The Eagle and the Wolves

Vespasian leaned over the desk to read the latest reports most carefully. He returned to an earlier report that seemed to confirm his growing suspicions. There was little doubt about it. The enemy was massing forces to the north, just this side of the Tamesis. Worse still, some natives claimed to have seen Caratacus himself amongst the enemy columns arriving in the area. Yet the latest dispatch from the general informed Vespasian that the main body of the enemy forces lay before Plautius and his three legions.

Vespasian stroked his chin and frowned. What was the wily Caratacus up to now?

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Ten

The depot was filled with excited chatter as the Atrebatans examined their equipment. All morning Macro and Cato had sat with the quartermaster at his desk in the headquarters building, carefully noting the identification stamps on the equipment leaving stores to be issued to the natives. Silva had achieved his rank by virtue of an orderly mind, and by documenting everything; in another life he would have been an equally competent lawyer. Each of the Atrebatans was provided with sword, scabbard, belt, boots, tunic, helmet and shield from the vast stores of equipment in the depot. There was no spare armour, and the shields were the oval auxiliary issue, not the rectangular variant used by the legions. They would have been given javelins, but some bungling clerk at Rutupiae had not sent the fixing pins along with the iron heads and the wooden shafts.

'Wait till I find the twat responsible for this!' Macro growled. 'I swear I'll nail his balls to the floor the moment I find those pins.'

Cato winced in empathy.

'Nothing to do with me.' Silva shrugged with all the confidence of one who knew he could prove it. 'Must be a clerical error at army headquarters. The pins are probably in the depot somewhere, shipped under the wrong label. I'll have some of my lot hunt them down.'

Macro nodded his satisfaction. 'Still, I suppose we can cut the javelin training out for the moment, concentrate on the basics. Are those standards ready?'

Cato nodded.

'What did you use?'

'Tincommius got hold of some wood carvings, from gable ends.'

'Gable ends? Whose?'

'He said Verica wouldn't miss them.'

'Oh, great.'

'Anyway, we've got the head of a wolf and head of a boar. Well, pig actually. I fixed a couple of tent pegs in for tusks, and had the heads gilded. They look fine. I mounted them on a couple of spare vexillation standards and painted I and II Atrebatans on the leather drops.'

Macro eyed him coldly. 'You used vexillation standards?'

'I was in a hurry.'

'But they've been touched by the Emperor's own hand.' Macro was scandalised. 'Shit! If word of this gets back…'

'I won't tell if you won't.'

Macro struggled to control his temper. 'Cato, I swear, if you weren't still recovering from that bloody wound, I'd kick your fucking head in… Come on,' he continued in a resigned tone, 'let's go and see them.'

Cato locked the paperwork away in a chest and followed his superior outside on to the parade ground. The scene was chaotic, with the instructors hurrying round their charges to tighten straps, show which was the correct side to wear the sword and generally ignoring those who were trying to complain about their boots.

Macro gave them a brief moment to complete the arming, and then drew in a deep breath.

'FORM UP!'

The tribesmen were well used to the routine by now; the coloured pegs were no longer needed. They hurried into position and took their station from each section leader, automatically dressing their lines to ensure correct spacing between each man. Each century was made up of ten sections, and commanded by a legionary chosen by Macro. Six centuries made up each cohort.

'Who are those clowns?' Macro pointed to small groups of warriors on either wing of the parade ground.

'Cavalry scouts, sir.'

'Cavalry scouts… Aren't they, er, missing something?'

Tincommius stepped up to Macro's side. 'Verica's promised me some horses. Be here tomorrow.'

'Fair enough.'

'And I had a word with him about those standards. Thought it might be good for the men's spirits to have them presented by the king. I've sent word that we're ready for the ceremony. He'll be along directly.'

'That would be terribly nice of him,' Macro agreed sarcastically. 'Any thoughts on candidates for the posts of standard bearer?'

'One name comes to mind,' said Cato. 'Bedriacus.'

Tincommius laughed, incredulous. 'Bedriacus?'

'Why not? You said yourself he's strong and doesn't yield ground easily.'

'Yes, but-'

'And it keeps him from screwing up the formation.'

That was the clinching argument and Tincommius nodded his assent.

'Right then,' Macro continued. 'That's one. He's in your cohort then, Cato. Who else?'

'What about Tincommius for your cohort?'

'Me?' The Atrebatan prince looked unhappy. 'Why me, sir?'

'Macro could use a translator, isn't that right?'

'Rub it in, why don't you?' Macro grumbled.

'I'm honoured,' Tincommius managed to say.

'That's settled then, and by virtue of being the ranking officer, I'll have the first cohort of Atrebatans, with the boar as its standard.'

Cato touched his arm. 'Here's the king, sir.'

Verica was approaching on foot from the main gateway. Behind him was a small crowd of Atrebatan nobles in their finery. True to the ways of Celtic flamboyance, bright colours, startling patterns and burnished gold predominated. Macro's eyes instantly strayed towards the jewellery, automatically conducting a series of quick valuations.

'Hey, Cato,' he said softly, 'do you suppose the Durotrigans share the same dress code?'

Cato smiled indulgently and nudged Tincommius. 'He's only joking. Get the standards. They're just inside the door to my office.'

While Verica walked slowly by the massed ranks of his men, clearly impressed by the uniformed turn out, Tincommius ran off towards the headquarters building. He returned, at a more dignified pace, holding one standard in each hand, slanted against his shoulders. Verica finished his inspection and walked over to Macro and Cato.

'My congratulations, Centurion Macro! They look formidable. ' He lowered his voice. 'But can they fight as well as they parade? In your professional estimation.'

'They're as good as any men I've trained. But I've never had to train men for battle so quickly. Most of them have never been near a fight.' Macro shrugged discreetly. 'I can't truly say. We'll have to wait and see, my lord.'

'Let's hope you won't have to wait long,' Verica smiled. 'Now, then. Let's get on with the ceremonies.'

Verica turned round to face his two cohorts and, drawing a deep breath, he began to speak. Cato was surprised at the rich timbre of the king's voice, and although he did not understand every word the delivery sounded wonderful. Verica, in his prime, must have cut a very impressive figure amongst the natives of this island. But there was something familiar about the delivery, something that Cato couldn't quite place, and he searched his memory for an echo of the feeling he was experiencing. Then it dawned on him; this was no natural gift, but the application of Greek rhetoric to a different cultural context, and he looked at the king of the Atrebatans with new respect. A man of many talents, and considerable learning.

Verica completed his peroration and wound up his address to his troops in a voice resonating with emotion. Cato was aware that Tincommius, at his side, was just staring at the ground without any expression on his face. Macro had noticed as well, caught Cato's eye and raised an eyebrow. But Cato had few doubts about the young Atrebatan nobleman; he had been just as nervous before his first battle. Cometh the battle, cometh the man. He was confident that Tincommius would do fine.