Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves (8 page)

Then there was the fact that the last three days had left him feeling drained. Two months of convalescence had weakened him dreadfully. His side ached abominably and Cato was beginning to doubt that any amount of exercise was going to make it comfortable.

Chapter Seven

Cato cleared his throat and turned towards the volunteers. One hundred of the Atrebatans stood silently in front of him, formed up, as they had been taught, along one side of the parade ground. In front of them stood the ten men from the garrison, selected for their skill at arms and chosen by Cato for training duties. Once this hundred had finished training for the morning they would split up and pass their learning on to the rest of the Atrebatan recruits. With only Tincommius to help with translation there was no other practical way to teach weapons skills. Cato turned to Tincommius.

‘Ready?’

Tincommius nodded, and prepared to translate.

‘Today, you will be introduced to the gladius, the short sword of the legions. There are some who claim this is our secret weapon. But a weapon is just a tool like any other. What distinguishes a tool from a weapon is the person wielding it. The short sword, in itself, is no more or less deadly than any other sword. Indeed, unless it is used properly it is no match for a cavalry sword, or the long swords you Celts choose to bear. In single combat it lacks reach, but in the press of battle there is no finer weapon for a man to carry.’

Cato went for his own sword, and remembered just in time that he no longer wore it on the right, as he had done as an optio. With a smile he grasped the ivory handle and drew it out of its scabbard, raising it for all to see.

‘The weapon’s most obvious feature is the tapered point. It’s designed for delivering one type of blow in particular - the thrust. From this moment on there is one rule you must take to your hearts: a few inches of point is far more deadly than any length of edge. I’m happy to tell you this from personal experience. A few months ago someone was foolish enough to use an edged weapon on me. He’s dead and I’m still here.’

Cato paused to let the moral of the story sink in, and as he listened to Tincommius’ translation he remembered the druid’s attack in vivid detail, and the terrible pain as the scythe sliced into his ribs. Cato felt more of a fraud than ever. If only these fools knew how terrified he had been. He gritted his teeth at the precise recollection and tried to banish the thought. After all, the druid had gone to meet his dark gods, and Cato was alive. If the druid had thought to use a pointed weapon instead, things might have been different.

Tincommius had finished, and was waiting for Cato to continue.

‘It may not look very glamorous, but when you’re in tight formation, with your shield pressed into the body of your enemy, and his face inches away from your own, then you’ll know the true value of this weapon. Listen closely to your instructors, learn how to use the short sword as we do, and soon those bastards, the Durotrigans, will just be a nasty memory!’

A burst of cheering greeted the translation of the last remark, and Cato was wise enough to indulge it a while before raising his hands for silence.

‘Now, I know how keen you are to get started, but before you can be permitted to wield the real thing you must be trained in the basic movements, as we legionaries have been. In battle you must be confident of your ability to use your weapons with ease, and without tiring quickly. To that end you will begin your training with these . . .’

Cato stepped over to a cart and threw back its leather cover. Inside were bundles of staves, cut to the approximate length of a short sword, but thicker and heavier. Deliberately so. As with all training equipment used in the legions the aim was to develop strength as well as technique. If and when these men were equipped with the real thing they would delight in the comfort of its use at once. Cato picked up one of the short staves and raised it for the volunteers to get a clear view. A ragged groan of disappointment rippled through the ranks, as Cato had anticipated, and he smiled. He had once shared this sentiment.

‘It’s not much to look at, but I can assure you it still hurts to be on the wrong end of it! Now, stand still!’ He turned towards a small group of legionaries leaning against the corner of the nearest barrack block. ‘Figulus! Get your instructors over here!’

The legionaries trotted over and drew their training weapons, enough for five pairs of combatants each. Figulus, a huge man from Narbonensis, had been chosen by Cato to act as his optio.

‘Keep it basic for today,’ Cato reminded them. ‘Block, parry, thrust and advance for now.’

The legionaries set off for their assigned sections and distributed the weapons. As Figulus and other instructors introduced their trainees to the correct postures, Tincommius accompanied Cato as the centurion moved round each group and helped with translation where needed. The trainees were pushed into line and mimicked the actions of the legionaries as faithfully as they could. As with all training, the morning was punctuated with cries of anger and frustration from the instructors as they cajoled and kicked their charges. Cato, mindful of Macro’s advice of the previous night, forced himself not to intervene, but hoped that his presence might at least cause his instructors not to be gratuitously rough.

A sudden shriek of pain drew Cato and Tincommius over to one group. The legionary instructor was standing over a figure on the ground, and whacked him on the back even as the centurion thrust his way through the line of Atrebatans for a closer look.

‘What the fuck is the matter with you?’ roared the instructor. ‘How much more bloody simple can I make it for you, you stupid prick! It’s block, parry, thrust and advance! Don’t make it up as you go along!’

‘What’s going on here?’

The instructor snapped to attention. ‘This twat’s trying to take the piss, sir. Making out he can’t remember four simple bloody steps.’

‘I see,’ Cato nodded, looking down at the figure crouched on the ground. The man slowly turned his head and grinned up at the centurion.

‘Oh, no! Not you again. What’s your name?’ Cato asked in Celtic.

‘Bedriacus.’

‘Bedriacus, eh? You call me “sir”.’

The man grinned again, displaying a jagged set of teeth. He nodded and pointed a finger at himself. ‘Bedriacus, sir! Bedriacus, sir!’

‘Yes, thank you. I think we’ve established that,’ Cato smiled back, before turning to Tincommius. ‘Know anything about him?’

‘Oh yes. He’s a hunter. Lost his family in a Durotrigan raid. He was injured, half dead when he was discovered.’

‘Half-witted more like,’ muttered the instructor.

‘That’s enough!’ Cato snapped. He nudged Tincommius. ‘I’m not sure he’s up to it.’

‘He’s good. Especially with a blade. Saw him turn over a couple of our warriors yesterday.’

‘Strength isn’t everything.’

‘No, no, it’s not. But this man wants vengeance. Deserves it.’

Cato nodded with understanding. The desire for revenge was as powerful a motive as anything else in life, and the centurion had seen enough of the bloody work of the Durotrigans and their druids to be sympathetic to their victims.

‘Fair enough. We’ll take him, if he can be trained. Instructor!’

‘Sir!’

‘You can carry on, Marius.’

Cato was suddenly aware of a commotion over by the main gates of the depot and turned round for a better look. A group of horsemen had been admitted and were trotting over towards the parade ground. They were tribesmen, but Cato recognised only one face.

‘Verica. What’s he doing here?’

‘Come to see how the training’s getting on,’ replied Tincommius.

Cato gave him a cold look. ‘Well, thanks for the warning.’

‘Sorry. He mentioned something about it last night. Just remembered.’

‘Right . . .’ Cato punched Tincommius on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’

They left the instruction groups and walked over to meet the king of the Atrebatans and his retinue. Verica reined in and slowly dismounted before he waved a greeting to his kinsman and Cato. Tincommius looked at his uncle with apparent concern.

‘It’s all right, boy. Just feeling a bit stiff. Happens at my age,’ the king smiled. ‘Now then, Centurion Cato, how is my army coming along? . . . What on earth are they doing with all of those sticks? Where are their weapons?’

Cato had anticipated this moment and had his answer ready. ‘They’re in training, my lord. They’ll be issued with the real thing as soon as they’re ready for it.’

‘Oh?’ The old man’s disappointment was clear. ‘And when will that be?’

‘Soon enough, my lord. Your subjects learn very quickly.’

‘May we watch them for a while?’

‘Of course, my lord. We’d be honoured. If you’d care to follow me . . .?’

Verica beckoned to his retinue and they obediently dismounted and walked slowly behind their king.

Cato leaned towards Tincommius and whispered, ‘Whatever you do, steer him clear of that group with Bedriacus in it.’

‘Right.’

Verica slowly made his way round the parade ground, watching the drill movements with apparent interest, occasionally stopping to comment on some detail or to ask Cato a question. As they returned to the first group, one of Verica’s followers, a dark-haired man with a bare chest under his riding cloak, seized a training sword from the hands of one of the men. The instructor was about to protest when he caught sight of Cato gently shaking his head. The dark-haired man looked over the stave with a contemptuous expression and laughed.

‘Who’s that?’ Cato whispered to Tincommius.

‘Artax. Another one of the king’s nephews.’

‘Big family then?’

‘If you only knew,’ sighed Tincommius as Artax rounded on Cato.

‘Why are our warriors being made to play with toys when they should be training to kill our enemies?’

Artax walked over to Cato, and threw the stave down at the centurion’s feet with a sneer. Cato kept his face expressionless as Artax looked him up and down, and spoke in words that dripped contempt.

‘It’s no wonder that Romans give toys to their men when their officers are little more than boys themselves.’

Cato felt his pulse quicken and he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Then I’d like to see how well you can handle that toy, if you think you’re man enough.’

Artax laughed and leaned forward to pat Cato on the shoulder. But Cato was too quick for him and, stepping back, he unfastened the clasp and handed his scarlet cloak to Tincommius. Then he stooped down, picked up the training sword and hefted it in the palm of his sword hand. Artax’s expression turned into a sneer once again and then he too slipped off his cloak, and snatched another stave from the nearest recruit. Those around them backed away to give the two men sufficient space and Cato crouched lower, ready to fight.

Artax immediately hurled himself forward with a wild cry and rained a succession of blows at Cato’s head. At once, the Atrebatans gave full throat to their cheers of support for Artax as he steadily drove Cato back, step by step. Cato coolly blocked every blow, gritting his teeth as the shock of the impacts travelled down his arm. Then, having roughly gauged the speed of his opponent’s reactions Cato waited for Artax to raise his arm for the next flurry of blows. This time Cato feinted towards the man’s throat. Artax jerked his head back and his midriff came forward to compensate. The centurion dropped the tip of his stave and thrust it hard into Artax’s stomach. There was solid muscle behind the hairy gut, but even so, the Briton gasped at the pain of the blow, staggering back from Cato.

The centurion lowered his sword arm, his point made. Or so he thought. With a howl of rage Artax threw himself back at Cato, swinging his weapon ferociously. This time Cato knew the man intended him serious harm. And everyone else knew it too. The Atrebatans roared their support for Artax, and Cato heard his instructors shouting encouragement. To one side Verica and Tincommius watched in silence.

The sharp crack of wood on wood filled Cato’s ears, and then suddenly there was burning pain in his chest as Artax slashed a blow past Cato’s guard and struck the Roman on his injured side. Cato gasped, drawing back and only just managing to fend off the next attack. Artax broke away and half turned to his fellow tribesmen to revel in their applause. Cato’s breathing came in shallow gasps; the agony in his side was too dreadful for any deeper breathing. His eyes glanced round at the cheering Atrebatans and he realised what a fool he had been. He had allowed his pride to jeopardise these men’s training. If he gave way now, then they would never have faith in the Roman way of war again. Without that training they would not stand a chance against the Durotrigans. The pain in his side was getting worse. He must take a risk and end the fight as quickly as possible, one way or another.

‘Artax!’

The nobleman turned back to Cato, mildy surprised as Cato beckoned to him. He shrugged and came on once more. This time it was Cato who attacked, going in low and fast, and taking Artax by surprise. The Briton skipped back, desperately swiping at Cato’s weapon as he tried to block a succession of thrusts. Then Cato double-feinted, throwing Artax’s rhythm. The first strike caught the Briton in the stomach again. The next high in the ribs, before the last one flattened his nose. Blood gushed out as Artax clenched his eyes shut against the shattering agony. Cato’s last strike was rammed home into his opponent’s groin and Artax crumpled to the ground with a deep groan.