Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (11 page)

‘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.

As soon as Verica had finished his speech the troops spontaneously roared their approval, drawing their swords and thrusting them up to the sky so that Cato looked upon a thicket of blades shimmering above the two cohorts.

‘And now the standards, if you please,’ Verica called over his shoulder.

‘Give them here!’ Macro snapped, realising how foolish it would look for Tincommius to hand him the standards only for one of them to be handed straight back to him. Tincommius did as he was told and moved to one side as Macro handed the stout shaft with boar’s head to the Atrebatan king with as much formality as he could. Verica grasped the shaft and thrust it into the air, prompting his men to cheer even louder than before. As the cheering subsided Tincommius stepped forward and bowed his head to his uncle, before stretching out his hand. The cheering died away and the men watched expectantly. Then their king solemnly passed the standard to his nephew and, grasping Tincommius by the shoulders, kissed him fondly on each cheek. Holding the standard tightly in both hands Tincommius turned and marched over to take his place in front of the Boar Cohort.

Macro handed the wolf’s head standard to the king as Cato barked out, ‘Bedriacus! To the front!’

There was a moment’s stillness before the man behind Bedriacus gave the hunter a gentle prod. Bedriacus started forward, marching as stiffly as he could as he approached his king. Even so, the moment the standard passed into his care, his face split into a wide smile and the craggy teeth glinted in the sunlight. He turned back to the Wolf Cohort, and impulsively raised the standard high over his head, thrusting it up and down. The air was split with a fresh wave of cheering as Bedriacus capered over to his comrades.

‘Sure he was a wise choice?’ Macro grumbled.

‘As I said, keeps him out of the way. And now he’s got that thing I think someone’s going to have to kill the man before they get it off him.’

‘Fair enough.’

Cato was suddenly aware of a mud-spattered warrior pushing his way through the nobles towards the king. When he reached Verica, he leaned forward to be heard above the cheering. Verica listened intently, and as soon as the man had finished speaking he waved him away. He turned to the two centurions, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘Seems you’ll discover the mettle of my men sooner than we thought.’

Macro had guessed the nature of the message and couldn’t conceal his excitement. ‘The Durotrigans are out!’

Verica nodded. ‘That scout saw a column a day’s ride to the south. They’re almost certainly after the next convoy.’

‘You can bet on it.’ The prospect of action instantly erased any sense of decorum. ‘How many?’

‘He says no more than five hundred. Mostly infantry, with horse and a few chariots.’

‘Marvellous!’ Macro smacked his hands together. ‘Bloody marvellous!’

Chapter Eleven

‘Don’t think I’ve ever seen a better spot for an ambush,’ said Macro, hands on hips, as he surveyed the terrain around the ford. ‘And there’s just enough of the day left to make a clean sweep of it.’

‘Thought you’d approve, sir,’ smiled Cato.

They were standing with Tincommius on the edge of a small forested hill. Below them the ground sloped down to the track along which the Durotrigans would advance to ambush the convoy. Beyond the track the ground became soft as it fell away into a loop in the river. Half a mile to their right the river came close to the track before gently curving away, creating a natural bottleneck. To their left was the ford, and on the far side the track rose up towards a small ridge. The last century of Cato’s cohort was just cresting the ridge and was soon out of sight. Cato had ordered them to cross a short distance down-river so that they would leave no trace of their passage on the far side of the ford. Macro’s cohort was hidden along the treeline, with the scouts and their horses tucked down behind the forest, ready to charge round the base of the hill and close the trap. The mounted scouts had been given the pick of Verica’s stables and would be able to run down any survivors with ease.

‘The only way those bastards are going to get out of this is by swimming away,’ Macro grinned, and turned to Cato. ‘Of course, please don’t feel obliged to attempt a pursuit down-river. ‘

Cato coloured. ‘I just haven’t had the time to learn properly. You know I haven’t.’

‘I’m just wondering if you’ll ever find the time. I’ve seen cats with more affection for being dunked in water.’

‘One day, Macro, I swear it.’

‘You can’t swim?’ Tincommius was surprised. ‘I thought all you legionaries could.’

Cato gave him a thin smile. ‘Meet the exception that proves the rule.’

‘Heads up!’ Macro craned his neck to the right. A mounted scout had emerged round the corner of the hill and was galloping along the track, bent low over the flying mane of his horse. As he approached, Macro and the others trotted down the slope to intercept him. The man reined in, slewing his horse to a stop. He spoke very quickly, snatching for breath as the Celtic words tumbled from his lips. When he had finished, Tincommius asked him a brief question and then directed him to the cover of the forest. The scout dismounted and led his horse up the slope and out of sight.

‘Well?’ asked Macro.

‘They’re two miles down the track, marching in one column with a couple of riders a few hundred paces ahead of the main body. As we were told, about five hundred men.’

‘Cato, you’re going to have to bag those riders before they can raise the alarm.’

‘That’ll be tricky.’

‘Let me deal with them.’ Tincommius patted the handle of his dagger.

‘You?’ Cato asked. ‘Why?’

‘I want to strike the first blow for my people.’

‘No.’ Macro shook his head. ‘You’re not trained for it. You’d probably just give the game away. Besides, I need you close to me, to translate.’

Tincommius looked down and shrugged. ‘As you wish, sir.’

‘Right then, Cato,’ Macro slapped him on the shoulder, ‘back to your men. You know what to do. Just make sure we catch them both sides of the ford. See you later.’

Cato smiled, and then turned to jog down the track towards the ford, while the others climbed back up to their hiding place. Since he had begun to exercise again the pain in his side had become ever more pronounced, and the quick cross-country march of the last two days to intercept the Durotrigans had made it even worse.

Cato splashed down into the shallows at the edge of the ford and waded across the river. He emerged, dripping, on the far bank and ran up the track towards the brow of the low hill that followed the line of the river on each side. In the long grass on the reverse slope the centuries were already formed up in a line parallel to the river, in accordance with his orders.