveal a helmet, with a transverse crest, and a vine
stick.
'Got them from the supplies this morning,' Vespasian explained. 'As soon as Plautius confirmed the promotion.
I'll put them over in the corner with the rest of your kit, if that's all right.'
'No, sir,' replied Cato. 'Pass them to me, please, sir. I'd like to see them.'
The legate smiled as he handed them over. 'Of course you would.'
Cato raised the helmet up in both hands and stared at it, swelling with pride and emotion. So much so that he had to cuffaway a tear that was moistening in the corner of his eye.
'Hope it fits,' said Vespasian. 'But if it doesn't, take it back to stores and demand one that does. I doubt those officious clerks will be giving you much grief from now on, Centurion Cato.'
Author's Note
One of the most enduring symbols of pre-Roman Britain is the huge complex of earthworks at Maiden Castle in Dorset.
It impresses the eye of any visitor and stirs an imaginative empathy towards those who would have had to assault such apparently daunting defences. Yet Maiden Castle, and many other hill forts, were no match for the legions and were stormed and reduced within a short space of time. One wonders why the Durotriges continued to cling to their belief in the defensive properties of hill forts even as they were being systematically destroyed by the Romans. It was not as if they lacked the example of a more effective method of defying the legions. Caratacus was enjoying far more success with his guerrilla tactics. Despite such evidence, the Durotriges remained bottled up in their hill forts when the Second Legion was unleashed upon them. Perhaps blihd faith in the promise of ultimate salvation given by their spiritual leaders kept them there.
Compared to the voluminous evidence of Roman history, not much is known about the ancient Britons and their Druids. With almost nothing by way of a written heritage, knowledge of these people has passed down to us through legend, archaeological evidence and the partisan writings of more literary races. What can be surmised is that the Druids were held in great respect and not a little awe. They bestrode the Celtic kingdoms and were frequently approached for advice, and for arbitration between disputing tribes. The Druids were the guardians of the cultural heritage and memorised vast quantities of epic verse, folklore and legal precedents, which were passed down through successive generations of Druids. They formed a kind of social cement between the fractious small kingdoms that, at one time, sprawled right across 13urope. Small wonder that the Druids were a prime target fo.r Roman propaganda and were harshly repressed whenever Celtic lands were added to the burgeoning Roman empire..
Yet there may have been,.a darker side to the Druids, if we can believe some of the ariclent sources. If human sacrifice took place, then it did soi the context of a culture that took great pride in collecting and preserving the heads of their enemies; a culture that had devised methods of torture and execution that repulsed even he Romans, whose love of the carnage of the arena is well-documented.
With their geographical spread and cultural peculiarities, the Druids were not a homogenous body, and would have had their factions,,much like contemporary religions are riven by competing interpretations of dogma. The Dark Moon Druids are fictional, but they represent the extremist fringe that exists within any religious movement. They stand as a corrective to that naive and nostalgic re-invention of Druid culture that parades around Stonehenge at certain times of the year. And, as I complete this work, they stand as a timely reminder of the extremities to which religious fanaticism can be taken.
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When the Eagle hunts c-3 Page 33