The Eagle and the Wolves

A clerk approached from the long, low tent that fronted the headquarters area. He caught the attention of one of the guards. 'Let the centurion pass.'

The praetorians moved aside to let Cato by, but he stiffened his back and glared at them.

'It's customary to salute a superior officer,' Cato said in a quiet, icy voice, 'even for members of the legate's personal guard.'

The veteran optio commanding the praetorians couldn't help showing his surprise. Not so much that the officer standing in front of him was nearly young enough to be his son, but because he was carrying no badges of rank and only a stickler for military etiquette would have insisted on a salute whilst wearing only a tunic. But Cato refused to move. He was in a sour mood over the high-handed treatment of his men since they had returned to Calleva.

The Wolves had been denied access to the army camp. Instead they were given some of the least damaged tents from the depot and told to pitch them in the royal enclosure. Cato had spent the first night with them, but when Vespasian heard of this he immediately ordered the centurion to return to his legion and remain in the camp until he received further orders. He and Macro were told that the legate would reassign them as soon as circumstances permitted. With no duties to do Macro took every chance to sleep, while Cato had wandered through the ranks of goatskin tents for hours on end, trying to make himself tired so that he could get some rest. But even when the summer sunlight finally failed and he curled up on his bedding, Cato's mind turned the recent events over and over, and his concerns about his men denied him the rest his exhausted body needed.

So now, as he faced the praetorian optio, he would be more than happy to give the man a good bollocking; and the optio knew it. With a look of disdain the optio raised his arm in salute and slowly stepped aside. Cato nodded back as he strode past. He followed the clerk through the large opening of the nearest tent. Inside the air was hot and sticky and the legate's clerks were stripped down to their loincloths as they worked over the orders and records needed for the establishment of the new province.

'This way, please sir.' The clerk held a flap back at the rear of the tent. On the far side was a bare compound on to which six large tents opened. Inside tribunes and their staff worked on long trestle tables. Orderlies sat on the worn grass, ready to carry messages, passing the time with a game of bone dice. The clerk led Cato across the open space, which seemed to be almost as hot as the inside of the tents, due to the complete lack of the slightest breeze. Sweat trickled down the back of Cato's tunic as he followed the clerk towards the largest of the tents on the opposite side of the square. The flaps were tied back and Cato could see wooden flooring with a circle of iron-framed stools. Beyond that was a large table at which two men were sitting, sharing a flask of wine. The clerk ducked under the flap and, with a discreet wave of the hand, indicated that Cato should follow him.

'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.'