The Eagle and the Wolves c-4

by Simon Scarrow4_

  'I see,' the tribune responded tactfully.

  'The trouble is that Centurion Macro has not been very forthcoming about the divided loyalties of our Atrebatan friends.'

  'You could order him to disband the cohorts, and confiscate their weapons.'

  'That's not very practicable. You don't know these Britons like I do. About the most disrespectful thing you could do to a British warrior is take his weapons away from him. They treat them as a birthright. If we seize their weapons then there's every chance we'll have a revolt on our hands. We might even lose Verica's loyalty into the bargain.'

  'It's quite a mess,' the tribune replied thoughtfully. 'One wonders why it was permitted to occur in the first place. Narcissus will want to know.'

  Plautius leaned across the table. 'Then you tell your friend Narcissus to send me more troops. If I'd been given enough auxiliary units in the first place, we'd never have had to rely on Verica, or raise those two cohorts.'

  'Sorry, sir,' Quintillus replied calmly. 'It was an observation, not a criticism. I apologise if I gave the wrong impression. It's a complicated situation.'

  'To put it mildly. Now you can see why I need a clear picture of what is happening in Calleva. I need to know if we can risk keeping the cohorts in existence. If you judge that they might present a danger to us then we'll have to disband them, and take the chance that we can deal with the consequences. At the same time, I need to know if the Atrebatans will honour their treaty with us under a new king. If there's any question of the tribe going over to Caratacus then we will have to act at once.'

  'That's quite a job for one man,' Quintillus mused.

  'You won't be entirely alone. One of the local nobles is on our payroll. He's close to Verica and can provide you with whatever help you need. I'll give you the details later.'

  'Fair enough, sir.' Tribune Quintillus looked closely at the general. 'What authority will you grant me for this mission?'

  Plautius reached to the side of his chair and handed a scroll to the tribune. The scroll was wrapped around an ivory rod, touched by the hands of Emperor Claudius, and bore the seal of the general. 'In the first instance you are to observe, and then report to me. If you deem it necessary to act then you may invoke the powers of procurator. All Atrebatan lands will be ceded to Rome and administered as a province. You are empowered to order Vespasian's forces to annex and garrison Verica's kingdom.'

  'That's quite a responsibility,' Quintillus mused. 'The legate won't be a happy man when he hears about this.'

  'If we're lucky he won't ever have to.'

  04 The Eagle and the Wolves

  Chapter Seventeen

  A strained atmosphere filled the depot for several days after the banquet. The training continued under the disciplined eyes of the legionary instructors, and even Cato was pleased with the improvement in the recruits' drill technique and weapons handling. But he was also aware of a general pall of distraction and tension that hung over the native levies like a black cloud. So Cato drove them on, keeping them as busy as possible in a bid to occupy their minds with something other than the terrible spectacle their king had provided for his guests at the banquet. To make matters worse, Verica had stuck his victims' heads on posts either side of the track leading up to the main gateway into Calleva. The mangled remains of the bodies had been dumped, unceremoniously, in the defensive ditch beyond the palisade, where they were worried by wild animals.

  The reminder of the grim price paid by those who defied the king stilled any open debate about the Atrebatans' alliance with Rome. Instead, a few words were infrequently exchanged between those who still trusted each other, and men would fall silent at the approach of anyone else, watching them with mixed expressions of guilt and suspicion until they had passed by. As he walked through the muddy streets of Calleva, Cato came across this time after time, and where before there had only been a dim sense of resentment, now he read guarded hostility in many of the faces he encountered.

  Nor was this confined to the townspeople. The men of the two cohorts were also divided between those who felt the traitors had deserved to be thrown to the dogs, and a sizeable minority who kept silent and thus made implicit their criticism of Verica. Not so implicit that it failed to draw the attention of some of their comrades. The drill instructors had already reported a number of fights that had broken out in the ranks. Mercifully most had occurred off duty and could be dismissed as minor disciplinary infractions. But one small fight had flared up during a weapons drill that had taken place under Macro. The five men involved had been punished before a special assembly in the depot.

  The men of the Wolf and the Boar Cohorts were made to stand at attention on three sides of the parade ground to witness their comrades' beating. Cato, standing stiffly beside Macro, clamped his teeth together to stop himself flinching as a pair of instructors rained their blows down on the backs and limbs of each man in turn, while they lay curled on the ground in the open space between the assembled ranks. Macro counted off the blows for each man in an even voice and called a halt when twenty had been received. A pair of medical orderlies quickly carried each victim off to the hospital.

  As the third man was led forward Tincommius leaned towards Macro.

  'I don't get it, sir,' whispered Tincommius. 'First you beat them, now they're being given medical attention. So what's the point of the punishment?'

  'The point?' Macro's eyebrows rose. 'They have to be punished. But the army can't afford to let that get in the way of their duty. Those men are still soldiers. We want them back in fighting condition as soon as possible.'

  'Sir?' One of the legionaries nodded at the man curled up at his feet.

  Macro stiffened his back and bellowed, 'Proceed with the punishment!'

  The two legionaries began to lay into the man on the ground, the sharp whack of their vine staffs driving the air from his lungs so that he grunted and gasped through gritted teeth. The gnarled surface of the canes began to tear at his exposed flesh, leaving bloody welts of gouged flesh. Macro counted the blows in a voice loud enough to be heard by all the men looking on in silence.

  'Twelve!… Thirteen!… Fourteen!'

  Cato questioned how Macro could be so untroubled as the naked men grunted or cried out as they lay on the blood-flecked ground, arms wrapped over their heads. The young centurion had often wondered at the harshness of army discipline, with its emphasis on excessive pain and humiliation for almost any infraction that occurred within duty hours. There were few fines or fatigues, and many brutal punishments. Yet to Cato it seemed that men might respond more willingly to a system that treated them as more than mere beasts of burden, driven to war. Men could be reasoned with, after all, and could be encouraged to perform as much by a considerate form of leadership as by cruelty.

  He had suggested as much to Macro once, over a jug of wine. The veteran had laughed at the idea. For Macro it was simple. Discipline was tough in order to make the men tough, to give them a fighting chance against the enemy. If the lads were treated kindly it would kill them in the end. If they were treated cruelly, it would keep them hard, and give them a decent chance of surviving their long years of service in the legions.

  Macro's words came back to him vividly as Cato watched the third man being led away by the medics. The fourth man was hauled forward to take his place and Cato felt his blood chill as Bedriacus was flung down at the feet of the two legionaries and their bloodstained vine canes. The hunter raised his head and smiled as his eyes found those of his commander. For an instant the corners of Cato's mouth flickered. It was an automatic response, but thankfully for Cato he was quickly able to fix his face in a cold, austere expression. Bedriacus frowned for a moment before the first blow landed across his shoulders. Instantly his ugly weathered features twisted in agony as he let out a shrill cry. Cato flinched.

  'Keep still,' Macro said quietly. 'You're a fucking officer. So act like one… Three!… Four!'

  Cato clamped his arms to his sides and forced himself to
watch as the blows continued to land on bare flesh in a steady rhythm. A knotty lump in one of the vine staffs split open the skin above a shoulder blade and the blood flowed from the mangled flesh. Cato felt his throat tighten as the desire to be sick welled up from deep down in his guts. On the tenth stroke Bedriacus was staring at Cato wide-eyed, his mouth hanging half open and uttering a horrible high-pitched whine. The noise was punctuated by a short gasp as each blow drove the air from his lungs. At last Macro counted twenty. Cato sensed a pain in his palms and, glancing down, he saw his hands balled into fists so tightly that the knuckles were white. He forced himself to relax and watched two medics bend over the prostrate Briton. Bedriacus had gone totally limp and they struggled awkwardly to raise him from the ground and start making their way over to the hospital block. His eyes remained wide open, staring like a wild animal as the awful strained whine continued from deep in his throat.

  The last offender was led out from the ranks. Tincommius started, and quickly turned towards Macro.

  'Not him. You can't have him beaten!'

  'Shut up!'

  'Sir, I beg you! He's a blood relation of the king.'

  'Shut your mouth! Get back in position.'

  'You can't-'

  'Do it, or I swear you'll join him.'

  Tincommius sensed the gravity of the centurion's threat and stood back a pace. In front of the officers Artax was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. He looked up, eyes gleaming in bitter defiance. Before Macro could order the punishment to start Artax spat in the direction of the two centurions. Macro calmly glanced down at the damp, dark stain in the dust.

  'Thirty strokes for this one. Begin punishment!'

  Unlike Bedriacus, Artax took his beating without a murmur. His lips were clamped shut and his eyes bulged with the effort of resisting the waves of pain. He never once shifted his gaze from Macro and breathed in sharp explosive snorts through his flared nostrils. At the end, he rose stiffly to his feet, angrily shaking off the helping hands of the two medics. He glared once at Cato, then back at Macro. The veteran returned his gaze with cold, expressionless eyes. Artax turned away and walked unsteadily towards the hospital block.

  'Punishment is over!' Macro bellowed. 'Return to training duties!'

  The two cohorts were dismissed by centuries and marched off by their Roman instructors, back to the endless regime of drilling and weapons training. Cato watched them closely, his keen senses aware of a subtle change in their mood; a kind of quiet automation of bearing where before there had been a contained flow of energy.

  Macro regarded Artax's retreating back for a moment, then muttered quietly, 'He's tough, that one. Lad's got balls of solid bronze.'

  'That's as maybe,' Cato replied evenly, 'but I'm not sure how far I can trust him. Especially after he's taken that beating.'

  'Right!' Tincommius nodded.

  The critical tone of the last words was not lost on Macro and he rounded on Cato and Tincommius with a thin smile. 'You two experts think I shouldn't have punished him?'

  Cato shrugged. 'Experts?'

  'Sorry. Thought for the moment that you lads must be experts in the art of discipline and the ways of soldiering. I mean, I've only been serving with the Eagles, for what, sixteen years? Course, that don't count for much beside your breadth of experience…'

  Macro paused to let Cato make the most of his embarrassment. It would do the young centurion good to be cut down to size. Macro was honest enough to accept that Cato was a far more intelligent being than himself, destined for great things if he survived long enough. Nevertheless, there were times when experience carried more weight than any amount of education, and a wise man should know that much at least.

  Macro smiled. 'Artax'll be fine, trust me. I know the type: strong enough that you can't break 'em, and proud enough that they'll want to prove you wrong.'

  'He's not some type, sir,' protested Tincommius. 'Artax is a royal prince, not some common soldier.'

  'While he serves under me he's a common soldier. He takes his strokes with the rest of the men.'

  'And what if he decides to quit? You lose Artax, and you'll lose a quarter, maybe even half, of the men.'

  Macro stopped smiling. 'If he runs, I'll treat him the same as any other deserter, and even you know the punishment for that one, Cato.'

  'Stoning…'

  Macro nodded. 'I wouldn't think twice about doing that to a Roman, let alone some Celt with grand ideas about himself.'

  Tincommius looked appalled by the prospect of such a dishonourable death for his kinsman. 'You can't treat a royal prince like some petty criminal!'

  'I told you, while Artax serves in my bloody army, he's a soldier. Nothing more.'

  'Your army?' Tincommius raised an eyebrow. 'Funny, I thought the cohorts served Verica.'

  'And Verica serves Rome!' Macro snapped back. 'Which makes you, and these people of yours, subject to my command, and you will call me "sir" when you address me from now on.'

  Tincommius' jaw dropped at being talked to in this manner. Cato noticed the young nobleman's hand tighten round the handle of his dagger and quickly intervened.

  'What the centurion means is that all allies of Rome find it best to work within the traditions of the Roman army. It keeps things simple, and makes for a more harmonious spirit of cooperation between the legions and their allied comrades.'

  Tincommius and Macro were both staring at him now, frowning.

  'I know what I meant to say,' Macro said coldly, 'but fuck knows what you're on about. What are you trying to say, Cato?'

  'Just trying to reassure Tincommius that our interests are the same. And that we're proud to lead such fine warriors in the service of King Verica, and Rome. That's all.'

  'That's not how it sounded to me… sir,' said Tincommius. 'Sounded more like we were your servants, slaves even.'

  'Slaves!' Macro barked out a laugh of frustration. 'What have bloody slaves got to do with it? I'm talking about discipline, that's all. I'm not singling out your lads for a hard time. There's no difference between the way I treat 'em and the way I'd treat our own boys. Ain't that true, Cato?'

  'Oh, that's true all right.'

  'There! See?'

  Tincommius shrugged. 'I don't like to see my people treated like animals, sir.'

  'They only fight like animals,' laughed Macro. 'And they're bloody good at it!'

  'You sound as if you were proud of us, Centurion.'

  'Proud? Of course I'm fucking proud. They carved those Durotrigans up a treat. Lack a bit of finish, mind you. But once Cato and I have trained them up, you'll have the deadliest bunch of Celts in the land.'

  Tincommius nodded his approval.

  'Happy now?'

  'Yes, sir. Sorry I questioned you, sir.'

  'I'll let it pass, this time. Now you'd better join the instructors. Born fighters you Britons may be, but you're piss poor at languages. Now bugger off.'

  Once Tincommius had left them Macro turned on Cato, stabbing a finger into his chest. 'Don't you ever contradict me in front of him again!'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Don't call me sir.'

  'Sorry.'

  'And don't apologise all the bloody time!'

  Cato opened his mouth, closed it again and nodded.

  'Now then, Cato, what was that all about? That stuff you were spouting about comrades?'

  'I just thought, given the current tensions in Calleva, that we should play up the fact that the Boars and the Wolves were raised to serve Verica.'

  'That's what we tell them,' Macro agreed. 'But any idiot can see that they're really just another two auxiliary cohorts serving Rome.'

  'Be careful who you say that to. I wouldn't repeat it in front of the likes of Artax.'

  'Or that youngster Tincommius!' Macro snapped back. 'Although I can see he's taken you in… Look here, I'm not a complete fool, Cato. But at the end of the day, we trained them, armed them and fed them. That makes 'em ours.'

  'I doubt that's how most
of them see it.'

  'Then they're fools. Now, stop worrying about it.'

  'And if someone like Artax takes exception to being given his orders by a Roman?'

  'Well, we'll deal with that when the time comes,' Macro concluded impatiently. 'Now, I've got a pile of records to audit, and you've got training duties.'

  But Cato was looking over his shoulder towards the depot gates. A small party of horsemen had just ridden in from Calleva. They were led by a tall figure in a scarlet cloak riding a beautifully groomed black horse. Macro turned round to see what his subordinate was gazing at. One of the horsemen kicked his heels in and trotted his mount over towards the two centurions.

  'Your eyes are better than mine. Who's that over at the gate?'

  'No idea,' replied Cato. 'Never seen him before.'

  'We'll know soon enough.' Macro nodded towards the horseman, who reined his beast in a short distance from the two officers and slid smoothly from its back. The man quickly glanced over the centurions and snapped a salute at Macro.

  'Sir! Tribune Quintillus presents his compliments and desires the presence of the commanding officer of the depot at once.'

  'Who exactly is this Tribune Quintillus?' Macro cocked his head towards the gateway.

  'From headquarters, sir. On the general's orders. If you'd attend the tribune at your earliest convenience, sir…?'

  'Yes,' Macro growled. 'Of course.'

  The horseman saluted, slid back on to his mount and trotted back towards his superior.

  Macro exchanged a quick glance with Cato and spat on to the ground. 'What the bloody hell is that tribune doing on my patch?'

  04 The Eagle and the Wolves

  Chapter Eighteen

  'You've done a fine job,' Tribune Quintillus smiled. 'Both of you.'

  Macro shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, while Cato smiled modestly. The tribune, encouraged by the younger centurion's response at least, continued pouring on the praise in his silky aristocratic accent.

  'General Plautius is delighted with the report that you submitted.'