The Eagle and the Wolves

'Of course, such a force would need to be adequately provisioned in order to be effective… You said it yourself, Legate. Soldiers are only any good if they have full bellies.'

'Yes, my lord,' Tincommius nodded, and continued with a cynical edge to his voice, 'I dare say that the prospect of a decent meal will lead to no shortage of recruits. And a full belly has a wonderful way of dispersing rebellious instincts.'

'Now wait a moment.' Vespasian raised a hand, anxious not to commit himself to more than he could deliver. He was angry with the old man for manoeuvring him into this position, but accepted the cogency of his argument. The scheme might even work, provided, of course, that General Plautius agreed to the arming of the Atrebatans. 'It's an interesting proposition. I need to think about it.'

Verica nodded. 'By all means, Legate. But not for too long, eh? It takes time to train men, and we have very little time if it's to make a difference. Give me your response tomorrow. You may go.'

'Yes, sir.'

Vespasian smartly turned and marched out of the hall, under the silent gaze of the two Britons. He was anxious to be free of them and be somewhere quiet where his tired mind could think the plan through, without having to worry about being manipulated by the shrewd king of the Atrebatans.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Five

'Lift this please, Centurion.' The surgeon handed Cato a sword. He took it in his right hand and slowly raised it to his front. The early morning sunlight glinted along the blade.

'That's good. Push it out as far as you can, then hold.'

Cato looked down the length of his arm and grimaced at the effort of keeping the blade up; he could not stop the tip of the sword from wavering, and soon his arm began to tremble.

'To the side now, sir.'

Cato swept his arm round and the surgeon ducked beneath its arc. Macro winked at Cato as the surgeon straightened himself, well away from the blade.

'Well, no problem with the muscles there! Now then, how does your other side feel?'

'Tight,' Cato replied through gritted teeth. 'Feels like something's stretching badly.'

'Painful?'

'Very.'

'You can lower the sword now, sir.' The surgeon waited until the blade had been returned to its scabbard and then returned to the corner of the room. Cato stood before him, bare-chested and the surgeon ran his finger along the thick red line that curved round the left side of Cato's chest and a third of the way across his back. 'The muscles are quite tight under the scar tissue. You need to loosen them up. It's going to take plenty of exercise. It'll be painful, sir.'

'I don't care,' replied Cato. 'All I want to know is how soon I can get back to the legion.'

'Ah…' The surgeon made a face. 'That may take some time, and, well, frankly, you'd better not build your hopes up too much.'

'What do you mean?' Cato said with a quiet intensity. 'I am going to recover.'

'Of course you are, Centurion. Of course you are. It's just that you might have difficulty bearing the weight of a shield on your left arm, and the added strain of wielding a sword might well cause the muscles down the left side to tear. You'd be in agony.'

'I've endured pain before.'

'Yes, sir. But this would be quite incapacitating. There's no easy way to say this, sir, but your army career might well be over.'

'Over?' Cato replied softly. 'But I'm only eighteen… It can't be over.'

'I didn't say that it was, sir. Just that there is a chance that it might be. With thorough exercise and favouring of that side, there's a chance you could return to active service.'

'I see…' Cato felt sick. 'Thank you.'

The surgeon smiled sympathetically. 'Well, then, I'll be off.'

'Yes…'

Once the door was closed Cato pulled on his tunic and slumped down on his bed. He ran a hand through his dark curls. It was unbelievable. He had not even completed two years of service with the Eagles, and had only recently been promoted, and the surgeon was telling him it was as good as over.

'He can get stuffed,' said Macro, in an awkward attempt to cheer his friend up. 'You just need to get some exercise, get yourself back in shape. We'll work on it together, and I'll have you in front of your own century before you know it.'

'Thank you.'

Macro was only trying to be kind, and Cato, despite his inner agony, was grateful to the man. He straightened up and forced a smile on to his face. 'Better get started on the exercise as soon as possible then.'

'That's the spirit!' Macro beamed, and was about to offer some more encouragement when there was a sharp rap on the door.

'Come!' yelled Macro.

The door opened and a cavalry scout stepped smartly into the hospital room.

'Centurions Lucius Cornelius Macro and Quintus Licinius Cato?'

'That's us.'

'Legate requests your presence.'

'Now?' Macro frowned as he looked up through the open shutters. The sun was well above the horizon, by some hours. He looked at Cato with raised eyebrows. 'Tell him we'll be there directly.'

'Yes, sir.'

When the scout had closed the door behind him Macro quickly reached for his boots, and gave Cato a gentle nudge. 'Come on, lad.'

Vespasian waved his hand at a bench in front of the low table where he was eating his breakfast. There was a platter of small loaves, a bowl of olive oil and a jar of fish sauce. Macro met Cato's gaze and gave a disappointed shrug. If this was how legates ate, you could keep it.

'Now then,' Vespasian began, as he spread the dark fish sauce over a hunk of bread, 'how far have you two recovered from your wounds? Are you fit enough for light duties?'

Macro exchanged a quick look with Cato as their legate tore off a chunk of bread and popped it into his mouth. 'We're pretty much up for it, sir. Are we getting sent back to the legion?' Macro asked hopefully.

'No. Not yet, at least.' Vespasian couldn't help smiling at the centurion's eagerness to get back in the fight. 'I need two good men for something else. Something very important to the success of our campaign.'

Cato frowned. The last special task to which he and Macro had been assigned had nearly got them both killed. The legate read his expression accurately.

'Oh, it's nothing like last time. Nothing dangerous. Or at least, not likely to be dangerous.' Vespasian bit off another chunk of bread and started chewing. 'You shouldn't even have to leave Calleva.'

Cato and Macro relaxed.

'So then, sir,' Macro continued, 'what do you need us for?'

'You're aware that Centurion Veranius was killed yesterday? '

'Yes, sir. We were watching from the gatehouse.' Macro was momentarily tempted to add some phrase to register the sadness he imagined he was supposed to feel. But he refused to cheapen himself, especially since he had never particularly rated Veranius.

'He was the only officer I could spare to command this garrison.'

There was an implied judgement in that sentence and Macro was mildly surprised that the legate shared his view of the dead centurion.

'And now I need a new garrison commander. The duty should not be too onerous for you while you recuperate.'

'Me, sir? In command of the depot?' Now Macro's surprise was more pronounced. Then the prospect of his first independent command filled him with a warm glow of pride. 'Thank you, sir. Yes, I'd be happy – honoured – to do the job.'

'It's an order, Macro,' Vespasian replied drily, 'not an invitation.'

'Oh, right.'

'There's more.' The legate paused a moment. 'I need you and Centurion Cato to train a small force for the king here in Calleva. A couple of cohorts is what I have in mind.'

'Two cohorts?' Cato's eyebrows rose in surprise. 'That's over nine hundred men. Where are we going to find them, sir? I doubt there's enough men of the quality we need here in Calleva.'