The Eagle and the Wolves

'The weapon's most obvious feature is the tapered point. It's designed for delivering one type of blow in particular – the thrust. From this moment on there is one rule you must take to your hearts: a few inches of point is far more deadly than any length of edge. I'm happy to tell you this from personal experience. A few months ago someone was foolish enough to use an edged weapon on me. He's dead and I'm still here.'

Cato paused to let the moral of the story sink in, and as he listened to Tincommius' translation he remembered the druid's attack in vivid detail, and the terrible pain as the scythe sliced into his ribs. Cato felt more of a fraud than ever. If only these fools knew how terrified he had been. He gritted his teeth at the precise recollection and tried to banish the thought. After all, the druid had gone to meet his dark gods, and Cato was alive. If the druid had thought to use a pointed weapon instead, things might have been different.

Tincommius had finished, and was waiting for Cato to continue.

'It may not look very glamorous, but when you're in tight formation, with your shield pressed into the body of your enemy, and his face inches away from your own, then you'll know the true value of this weapon. Listen closely to your instructors, learn how to use the short sword as we do, and soon those bastards, the Durotrigans, will just be a nasty memory!'

A burst of cheering greeted the translation of the last remark, and Cato was wise enough to indulge it a while before raising his hands for silence.

'Now, I know how keen you are to get started, but before you can be permitted to wield the real thing you must be trained in the basic movements, as we legionaries have been. In battle you must be confident of your ability to use your weapons with ease, and without tiring quickly. To that end you will begin your training with these…'

Cato stepped over to a cart and threw back its leather cover. Inside were bundles of staves, cut to the approximate length of a short sword, but thicker and heavier. Deliberately so. As with all training equipment used in the legions the aim was to develop strength as well as technique. If and when these men were equipped with the real thing they would delight in the comfort of its use at once. Cato picked up one of the short staves and raised it for the volunteers to get a clear view. A ragged groan of disappointment rippled through the ranks, as Cato had anticipated, and he smiled. He had once shared this sentiment.

'It's not much to look at, but I can assure you it still hurts to be on the wrong end of it! Now, stand still!' He turned towards a small group of legionaries leaning against the corner of the nearest barrack block. 'Figulus! Get your instructors over here!'

The legionaries trotted over and drew their training weapons, enough for five pairs of combatants each. Figulus, a huge man from Narbonensis, had been chosen by Cato to act as his optio.

'Keep it basic for today,' Cato reminded them. 'Block, parry, thrust and advance for now.'

The legionaries set off for their assigned sections and distributed the weapons. As Figulus and other instructors introduced their trainees to the correct postures, Tincommius accompanied Cato as the centurion moved round each group and helped with translation where needed. The trainees were pushed into line and mimicked the actions of the legionaries as faithfully as they could. As with all training, the morning was punctuated with cries of anger and frustration from the instructors as they cajoled and kicked their charges. Cato, mindful of Macro's advice of the previous night, forced himself not to intervene, but hoped that his presence might at least cause his instructors not to be gratuitously rough.

A sudden shriek of pain drew Cato and Tincommius over to one group. The legionary instructor was standing over a figure on the ground, and whacked him on the back even as the centurion thrust his way through the line of Atrebatans for a closer look.

'What the fuck is the matter with you?' roared the instructor. 'How much more bloody simple can I make it for you, you stupid prick! It's block, parry, thrust and advance! Don't make it up as you go along!'

'What's going on here?'

The instructor snapped to attention. 'This twat's trying to take the piss, sir. Making out he can't remember four simple bloody steps.'

'I see,' Cato nodded, looking down at the figure crouched on the ground. The man slowly turned his head and grinned up at the centurion.

'Oh, no! Not you again. What's your name?' Cato asked in Celtic.

'Bedriacus.'

'Bedriacus, eh? You call me "sir".'

The man grinned again, displaying a jagged set of teeth. He nodded and pointed a finger at himself. 'Bedriacus, sir! Bedriacus, sir!'

'Yes, thank you. I think we've established that,' Cato smiled back, before turning to Tincommius. 'Know anything about him?'

'Oh yes. He's a hunter. Lost his family in a Durotrigan raid. He was injured, half dead when he was discovered.'

'Half-witted more like,' muttered the instructor.

'That's enough!' Cato snapped. He nudged Tincommius. 'I'm not sure he's up to it.'

'He's good. Especially with a blade. Saw him turn over a couple of our warriors yesterday.'

'Strength isn't everything.'

'No, no, it's not. But this man wants vengeance. Deserves it.'

Cato nodded with understanding. The desire for revenge was as powerful a motive as anything else in life, and the centurion had seen enough of the bloody work of the Durotrigans and their druids to be sympathetic to their victims.

'Fair enough. We'll take him, if he can be trained. Instructor!'

'Sir!'

'You can carry on, Marius.'

Cato was suddenly aware of a commotion over by the main gates of the depot and turned round for a better look. A group of horsemen had been admitted and were trotting over towards the parade ground. They were tribesmen, but Cato recognised only one face.

'Verica. What's he doing here?'

'Come to see how the training's getting on,' replied Tincommius.

Cato gave him a cold look. 'Well, thanks for the warning.'

'Sorry. He mentioned something about it last night. Just remembered.'

'Right…' Cato punched Tincommius on the shoulder. 'Come on.'

They left the instruction groups and walked over to meet the king of the Atrebatans and his retinue. Verica reined in and slowly dismounted before he waved a greeting to his kinsman and Cato. Tincommius looked at his uncle with apparent concern.

'It's all right, boy. Just feeling a bit stiff. Happens at my age,' the king smiled. 'Now then, Centurion Cato, how is my army coming along?… What on earth are they doing with all of those sticks? Where are their weapons?'

Cato had anticipated this moment and had his answer ready. 'They're in training, my lord. They'll be issued with the real thing as soon as they're ready for it.'

'Oh?' The old man's disappointment was clear. 'And when will that be?'

'Soon enough, my lord. Your subjects learn very quickly.'

'May we watch them for a while?'

'Of course, my lord. We'd be honoured. If you'd care to follow me…?'

Verica beckoned to his retinue and they obediently dismounted and walked slowly behind their king.

Cato leaned towards Tincommius and whispered, 'Whatever you do, steer him clear of that group with Bedriacus in it.'

'Right.'

Verica slowly made his way round the parade ground, watching the drill movements with apparent interest, occasionally stopping to comment on some detail or to ask Cato a question. As they returned to the first group, one of Verica's followers, a dark-haired man with a bare chest under his riding cloak, seized a training sword from the hands of one of the men. The instructor was about to protest when he caught sight of Cato gently shaking his head. The dark-haired man looked over the stave with a contemptuous expression and laughed.