The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Fourteen

'What do you think?'

'I'm not quite finished yet,' muttered Cato, his gaze flickering up from the draft report Macro had dictated. The clerk had obviously had a hard time of it, judging from the number of crossed-out phrases and other corrections. Cato wished that Macro had not had quite so much to drink before beginning work on the report that would be sent to Vespasian and copied to the general. Now that the sun was setting, and they were sitting in the thin gleam of oil lamps at the wooden table in Macro's office, the effects of the wine were receding a little. Enough, at least, for them to check through the reports. Macro had been brief to the point of terseness in his description of the ambush, but the salient facts were there clearly enough, and the two senior officers who would read the document should be pleased with the result, Cato decided. Only the final part concerned him.

'I'm not sure about this bit.'

'Which bit?'

'Here, where you describe the situation in Calleva.'

'What's wrong with it?'

'Well,' Cato paused a moment to consider. 'I think the situation's a bit more complicated than you make it sound.'

'Complicated?' Macro frowned. 'What's complicated about it? We've got the population onside and Verica's bathing in the glory won by his troops under our command. Things couldn't be better. Our allies are happy, we've given the enemy a good kicking and it hasn't cost us one Roman life.'

Cato shook his head. 'I don't think that we can count on the happiness of a great many of the Atrebatans, judging from what I saw today.'

'A few sour grapes, and that shrieking old crone you told me about? Hardly amounts to a serious threat of insurrection, does it?'

'No,' Cato admitted, 'but we don't want Plautius getting the wrong impression.'

'And we don't want to worry the general about a few malcontents when he's got his mind fixed on pushing the legions forward against Caratacus. Cato, old lad, the way to get on in this man's army is always to err on the side of optimism.'

'I'd prefer to err on the side of realism,' Cato replied bluntly.

'That's up to you.' Macro shrugged. 'But don't count on any further promotions. Now, if there's nothing else you think I should change, let's get tarted up and join the celebrations.'

The royal enclosure was brightly illuminated by torches blazing around its perimeter. Every noble, every warrior held in any regard, and the most respectable of the foreign traders and merchants, had been summoned to Verica's feast. As Cato glanced round at the loose throng of people making their way across the compound to the great hall he felt more than a little shabby. He and Macro were wearing their best tunics and, neat as they were, the dull material could not compare with the exotic weaves of the local Celts, or the fine cloth adorning the merchants and their wives. The only concession to luxury permitted by the centurions' military wardrobe were the torcs Macro wore on his wrist and around his neck. The latter was a fine example. So it should be, having once been the possession of Togodubnus, brother of Caratacus. Macro had killed him almost a year earlier, in single combat, and the torc was already drawing admiring glances from Verica's other guests. For his part, Cato possessed only a single set of medallions and he tried to console himself with the thought that the character of a man was worth more than anything he might buy to display his worth.

'Going to be quite a night,' said Macro. 'Seems like half the population of Calleva must be here.'

'Just the well-heeled half, I think.'

'And us.' Macro winked at him. 'Don't worry, lad, I've never yet met a centurion who hasn't done well out of a campaign. That's the main reason Rome goes to war – to keep the legions grabbing enough booty to stay happy.'

'And distracted from any political ambitions.'

'If you say so. But personally I don't give a shit about politics. That's the traditional hobby of your aristocrats, not the likes of us footsloggers. All I want is enough loot to retire to a nice little estate in Campania, and have plenty left over to spend my twilight years in a permanent drunken stupor.'

'Good luck, then.'

'Thanks. Just hope I can get a little practice in tonight.'

They were greeted at the entrance to the great hall by Tincommius. The Atrebatan prince had discarded his army-issue tunic and wore a finely patterned native tunic over his leggings and boots. He smiled a greeting and waved the Roman guests inside.

'You joining us for a drink?' asked Macro.

'Maybe later, sir. I'm on guard duty right now.'

'What? No night off with the rest of us to celebrate?'

'All right,' Tincommius laughed. 'Once everyone's here. Until then, I'm afraid I'm going to have to search you for weapons.'

'Search us?'

'Everyone, sir. Sorry, but Cadminius was very firm about that.'

'Cadminius?' Cato raised an eyebrow. 'Who's he? I'm not familiar with the name.'

'He's the captain of the bodyguard. Verica appointed him while we were away.'

'What happened to the last one?'

'Died in an accident, apparently. Got drunk, fell off his horse and caved his skull in.'

'Tragic,' Cato muttered.

'Yes, I suppose so. Now, sir, if I may…?'

Tincommius quickly frisked them both and then stood aside respectfully as they passed into King Verica's great hall. The cool evening air outside instantly gave way to a warm, clammy atmosphere. A large brazier fire burned at each end, providing a wavering orange glow throughout the hall, throwing strange shadows against the walls that made it seem as if all the guests were taking part in some slow, sinuous dance. Long trestle tables had been set up on three sides, lined with benches. Only Verica was permitted any trappings of splendour, and sat on an ornately carved wooden throne at the head of the hall, close to one of the fires. To either side of him the bodyguard stood armed and watchful.

'Our boy Verica doesn't seem to be taking any risks.' Macro had to raise his voice above the noisy chatter and loud drunken laughter of the native guests.

'Can't blame him,' Cato answered. 'He's old and nervous and wants to die peacefully in his bed, I imagine.'

Macro, who was looking around for something to drink, was not listening. 'Oh shit!'

'What's the matter?'

'There's only that crap beer again. Bloody barbarians.'

Cato was suddenly aware of a looming presence at his shoulder and turned quickly. A huge warrior with flowing blond hair and a broad face regarded the two Romans curiously. He had narrow eyes that glinted in slits of reflected firelight.

'Can I help you?'

'You Romans?' The accent was thick, but comprehensible. 'Romans who lead the king's men?'

'That's us,' Macro beamed. 'Centurions Lucius Cornelius Macro and Quintus Licinius Cato, at your service.'

The Briton frowned. 'Lucelius…'

'Never mind, old son. Let's keep it simple – Macro and Cato will do for now.'

'Ah! Those are the names I need. Come.' Without waiting for any reply to the abrupt summons the Briton turned and strode off towards the throne at the end of the hall where his king was seated, drinking goblet in hand, surveying the scene as he chewed on a leg of roast lamb. At the sight of Cato and Macro he tossed it to one side and sat up smiling. A brace of huge hunting dogs pounced on the half-eaten leg and wrestled for its possession.

'There you are!' Verica called out to the approaching soldiers. 'My guests of honour.'

'My lord.' Cato bowed his head. 'You praise us too much.'

'Nonsense. I was afraid you would be too busy with your paperwork to join us. I know, from all my years in exile, that you Romans are sticklers for making reports,' Verica smiled. 'But now Cadminius has found you. You are most welcome. There are two seats for you at the high table when the food is served. If it's ever served.' He turned towards Cadminius and made some sharp remarks that clearly stung the captain of the bodyguard. At his master's bidding he trotted off towards a small door at the rear of the hall. Through the small opening Macro could glimpse bodies stripped to the waist, glistening as they laboured over suckling pigs slowly roasting over cooking fires. The prospect of some juicy roast pork after several days of field rations made Macro's mouth water.

'Tell me, Centurion Macro, what are your plans for my cohorts now?' asked Verica.

'Plans?' Macro frowned. 'I suppose we keep training them. They're, er, they're still a bit rough around the edges.'

'Rough?' Verica looked a little unhappy.

'Nothing that a bit of hard drilling won't improve,' Macro rushed on. 'Ain't that right, Cato?'

'Yes, sir. A man can never have enough drilling.'

Macro shot him a warning look; this was no time for irony. 'Lads can't ever have enough drilling. Keeps them honed and ready to fight the enemy at any moment. You'll see the benefit of it soon enough, my lord.'

'Centurion, I want soldiers – not martinets. I want soldiers for the sole reason of killing my enemies… wherever they may be found.' With the lightest wave of his slender hands Verica indicated the figures crowding his great hall.

Cato felt a chill tingle the length of his spine at the king's words. He glanced quickly at the nearest faces amongst the guests, wondering how many amongst them harboured treachery towards their leader. Verica had noticed the change in the young officer's expression and laughed softly.

'Relax, Centurion! I doubt I'm in much danger, for tonight at least, thanks to your victory over the Durotrigans and their allies. We must enjoy the interlude for as long as it lasts. I merely wished to discover what plans you two have for taking the campaign to the Durotrigans.'

'Campaign?' Macro was startled. 'There's no campaign, my lord. The ambush was a one-off – a lucky chance we seized and made the most of. That's all there is to it. The cohorts, your cohorts, were only raised to protect Calleva and the supply convoys, my lord.'

'And yet they've proved their worth in the field. Why not make the most of the opportunity? Why not lead them against the enemy directly? Why not?'

'My lord, it's not as simple as that.'

'Simple?' Verica's smile abruptly disappeared.

Cato swallowed nervously and interceded to save Macro any further discomfort.

'What Centurion Macro means to say is that the cohorts need to be trained to prepare for a more demanding role. This victory is only the first of many, and when the Wolves and the Boars next march to war you can be assured they will crush your foes and extend the limits of your glory.'

Macro looked at him open-mouthed, but Verica was smiling again, and seemed to be satisfied at the prospect the young centurion held up to him.

'Very well then, gentlemen! Later, perhaps, I'll propose a toast to the continuing success of the partnership between my people and Rome. But here's Cadminius coming back. The food must be ready – it had better be. Would you two be kind enough to take a place at the table there? I'll join you in a moment.'

The two centurions bowed their heads and made their way over to the head table.

'What the fuck was that all about?' Macro hissed. 'What are you thinking of? Those two cohorts are for garrison duty, and convoy protection. And that's bloody well it. They'll not win him an empire, let alone a proper battle.'

'Of course not,' replied Cato. 'What kind of a fool do you take me for?'

'But you said-'

'I said what he wanted to hear, that's all. He'll change his mind soon enough, the moment his people start grumbling again. That's when he'll want his cohorts as close to him as possible.'

Macro glanced at his young companion. 'I hope you're right. I hope you haven't planted any stupid ideas in his head.'

Cato smiled. 'Who in their right mind would listen to the advice of someone barely old enough to be considered a man?'

'Who indeed?' grumbled Macro.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves