The Eagle and the Wolves

'Twelve!… Thirteen!… Fourteen!'

Cato questioned how Macro could be so untroubled as the naked men grunted or cried out as they lay on the blood-flecked ground, arms wrapped over their heads. The young centurion had often wondered at the harshness of army discipline, with its emphasis on excessive pain and humiliation for almost any infraction that occurred within duty hours. There were few fines or fatigues, and many brutal punishments. Yet to Cato it seemed that men might respond more willingly to a system that treated them as more than mere beasts of burden, driven to war. Men could be reasoned with, after all, and could be encouraged to perform as much by a considerate form of leadership as by cruelty.

He had suggested as much to Macro once, over a jug of wine. The veteran had laughed at the idea. For Macro it was simple. Discipline was tough in order to make the men tough, to give them a fighting chance against the enemy. If the lads were treated kindly it would kill them in the end. If they were treated cruelly, it would keep them hard, and give them a decent chance of surviving their long years of service in the legions.

Macro's words came back to him vividly as Cato watched the third man being led away by the medics. The fourth man was hauled forward to take his place and Cato felt his blood chill as Bedriacus was flung down at the feet of the two legionaries and their bloodstained vine canes. The hunter raised his head and smiled as his eyes found those of his commander. For an instant the corners of Cato's mouth flickered. It was an automatic response, but thankfully for Cato he was quickly able to fix his face in a cold, austere expression. Bedriacus frowned for a moment before the first blow landed across his shoulders. Instantly his ugly weathered features twisted in agony as he let out a shrill cry. Cato flinched.

'Keep still,' Macro said quietly. 'You're a fucking officer. So act like one… Three!… Four!'

Cato clamped his arms to his sides and forced himself to watch as the blows continued to land on bare flesh in a steady rhythm. A knotty lump in one of the vine staffs split open the skin above a shoulder blade and the blood flowed from the mangled flesh. Cato felt his throat tighten as the desire to be sick welled up from deep down in his guts. On the tenth stroke Bedriacus was staring at Cato wide-eyed, his mouth hanging half open and uttering a horrible high-pitched whine. The noise was punctuated by a short gasp as each blow drove the air from his lungs. At last Macro counted twenty. Cato sensed a pain in his palms and, glancing down, he saw his hands balled into fists so tightly that the knuckles were white. He forced himself to relax and watched two medics bend over the prostrate Briton. Bedriacus had gone totally limp and they struggled awkwardly to raise him from the ground and start making their way over to the hospital block. His eyes remained wide open, staring like a wild animal as the awful strained whine continued from deep in his throat.

The last offender was led out from the ranks. Tincommius started, and quickly turned towards Macro.

'Not him. You can't have him beaten!'

'Shut up!'

'Sir, I beg you! He's a blood relation of the king.'

'Shut your mouth! Get back in position.'

'You can't-'

'Do it, or I swear you'll join him.'

Tincommius sensed the gravity of the centurion's threat and stood back a pace. In front of the officers Artax was unceremoniously dumped on the ground. He looked up, eyes gleaming in bitter defiance. Before Macro could order the punishment to start Artax spat in the direction of the two centurions. Macro calmly glanced down at the damp, dark stain in the dust.

'Thirty strokes for this one. Begin punishment!'

Unlike Bedriacus, Artax took his beating without a murmur. His lips were clamped shut and his eyes bulged with the effort of resisting the waves of pain. He never once shifted his gaze from Macro and breathed in sharp explosive snorts through his flared nostrils. At the end, he rose stiffly to his feet, angrily shaking off the helping hands of the two medics. He glared once at Cato, then back at Macro. The veteran returned his gaze with cold, expressionless eyes. Artax turned away and walked unsteadily towards the hospital block.

'Punishment is over!' Macro bellowed. 'Return to training duties!'

The two cohorts were dismissed by centuries and marched off by their Roman instructors, back to the endless regime of drilling and weapons training. Cato watched them closely, his keen senses aware of a subtle change in their mood; a kind of quiet automation of bearing where before there had been a contained flow of energy.

Macro regarded Artax's retreating back for a moment, then muttered quietly, 'He's tough, that one. Lad's got balls of solid bronze.'

'That's as maybe,' Cato replied evenly, 'but I'm not sure how far I can trust him. Especially after he's taken that beating.'

'Right!' Tincommius nodded.

The critical tone of the last words was not lost on Macro and he rounded on Cato and Tincommius with a thin smile. 'You two experts think I shouldn't have punished him?'

Cato shrugged. 'Experts?'

'Sorry. Thought for the moment that you lads must be experts in the art of discipline and the ways of soldiering. I mean, I've only been serving with the Eagles, for what, sixteen years? Course, that don't count for much beside your breadth of experience…'

Macro paused to let Cato make the most of his embarrassment. It would do the young centurion good to be cut down to size. Macro was honest enough to accept that Cato was a far more intelligent being than himself, destined for great things if he survived long enough. Nevertheless, there were times when experience carried more weight than any amount of education, and a wise man should know that much at least.

Macro smiled. 'Artax'll be fine, trust me. I know the type: strong enough that you can't break 'em, and proud enough that they'll want to prove you wrong.'

'He's not some type, sir,' protested Tincommius. 'Artax is a royal prince, not some common soldier.'

'While he serves under me he's a common soldier. He takes his strokes with the rest of the men.'

'And what if he decides to quit? You lose Artax, and you'll lose a quarter, maybe even half, of the men.'

Macro stopped smiling. 'If he runs, I'll treat him the same as any other deserter, and even you know the punishment for that one, Cato.'

'Stoning…'

Macro nodded. 'I wouldn't think twice about doing that to a Roman, let alone some Celt with grand ideas about himself.'

Tincommius looked appalled by the prospect of such a dishonourable death for his kinsman. 'You can't treat a royal prince like some petty criminal!'

'I told you, while Artax serves in my bloody army, he's a soldier. Nothing more.'

'Your army?' Tincommius raised an eyebrow. 'Funny, I thought the cohorts served Verica.'

'And Verica serves Rome!' Macro snapped back. 'Which makes you, and these people of yours, subject to my command, and you will call me "sir" when you address me from now on.'

Tincommius' jaw dropped at being talked to in this manner. Cato noticed the young nobleman's hand tighten round the handle of his dagger and quickly intervened.

'What the centurion means is that all allies of Rome find it best to work within the traditions of the Roman army. It keeps things simple, and makes for a more harmonious spirit of cooperation between the legions and their allied comrades.'

Tincommius and Macro were both staring at him now, frowning.

'I know what I meant to say,' Macro said coldly, 'but fuck knows what you're on about. What are you trying to say, Cato?'

'Just trying to reassure Tincommius that our interests are the same. And that we're proud to lead such fine warriors in the service of King Verica, and Rome. That's all.'