The Eagle and the Wolves

'You heard him. "That's a real man's job," ' Cato mimicked. 'Bastard. Arrogant patrician bastard. I could show him a thing or two.'

'Of course you could,' Macro said soothingly, and held his hands up as Cato shot him a withering look. 'Sorry. Wrong tone. Anyway, look on the bright side.'

'There is one?'

Macro ignored the bitter remark. 'Verica's still with us for the moment. And even if he drops off the twig we've got a man lined up to replace him. Tincommius wouldn't be my number one choice but at least he's not a traitor, like Artax. Things could be a lot worse.'

'Which means they will be…'

This was too much for Macro. Much as he liked Cato, the lad's constant pessimism could have a profoundly depressing and irritating effect on a generally cheerful soul like Macro, and he stepped in front of Cato, blocking the young centurion's path. 'Don't you ever stop being defeatist?' he snapped. 'It's really starting to get on my wick.'

Cato looked down into his superior's face. 'I'm so sorry, sir. Must be nerves.'

For an instant the older man tensed up, hands balling into fists at the end of his thick hairy forearms. Macro felt an overwhelming urge to knock some sense into Cato and get him to quit his grinding mood of depression. Then Macro relaxed his hands, slowly rested them on his hips and spoke very deliberately.

'You know, I wonder if the tribune wasn't right after all. If you get so riled by a few harsh words then maybe you've no place commanding grown-ups.'

Before Cato knew what he was doing his fist shot out and slammed into Macro's jaw. The older centurion's head snapped back and he staggered away from Cato. Macro recovered his balance and felt his jaw, raising his eyebrows as he saw blood on the palm of his hand from a split lip. He looked up at Cato, with a cold glint in his eyes.

'You'll pay for that.'

'I – I'm sorry, Macro. I don't know what I was thinking, what I was doing. I didn't mean to-'

'But it felt good, eh?' Macro smiled faintly.

'What?'

'You feel any better?'

'Better? No! I feel dreadful. Are you all right?'

'I'm fine. Hurts like hell, but I've had worse. But it took your mind of the bloody tribune for a moment there, didn't it?'

'Well, yes,' Cato admitted, still feeling embarrassed by his loss of control. 'Er, thank you.'

Macro waved his hand dismissively. 'Come on, let's get back to the depot. Forget the tribune, forget this bloody tribe of barbarians and let's get some decent food inside us.'

'Yes…' Cato was still standing where Macro had stopped him. He was staring over Macro's head, a faint look of concern in his expression.

'Relax,' Macro chuckled. 'I'll get you back sometime… What's the matter?'

'Look.' Cato pointed towards the eastern sky, painted pale gold by the rising sun. Macro turned to follow the direction of Cato's finger. Some miles distant several faint columns of smoke smudged the pale sky of the new day.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Twenty-Six

'Supply column?' Cato muttered.

'Looks like it.'

'I didn't know one was due.'

'Neither did I.' Macro grabbed his arm. 'Come on. Let's go.' Macro led the way as they ran back to the depot. As soon as they were through the gate he sent one of the sentries to summon the tribune and Tincommius. As the man ran off down the lane towards the royal enclosure Macro turned to his subordinate.

'Get the Wolves formed up by the gate. I'll rouse the Boars and join you as soon as I can.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato sprinted towards the headquarters building and burst through the door into the admin hall. Catching sight of one of the garrison's trumpeters, he shouted at the man to get his instrument and follow him to the main gate of Calleva. The man arrived on the walkway breathless from running under the weight of the curved brass horn, and having to climb the ladders to join his commander. Cato slapped his thigh impatiently as he waited for the man to catch his breath. At last he spat to clear his mouth, drew in a deep breath and blew into his mouthpiece. The strident notes of the assembly call rang out over the town and the men of the Wolf Cohort hurried towards the sound.

Over in the depot another signal rang out and, glancing round, Cato saw the men of the Boar Cohort tumbling out of their tents to assemble on the parade ground. The squat figure of Macro emerged from the headquarters building, helmet glinting in the first rays of the sun beneath the red flare of his transverse crest. He was fully armoured and ready for action. With a pang of self-contempt Cato realised that he had left his armour in his quarters, and he turned to the nearest man and sent him to fetch it.

Beneath the walkway the gates groaned as they were swung inwards. The first men appeared in the muddy street below and Cato leaned over the parapet to shout his orders down to Figulus.

'Form the cohort up on the road inside the gate!'

As the Roman instructors bustled the men into position and began to form the cohort into a marching column Cato looked over the wall towards the distant spires of smoke rising into the sky, perhaps four or five miles away. The air was quite still this morning and it was possible to distinguish several separate sources of the smoke: the individual supply wagons fired by the attackers, Cato reasoned. As the last men hurried into line the native he had sent to fetch his equipment arrived on the walkway, panting from his exertions. Cato frowned when he saw that the man had not brought him a fresh tunic, but there was no helping that now, and he pulled the shoulder padding over his head and reached for the heavy mass of his chain mail.

'Will there be a fight, Centurion?' the man asked as he fastened the buckle of Cato's sword belt.

'Depends if we catch them in time,' Cato replied in Celtic. 'Let's hope so.'

Cato noticed the warrior smile after his last remark, and realised that the man was spoiling for a fight. Cato shared the desire to lay into the enemy. Then, after a moment's reflection, it occurred to him that his reasons were more selfish and had everything to do with proving a point to the smug tribune whose remarks had cut him to the soul.

As soon as the last buckle of his harness had been fastened Cato snatched up his felt helmet liner, jammed it down over the top of his head and pulled on his centurion's helmet, hurriedly tying the leather thongs at the end of each cheek guard.

'Right! Down you go,' he ordered the warrior. 'Back to your century.'

Cato spared a quick look towards the depot and was gratified by the sight of the Boars, in column, marching towards the gate, Macro at their head. Then the young centurion clambered down the ladders to the foot of the gate and trotted to the front of the Wolf cohort.

'Figulus! Figulus! To me!'

The young Gaul came running down the column towards him, face flushed with excitement.

'Get 'em moving,' ordered Cato, staring towards the distant columns of smoke, already dissipating now that the fury of the blaze had passed its peak. 'I want them outside and ready to march. I'll catch you up as soon as I've spoken with Centurion Macro and the tribune.'

'Yes, sir!' Figulus saluted and ran towards the front of the small column. He called the men to attention, and gave the order to advance. The natives were well accustomed to the standard commands and at his word, broke into a rhythmic tramp, through the gate and down the track towards the distant columns of smoke. Cato watched them march by for a moment, then, once the rear rank of the last century had passed him, he made his way back to the open gate. There was a pounding of hoofs and then Quintillus and Tincommius galloped down the street leading from the royal enclosure. They were armed and ready to fight, and slewed their ponies to a halt as they caught sight of Cato.