'Who's that?' Cato whispered to Tincommius.
'Artax. Another one of the king's nephews.'
'Big family then?'
'If you only knew,' sighed Tincommius as Artax rounded on Cato.
'Why are our warriors being made to play with toys when they should be training to kill our enemies?'
Artax walked over to Cato, and threw the stave down at the centurion's feet with a sneer. Cato kept his face expressionless as Artax looked him up and down, and spoke in words that dripped contempt.
'It's no wonder that Romans give toys to their men when their officers are little more than boys themselves.'
Cato felt his pulse quicken and he couldn't help smiling. 'Then I'd like to see how well you can handle that toy, if you think you're man enough.'
Artax laughed and leaned forward to pat Cato on the shoulder. But Cato was too quick for him and, stepping back, he unfastened the clasp and handed his scarlet cloak to Tincommius. Then he stooped down, picked up the training sword and hefted it in the palm of his sword hand. Artax's expression turned into a sneer once again and then he too slipped off his cloak, and snatched another stave from the nearest recruit. Those around them backed away to give the two men sufficient space and Cato crouched lower, ready to fight.
Artax immediately hurled himself forward with a wild cry and rained a succession of blows at Cato's head. At once, the Atrebatans gave full throat to their cheers of support for Artax as he steadily drove Cato back, step by step. Cato coolly blocked every blow, gritting his teeth as the shock of the impacts travelled down his arm. Then, having roughly gauged the speed of his opponent's reactions Cato waited for Artax to raise his arm for the next flurry of blows. This time Cato feinted towards the man's throat. Artax jerked his head back and his midriff came forward to compensate. The centurion dropped the tip of his stave and thrust it hard into Artax's stomach. There was solid muscle behind the hairy gut, but even so, the Briton gasped at the pain of the blow, staggering back from Cato.
The centurion lowered his sword arm, his point made. Or so he thought. With a howl of rage Artax threw himself back at Cato, swinging his weapon ferociously. This time Cato knew the man intended him serious harm. And everyone else knew it too. The Atrebatans roared their support for Artax, and Cato heard his instructors shouting encouragement. To one side Verica and Tincommius watched in silence.
The sharp crack of wood on wood filled Cato's ears, and then suddenly there was burning pain in his chest as Artax slashed a blow past Cato's guard and struck the Roman on his injured side. Cato gasped, drawing back and only just managing to fend off the next attack. Artax broke away and half turned to his fellow tribesmen to revel in their applause. Cato's breathing came in shallow gasps; the agony in his side was too dreadful for any deeper breathing. His eyes glanced round at the cheering Atrebatans and he realised what a fool he had been. He had allowed his pride to jeopardise these men's training. If he gave way now, then they would never have faith in the Roman way of war again. Without that training they would not stand a chance against the Durotrigans. The pain in his side was getting worse. He must take a risk and end the fight as quickly as possible, one way or another.
'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.'