Cato had anticipated this moment and had his answer ready. ‘They’re in training, sire. They’ll be issued with the real thing as soon as they’re ready for it.’
‘Oh?’ The old man’s disappointment was clear. ‘And when will that be?’
‘Soon enough, sire. Your subjects learn very quickly.’
‘May we watch them for a while?’
‘Of course, sire. We’d be honoured. If you’d care to follow me. . .?’
Verica beckoned to his retinue and they obediently dismounted and walked slowly behind their king.
Cato leaned towards Tincommius and whispered, ‘Whatever you do, steer him clear of that group with Bedriacus in it.’
‘Right.’
Verica slowly made his way round the parade ground, watching the drill movements with apparent interest, occasionally stopping to comment on some detail or to ask Cato a question. As they returned to the first group, one of Verica’s followers, a dark-haired man with a bare chest under his riding cloak, seized a training sword from the hands of one of the men. The instructor was about to protest when he caught sight of Cato gently shaking his head. The dark-haired man looked over the stave with a contemptuous expression and laughed.
‘Who’s that?’ Cato whispered to Tincommius.
‘Artax. Another one of the king’s nephews.’
‘Big family then?’
‘If you only knew,’ sighed Tincommius as Artax rounded on Cato.
‘Why are our warriors being made to play with toys when they should be training to kill our enemies?’
Artax walked over to Cato, and threw the stave down at the centurion’s feet with a sneer. Cato kept his face expressionless as Artax looked him up and down, and spoke in words that dripped contempt.
‘It’s no wonder that Romans give toys to their men when their officers are little more than boys themselves.’
Cato felt his pulse quicken and he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Then I’d like to see how well you can handle that toy, if you think you’re man enough.’
Artax laughed and leaned forward to pat Cato on the shoulder. But Cato was too quick for him and, stepping back, he unfastened the clasp and handed his scarlet cloak to Tincommius. Then he stooped down, picked up the training sword and hefted it in the palm of his sword hand. Artax’s expression turned into a sneer once again and then he too slipped off his cloak, and snatched another stave from the nearest recruit. Those around them backed away to give the two men sufficient space and Cato crouched lower, ready to fight.
Artax immediately hurled himself forward with a wild cry and rained a succession of blows at Cato’s head. At once, the Atrebatans gave full throat to their cheers of support for Artax as he steadily drove Cato back, step by step. Cato coolly blocked every blow, gritting his teeth as the shock of the impacts travelled down his arm. Then, having roughly gauged the speed of his opponent’s reactions Cato waited for Artax to raise his arm for the next flurry of blows. This time Cato feinted towards the man’s throat. Artax jerked his head back and his midriff came forward to compensate. The centurion dropped the tip of his stave and thrust it hard into Artax’s stomach. There was solid muscle behind the hairy gut, but even so, the Briton gasped at the pain of the blow, staggering back from Cato.
The centurion lowered his sword arm, his point made. Or so he thought. With a howl of rage Artax threw himself back at Cato, swinging his weapon ferociously. This time Cato knew the man intended him serious harm. And everyone else knew it too. The Atrebatans roared their support for Artax, and Cato heard his instructors shouting encouragement. To one side Verica and Tincommius watched in silence.
The sharp crack of wood on wood filled Cato’s ears, and then suddenly there was burning pain in his chest as Artax slashed a blow past Cato’s guard and struck the Roman on his injured side. Cato gasped, drawing back and only just managing to fend off the next attack. Artax broke away and half turned to his fellow tribesmen to revel in their applause. Cato’s breathing came in shallow gasps; the agony in his side was too dreadful for any deeper breathing. His eyes glanced round at the cheering Atrebatans and he realised what a fool he had been. He had allowed his pride to jeopardise these men’s training. If he gave way now, then they would never have faith in the Roman way of war again. Without that training they would not stand a chance against the Durotrigans. The pain in his side was getting worse. He must take a risk and end the fight as quickly as possible, one way or another.
‘Artax!’
The nobleman turned back to Cato, mildy surprised as Cato beckoned to him. He shrugged and came on once more. This time it was Cato who attacked, going in low and fast, and taking Artax by surprise. The Briton skipped back, desperately swiping at Cato’s weapon as he tried to block a succession of thrusts. Then Cato double-feinted, throwing Artax’s rhythm. The first strike caught the Briton in the stomach again. The next high in the ribs, before the last one flattened his nose. Blood gushed out as Artax clenched his eyes shut against the shattering agony. Cato’s last strike was rammed home into his opponent’s groin and Artax crumpled to the ground with a deep groan.
The Atrebatans fell silent, aghast at the sudden reversal. Cato stood erect, and backed away from his beaten foe. He gazed round at the natives, and raised his stave.
‘Remember what I said earlier: a few inches of point is far more deadly than any length of edge. There’s your proof.’ He pointed to Artax, slowly writhing on the ground.
There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, then one of the Atrebatan warriors raised his stave and saluted Cato. Someone else cheered, and soon all of the trainee swordsmen were cheering him. Cato stared back, defiant at first, and then smiled. The lesson was learned. He let it continue a short while and then waved his hands to quieten them.
‘Instructors! Get ‘em back to work!’
As the Atrebatans broke up and returned to sword drill, two of the king’s followers picked Artax up, hoisted him on to his horse and held him steady while they waited for Verica to remount. The king eased his horse over to Cato and smiled down at him.
‘My thanks, Centurion. That was most. . . educational. I’m sure my men are in good hands. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’
Cato bowed his head. ‘Thank you, sire.’
Chapter Eight
Over the next few days the rest of the recruits were trained in the basics of swordplay every morning. Cato had given orders for a series of thick wooden stakes to be set up on one side of the parade ground and the recruits practised landing their blows against these targets with a monotonous rapping that echoed round the depot. The more advanced recruits were being paired against each other and walked through the correct sequences of attack and defence in the event of a loose mêlée.
Cato, with Tincommius at his side, did the rounds of each instruction group to monitor progress and get to know his men. With the help of the Atrebatan nobleman, he was beginning to pick up the local dialect, and was delighted to discover that it was not so different from the smattering of Iceni Celtic that he had learned earlier that year. For their part the recruits, with the exception of Bedriacus, were beginning to respond quickly to Latin words of command. Macro had insisted on that; there would be no chance for translation when the men first faced the enemy.
The more Cato saw of Bedriacus, the more he despaired of the man. Unless he could grasp the fundamentals of military life Bedriacus would be more of a liability to his comrades than an asset. Yet Tincommius was adamant that the hunter would yet prove his value.
‘You haven’t seen him at work, Cato. The man can track anything that moves on the ground. And he’s lethal with a knife.’
‘Maybe, but unless he can learn how to keep in formation and strike in sequence, we can’t use him. We’re fighting men, not beasts.’
Tincommius shrugged. ‘Some say that the Durotrigans are worse than beasts. You’ve seen how they treat our people.’
‘Yes,’ Cato replied quietly. ‘Yes, I have. . . Has it always b
een this way?’
‘Only since they fell under the influence of the druids. After that, they slowly cut themselves off from other tribes. The only reason that they fight alongside Caratacus is that they hate Rome above all else. If the legions quit Britain, they’ll be at their neighbours’ throats before the last of your sails crosses the horizon.’
‘If we quit Britain?’ Cato was amused by the thought. ‘You think there’s a chance of that?’
‘The future is written in the dust, Cato. The faintest breeze can alter
it.’
‘Very poetic,’ smiled Cato. ‘But Rome carves its future in stone.’
Tincommius laughed at the riposte for a moment, then continued more seriously. ‘You really do think you’re a destined race, don’t you?’
‘That’s what we’re taught, right from the cradle, and history has yet to refute it.’
‘Some might call that arrogance.’
‘They might, but only once.’
Tincommius looked at Cato searchingly. ‘And do you believe it?’
Cato shrugged. ‘I’m not certain about destiny. Never have been. All that happens in the world is down to the actions of men. Wise men make their own destiny, as far as they are able to. Everything else is down to chance.’
‘That’s a strange view.’ Tincommius frowned. ‘For us there are spirits and gods that govern every aspect of our lives. You Romans have many gods as well. You must believe in them?’
‘Gods?’ Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘Rome seems to invent a new one almost every day. Seems we’re never satisfied unless we’ve got something new to believe in.’
‘You’re a strange one—’
‘Just a moment,’ Cato interrupted. He was watching a particularly huge Atrebatan warrior, covered in tattoos, screaming his war cry as he shattered his practice sword against the side of a target post. ‘You there! You! Stand still!’
The warrior stood, breathing heavily as Cato took a spare training sword and approached the post.
‘You’re supposed to thrust with it. It’s not a bloody hatchet.’
He demonstrated the prescribed blows, and tossed the sword to the warrior, who shook his head and spoke angrily. ‘This is not a dignified way to fight!’
‘Not dignified?’ Cato fought down an impulse to laugh. ‘What’s dignified about fighting? I don’t care how you look, I just want you to kill people.’
‘I fight on horseback, not on foot!’ the warrior spat. ‘I wasn’t raised to fight alongside farmers and peasants.’
‘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 to make them competitive; 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 scrol
l.
‘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 the 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.’
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, animals 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.
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