The Eagle and the Wolves

'Centurion Cato, sir.'

Vespasian, and Quintillus, wearing a freshly minted gold chain and pendant, looked round. The legate beckoned. 'Please join us, Centurion… That'll be all, Parvenus.'

'Yes, sir.' The clerk bowed his head and backed out of the tent, as Cato marched forward to the table and stood to attention. Vespasian smiled at Cato, and the latter got the distinct impression that his commander would have something unpleasant to say.

'Centurion, I've got some good news. I've found a command for you. Sixth Century of the Third Cohort. Centurion Macro will be appointed to the same unit. You work well together so you might as well continue to serve in the same cohort. The general and I have a lot to thank you for. If the enemy had taken Calleva, and disposed of Verica I have no doubt that we'd have been in full retreat by now. You and Macro have performed in accordance with the highest traditions of the legions and I've recommended that you both be decorated. It's the least that can be done by way of reward.'

'We were only doing our duty, sir,' Cato replied in a flat tone.

'Quite. And you excelled in that, as you always have before. It was well done, Centurion, and I offer you my personal gratitude.' The legate smiled warmly. 'I look forward to seeing you handle your own legionary command, and I dare say Centurion Macro will be keen to get back into the campaign. Both appointments are effective immediately. The cohort suffered rather badly in that last action – lost some good men.'

That was putting it mildly, Cato reflected. To lose two or more centurions in a single, swift skirmish was proof of how desperate the fight had been. At once his heart thrilled to the prospect of being given his own century. Better still, he would serve in the same cohort as Macro. Then it occurred to Cato that this was the kind of information that Vespasian would have preferred to give to both men in person. So why was he here alone?

'Well, Centurion?' Quintillus raised his eyebrows. 'Are you not grateful?'

'He does not need to be grateful,' Vespasian interrupted quietly. 'He's earned it. They both have. Many times over. So please, Quintillus, keep your peace and let me deal with this.'

Here it comes, thought Cato, as Vespasian looked at him with a sympathetic expression.

'I'd be delighted to have someone of your potential serving as one of my line officers. That does mean, of course, that you will have to relinquish command of your native unit. You understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'In addition,' said Quintillus, 'the legate and I have decided that, in view of recent events, the Atrebatans must be disarmed.'

'Disarmed, sir? My men?'

'All of them,' Quintillus confirmed. 'Especially your men. Can't have a gang of disgruntled locals armed with swords wandering around, can we?'

'No, sir,' Cato said coldly. To call the Wolves a gang was almost as much as he could take. 'I suppose not. Not after all they've done to save our necks.'

Quintillus laughed. 'Careful, Centurion. You mustn't allow yourself to get too close to these barbarians. And I'd appreciate it if you would show my office the deference it demands in future.'

'Your office. Yes, sir.' Cato turned to his legate. 'Sir, if I may?'

Vespasian nodded.

'Why not retain the Wolves as an auxiliary unit? They've proved themselves in battle. I know there aren't many left, but they could act as a training cadre for others.'

'No,' Vespasian said firmly. 'I'm sorry, Centurion. But those are the general's orders. We can't afford to have any doubts about the loyalty of the men serving alongside the legions. The stakes are too high. It's over. They're to be disbanded and disarmed at once.'

The emphasis on the last two words struck Cato forcibly. 'What do you mean, sir?'

'They're outside, behind the tents. I had them sent for before you were summoned. I want you to give them the news.

'Why, sir?' asked Cato, the sick taste of betrayal in his throat. 'Why me?'

'You speak their language. You're their commander. It would be best coming from you.'

Cato shook his head. 'I can't do it, sir…'

Quintillus quickly leaned forward, glaring at the young centurion. 'You will do it! That's an order, and this is the last time I will brook any insubordination from you!'

Vespasian laid his hand on the procurator's shoulder. 'There's no need to concern yourself with this, Quintillus. The centurion will obey my orders. He knows what will happen if his men are told to disarm by someone else. We don't want them to cause us any trouble. Trouble they might regret.'

So that was it then, Cato realised. The Wolves were finished, and if they protested too much they would face summary punishment of one kind or another. And he would do the dirty work for the new governor. Worse still, there was no choice in the matter. For the sake of his men, Cato must be the one to tell them how little value Rome placed on the blood the Atrebatans had shed on behalf of the empire.

'Very well, sir. I'll do it.'

'I'm most grateful, to be sure,' said Quintillus.

'Thank you, Centurion.' Vespasian nodded. 'I knew you'd understand. Best get on with it straight away then.'

Cato turned and saluted his legate, and before the procurator could react to the slight, he marched out of the tent and back into the brilliant sunshine. The heat closed round him like a blanket, but the prickly discomfort of his tunic no longer bothered Cato as he made his way out of the administration tent and walked slowly round the side of the headquarters area. He felt sick. Sick from the cold-hearted betrayal of his men. Sick at the fact that the Wolves would regard him with hatred and contempt. The bond of comradeship they had once shared would twist in their guts like a knife, and it would be his hand behind the blade. All thought and pleasure he might have had of his new command was banished from his mind as Cato turned the corner of the tent complex and walked stiffly towards the double line of the surviving men of the Wolf Cohort. To one side of the Atrebatan warriors a few sections of legionaries were being drilled in full armour. Just in case, Cato smiled bitterly to himself.

As soon as he caught sight of the centurion, Mandrax called the men to attention. They stopped chatting and straightened up, spear and shield neatly grounded by every man. Shoulders back, chests out and chins up, as Macro had showed them on their first day of training. Their bronze helmets gleamed in the sunlight as Cato walked up and stood in front of them.

'At ease!' he called out in Celtic, and his men relaxed. For a moment he stared over their heads into the distance, fighting off the urge to glance down and admit to his shame. Someone coughed and Cato decided this was a deed best done quickly.

'Comrades,' he began awkwardly – since he had never used the term before, even though that's what they had become in the desperate days of their last fight – 'I have been transferred to another unit.'

A few of the men frowned, but most continued to stare ahead without any expression on their faces.

'The procurator has asked me to thank you for your fine performance in recent months. Few men have fought more bravely against such great odds. Now, it is time for you to return to your families. Time for you to enjoy the peace you so richly deserve. Time to lay down the burden of your arms and…' Cato couldn't continue any further with the charade. He swallowed and looked down, angrily blinking back the first dangerous tears. He knew that once he released his true emotions there would be no stopping the outpour. And that he would rather die than weep before his men, whatever the injustice, hurt and shame of the situation. He swallowed again, clenched his jaw and looked up.