The Eagle and the Wolves

'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, my lord.'

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

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 melee.

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 worth.

'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 been this way?'

'Only since they fell under the influence of the Dark Moon 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.