The Eagle and the Wolves

'Then have Verica spread the word. I doubt you'll be short of volunteers in the current situation. Once they come forward, you pick them, train them in our way of waging war, and then you will serve as their commanders, personally responsible to Verica.'

Macro chewed his lip.

'Do you think that's wise, sir? Arming the Atrebatans? In any case, I thought the general's policy was to disarm the tribes. Even those allied to us.'

'It is his policy,' Vespasian admitted, 'but the situation's changed. I can't afford to spare any more men to protect Calleva, or to deal with these raids on our supply columns. I've no choice but to use the Atrebatans. So you start training them as soon as possible. I have to return to the legion today. I've sent word of my plans to General Plautius and asked him for permission to equip Verica's men from our stores here in the depot. Train them, and feed them, but don't arm them until you get word from the general. Understand?'

'Yes, sir,' said Macro.

'Do you think you can do it?'

Macro raised his eyebrows and gently rocked his head from side to side. 'I should think we can make something of them, sir. Can't promise to supply you with front-line troops.'

'So long as they make Verica and his people feel safe, and make those damn Durotrigans think twice before they attack our convoys. Above all, make sure that no harm comes to Verica. If he is deposed, or dies, the Atrebatans might turn against us. If that happens… we may have to abandon the conquest of this island. You can imagine how well that will go down in Rome. The Emperor will not be pleased with us.' Vespasian stared at the two centurions to underline the significance of his warning. If Britain was lost, then there would be no mercy shown to the officers most directly accountable: the legate of the Second Legion and the two centurions he had entrusted with defending Calleva and protecting the Atrebatan king. 'So keep Verica alive, gentlemen. That's all I ask of you. Do a decent job and then you two can get back to the legion the moment you're fit enough.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Now then,' Vespasian pushed his platter to one side and rose from his stool, 'I've got a few things left to do before heading back to the legion. I want you to move into these quarters and take command of the garrison right away. As for the other matter, you'll need to go to the royal enclosure and see one of Verica's advisors. Tincommius is his name. Tell him what you need and he'll make the appropriate arrangements. He seems reliable enough. Right then, I'll see you two when I can. Good luck.'

Once Vespasian had left the room Macro and Cato sat down at the table.

'I don't like it,' said Cato. 'Legate's taking a risk arming these natives. How loyal to Verica will they be? How far can we trust them? You've seen what they're like in the streets. There's no love lost for Rome there.'

'True. But even less lost for the Durotrigans. Cato, think about it. We've got a chance to create and command our own army!'

'It'll be Verica's army, not ours.'

'His in name only, by the time I've finished with them.'

Cato saw the excited gleam in his friend's eyes, and knew it was pointless to try to contradict him for the present. He could foresee that training native levies was going to be more of a challenge than training recruits to the legions. There were so many factors to consider, language not the least of them. He had picked up a basic grasp of Celtic during the months spent in Calleva, but Cato knew he would have to improve on that as quickly as possible if he were to make himself understood to native levies. In one thing Macro was right: it was an exciting opportunity. They could quit the hospital and take the first tentative steps back towards proper soldiering.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Six

The sun had not yet reached the top of the depot palisade when Centurion Macro emerged from the headquarters building. He was in full uniform, from nail-studded boots, silvered greaves, chain-mail vest with its harness of medallions, right up to the transverse crested helmet, gleaming dully in the shadow of the ramparts. In his hand was a vine cane, symbol of the right conferred upon him by the Emperor, Senate and People of Rome to beat the otherwise sacrosanct body of a Roman citizen. He twirled the cane between the fingers of his right hand as he marched up to the silent mass of natives gathered together on the depot's training ground. Since news of the formation of the native cohorts had spread from the Atrebatan capital, thousands of men from the surrounding lands joined those from Calleva in coming forward to be selected.

After nearly two months in hospital recovering from his head wound, Macro felt good to be getting back to the familiar routines of a centurion's life. No, he corrected himself, barring the odd skull-splitting headache, life didn't just feel good, it felt bloody marvellous. He puffed out his chest, whistling contentedly to himself as he approached his new recruits.

Centurion Cato was standing to one side of the crowd, talking with Tincommius. It was the first time that Cato had worn the uniform and equipment of a centurion and Macro thought it suited him no better than that of an optio. Cato was tall and thin, and the chain mail seemed to hang on the youngster rather than fit him. The vine stick was held awkwardly and it was difficult to imagine Cato wielding that across the back of some recalcitrant legionary, or even one of these natives. Cato's recovery in hospital had been unkind to his already skinny body and the muscle wastage to his legs was evident in the way that the back of his greaves actually overlapped slightly.

Tincommius, by contrast, was evidently in rude health, and though even taller than Cato, he was broad in proportion and looked like he might be quick on his feet as well as strong. The young Atrebatan nobleman had been tasked by his king to serve as translator and advisor, and was keen to learn the ways of the Roman legions. Tincommius could only have been a year or two older than Cato, and Macro was pleased to see them laughing together as he strode over to join them. Let Cato befriend the man then; it would save Macro having to. The older centurion had an instinctive distrust of most foreigners, and all barbarians.

'Gentlemen,' he called, 'we're not here to crack jokes. There's a job to be done.'

Cato turned to face his superior and stiffened to attention. Even though both men held the same rank, seniority counted for everything, and Cato would always be outranked by Macro, unless – by some perverse whim of providence – Cato was given command of an auxiliary cohort, or promoted to the First Cohort of the Second Legion, neither of which was remotely likely for many years to come.

'Ready, lad?' Macro winked at Cato.

'Yes, sir.'

'Right then!' Macro tucked his cane under one arm and rubbed his broad hands together. 'Let's get 'em in formation. Tincommius, how many of this batch have any military experience?'

Tincommius turned to the crowd and nodded. To one side, haughty and aloof, stood a small band of men, perhaps twenty or thirty, all in the prime of life.

'They're from our warrior caste. All weapon-trained from childhood. They can ride too.'

'Good. That's a start then. Tincommius?'

'Yes?'

Macro leaned close to him. 'Just a word about protocol. From now on, you're to call me "sir".'

The Atrebatan nobleman's eyebrows shot up in astonishment. To Macro's intense irritation Tincommius glanced questioningly over towards Cato.

'You look at me when I'm talking to you! Got that?'

'Yes.'

'Yes, what?' Macro said with a menacing edge to his voice. 'Yes, what?'

'Yes, sir.'

'That's better! Now don't forget.'

'Yes… sir.'

'Now, then. The rest of them – what experience have they got?'

'None, sir. Nearly all of them are farmers. Should be fit enough, but the nearest they've ever come to a fight is keeping foxes out of their chicken coops.'

'Well, let's see how fit they really are. We can only afford to take the best so we'd better start weeding out the rubbish. We'll use your warriors to form the rest of them up. Get 'em over here. Cato, you got the pegs?'