The Eagle and the Wolves

by Simon Scarrow

  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 able quickly 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 co-operation 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 headquarters 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 I want to know is what the bloody hell a tribune is doing on my patch.’

  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.’

  Macro felt he should have been basking in this approval from on high. Outside the window the sky was a perfect blue, and birds were singing, completely unfazed by the savage shouts of the drill instructors on the parade ground. He had been enjoying his independence, and had successfully raised and trained his own small army, and led it to a grand victory over the enemy. Everything should have felt right in the world. And it would have done, had it not been for the tribune sitting before him.

  ‘So much so that he sent you down here to check it out. . . sir.’

  The bitterness in Macro’s voice was clear as the summer sky and the tribune’s thin lips narrowed even further for an instant, before the smile returned and he shook his head. ‘I haven’t been sent here to spy on you, Centurion. And I have no orders to take control either. So rest easy. The depot, its garrison and the two native cohorts are still yours to command. The way you and your men have performed wouldn’t justify any change, nor would the general tolerate it. He likes his heroes, and he knows that success needs to be encouraged if it is to breed success.’

  Macro was not fully satisfied by this response, and nodded curtly. He had dealt with enough tribunes in the past to know that they were weaned on to politics from the teat. He had met one or two who had seemed to put soldiering first. Such men were the exception. The rest were all men on the make, desperate to prove themselves and thereby catch the eye of Narcissus, the senior official of the imperial general staff. Narcissus was ever on the look out for young aristocrats who managed to blend political capability with moral flexibility.

  Accordingly Macro had a dim view of almost every tribune – and most of the legates, he decided, then relented. Vespasian was all right. Their legate had proved himself an honest man, a man of courage, who was not above sharing all the discomforts and dangers faced by his men. It was that quality that Macro always looked for in his commanders. It was a shame then, he concluded, that Vespasian was inevitably fated to a life of obscurity once his tenure of command over the Second Legion had expired. The legate’s very integrity was his worst enemy.

  Macro shook off this line of thought and concentrated on the tribune sitting opposite him. Macro decided that Quintillus was typical of his kind in most respects. Young. Not so young as Cato, but young enough to lack experience where it counted. Cato, despite his years, was tough, intelligent, and as deadly in battle as almost any soldier Macro had ever known. By contrast Quintillus looked soft. There was no fat on his tall elegant frame, but the skin had that well-scrubbed smoothness that spoke of a pampered upbringing. His dark hair was neatly cropped, with oiled ringlets along the fri
nge. The tribune’s uniform was likewise adorned with expensive little touches that spoke of his family’s rank and richness in a knowing but understated manner. Quintillus spoke with calm assurance, and emphasised his words with low-key theatrical flourishes of the hand that he had been trained to use by some fancy tutor of rhetoric. With such grace, good looks and a generous fortune behind him, no doubt Quintillus was very successful with women. Macro disliked him instinctively.

  ‘There is, unfortunately, an aspect of the report that I would like to discuss further.’ Quintillus smiled once again, drawing a scroll from a leather satchel at his feet.

  Macro looked at his report with a sinking feeling. ‘Oh?’

  The tribune unrolled the report from the bottom and skim-read the conclusion.

  ‘You mention, in passing, that elements amongst the Atrebatans are not quite as keen as their king on the tribe’s alliance with Rome.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro tried to recall the exact phrasing he had used in his report. He hated being put on the spot like this, called to respond to words he had written several days previously, by a senior officer who had the advantage of having the entire report at his disposal. It was unfair, but there wasn’t much that was fair in the legions.

  ‘What do you mean, precisely?’ Quintillus asked.

  ‘There’s nothing much to it, sir. A few malcontents grumbling about Rome’s long-term plans for the Atrebatans, but nothing the king can’t handle.’

  Cato shot his friend a quick look of surprise, and quickly composed his expression as the tribune looked up from the report.

  ‘Yes, that’s pretty much what you say here. But I understand that the king’s way of handling these, er, malcontents is perhaps a little more dogged – if you’ll pardon the pun – than you imply. I mean to say, feeding one’s critics to the hounds is a little extreme. . .’