Macro turned back towards Tincommius. The young nobleman looked solemn as he held the gleaming boar standard as high as he could.
'Quite a reception.' Macro nodded towards the crowd at the gate.
'That lot would cheer anything…'
Macro could not help smiling at the youngster's cynicism. 'Go and ask Cato if he wants to join us. We might as well enjoy this together.'
Tincommius fell out of line and trotted back down the rippling column of red shields, ignoring the cheerful jibes and comments from the men as he passed. When he reached the junior centurion at the head of the Wolf Cohort Tincommius nodded a greeting to Bedriacus and fell in beside the Roman.
'Centurion Macro wonders if you'd like to join him when we reach the gates.'
'No.'
'No?' Tincommius raised his eyebrows.
'Thank him, but I think it'd look better if I marched in with my cohort.'
'He thinks you deserve the acclaim just as much as he does.'
'As do all these men.' Cato thought it only natural that Macro would want to relish his moment of triumph. Natural, but bad politics. 'My respects to Centurion Macro, but I'll march into Calleva at the head of my own men.'
Tincommius shrugged. 'Very well, sir. As you wish.'
As Tincommius returned to his unit. Cato shook his head. It was important that Verica and the Atrebatans saw this victory as their own. This was no time to indulge himself in some petty triumph, much as the prospect of being hailed as a hero appealed to some craven spirit within him.
Besides, the victory had been easily won. The enemy had been careless. No doubt they had grown used to freely scouring the lands of the Atrebatans for easy pickings. When they were fast enough to elude the legions and strong enough to overcome any pitiful attempts at resistance offered to them by the Atrebatans, it was small wonder that they had fallen so readily into the trap. A successful ambush was one thing, but how would these barely trained men cope when drawn up in front of an enemy prepared to fight a pitched battle? How quickly would their current high spirits fail them? Their proud boasting would soon die away. Their mouths would dry up. The icy grip of fear would tighten on their imaginations, squeezing out every dark dread that plagued men poised on the threshold of battle.
Now that he had been appointed to the rank of centurion the impulse to scrutinise himself was worse than ever. Despite the vibrant mood of celebration washing around him on all sides, Cato was consumed by a bitter melancholy and had to force himself to smile as he turned and met the inane grin of Bedriacus the hunter as the latter raised the Wolf standard high over his head and waved it from side to side.
Ahead the excited crowd was spilling forwards along the sides of the two cohorts, and Verica's bodyguards struggled to protect their king from being jostled. The cheers of the people of Calleva were ringing in Cato's ears as their ruddy features beamed into his face and rough hands clapped him on the shoulders. All attempt at preserving any sense of marching discipline collapsed and the men of the two cohorts merged with the rest of their folk. Here and there proud warriors were holding up the heads of their enemies for family and friends to admire. Cato felt a little sickened by the display, much as he had come to like and, in some small way, admire these men. Once the island had been pacified, the Atrebatans might be induced to adopt more civilised ways, but for now he must tolerate the quaint traditions of the Celtic way of war.
There was a sudden scream in the crowd, sliding into a high-pitched wail of grief and those nearby turned to look for its source. A woman stood with her hand to her mouth, teeth clenched into the flesh above her thumb as she gazed wide-eyed at a head being held up to the crowd by one of Cato's men. She wailed again, then lurched forward, snatching at the lank locks of hair, matted with dry blood. The warrior raised the head higher, out of her reach, and laughed. The woman shrieked, tearing at his arms, until the warrior cuffed her to the ground with his spare hand. From there she lapsed into sobbing that welled up from the pit of her stomach, and she shuddered as she clasped the hem of the warrior's tunic and begged.
'What's that all about?' asked Cato.
Like everyone else, Tincommius had been watching the confrontation. 'Seems that the head belongs to her son. She wants it for burial.'
'And its new owner wants it for a trophy?' Cato shook his head sadly. 'That's tough.'
'No,' muttered Tincommius. 'It's dishonourable. Here, take this.'
He thrust the Wolf standard at Cato and pushed himself between the woman and the warrior still holding the severed head aloft. Dragging the man's arm down, Tincommius spoke angrily, indicating the woman as he did so. The warrior shifted the head behind his back and responded with equal anger and indignity. At his words the people crowded around and shouted their support, although, Cato noted, a handful kept silent, implicitly on the side of Tincommius. The Atrebatan prince was in no mood to brook any disrespect to his rank, and suddenly smashed his fist into the warrior's face. The people around them shrank away as the warrior staggered back. Tincommius instantly kicked him hard in the stomach to wind him and keep him down. As the man snatched for breath, open-mouthed and staring wildly at his attacker, Tincommius calmly eased his fingers from the stiff hair of the severed head and gently offered it to the woman. For a moment she was still, then with a pained grimace she reached out for all that was left to her of her son. Oblivious to her grief, most of the crowd howled in protest and angrily pressed forward round Tincommius.
'STOP!' Cato cried out, drawing his sword and raising the Wolf standard above his head to command attention. 'SILENCE!'
The protests died away, and everyone looked towards Cato with hostile expressions, resentful of his intervention, yet nervous enough of the men of Rome to be wary of his wrath. Cato's eyes swept over the crowd, daring them to defy him, then came to rest on the woman sitting on the ground, cradling the head in her lap as she stroked its cold cheek.
Cato felt a great pain inside his chest as he watched the woman for a moment, empathising with her heart-rending sorrow. Then he swallowed and steeled himself before he looked up again at the crowd. He had to please these people, give them what they wanted for the sake of the alliance between Rome and the Atrebatans, however much it revolted him.
'Tincommius!'
'Centurion?'
'Give the head back to this man.'
Tincommius frowned. 'What? What did you say?'
'Return the head to this man. It's his trophy.'
Tincommius stabbed a finger at the woman. 'It's her son.'
'Not any more. Now do it.'
'No.'
'I order it,' Cato said quietly as he stepped up to Tincommius so that their faces were no more than a foot apart. 'I order you to do it… right now.'
For a moment Cato read the determination to defy the Roman in those striking blue eyes. Then Tincommius breathed deeply and glanced away at the faces of the crowd. He nodded slowly.
'As you command, Centurion Cato.'
The Atrebatan prince turned towards the woman and spoke gently to her as he reached out a hand. She looked at him in terror, still stroking her son's cheek, then shook her head. 'Na!'
Tincommius squatted beside her, speaking softly and he nodded towards Cato as he eased her hands away from the head. She regarded the centurion with a look of icy, fanatic hatred, until she was aware that the head was being taken from her. With a scream she snatched at it, but Tincommius pushed her down with his spare hand as he thrust the grisly trophy back to the warrior with the other. The man could not disguise his surprise and joy at having the head returned to him and instantly raised it up high; the crowd roared in triumph at the gesture.