04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Eight

Over the next few days the rest of the recruits were trained in the basics of swordplay every morning. Cato had given orders for a series of thick wooden stakes to be set up on one side of the parade ground and the recruits practised landing their blows against these targets with a monotonous rapping that echoed round the depot. The more advanced recruits were being paired against each other and walked through the correct sequences of attack and defence in the event of a loose mêlée.

Cato, with Tincommius at his side, did the rounds of each instruction group to monitor progress and get to know his men. With the help of the Atrebatan nobleman, he was beginning to pick up the local dialect, and was delighted to discover that it was not so different from the smattering of Iceni Celtic that he had learned earlier that year. For their part the recruits, with the exception of Bedriacus, were beginning to respond quickly to Latin words of command. Macro had insisted on that; there would be no chance for translation when the men first faced the enemy.

The more Cato saw of Bedriacus, the more he despaired of the man. Unless he could grasp the fundamentals of military life Bedriacus would be more of a liability to his comrades than an asset. Yet Tincommius was adamant that the hunter would yet prove his worth.

‘You haven’t seen him at work, Cato. The man can track anything that moves on the ground. And he’s lethal with a knife.’

‘Maybe, but unless he can learn how to keep in formation and strike in sequence, we can’t use him. We’re fighting men, not beasts.’

Tincommius shrugged. ‘Some say that the Durotrigans are worse than beasts. You’ve seen how they treat our people.’

‘Yes,’ Cato replied quietly. ‘Yes, I have . . . Has it always been this way?’

‘Only since they fell under the influence of the Dark Moon Druids. After that, they slowly cut themselves off from other tribes. The only reason that they fight alongside Caratacus is that they hate Rome above all else. If the legions quit Britain, they’ll be at their neighbours’ throats before the last of your sails crosses the horizon.’

‘If we quit Britain?’ Cato was amused by the thought. ‘You think there’s a chance of that?’

‘The future is written in the dust, Cato. The faintest breeze can alter it.’

‘Very poetic,’ smiled Cato. ‘But Rome carves its future in stone.’

Tincommius laughed at the riposte for a moment, then continued more seriously. ‘You really do think you’re a destined race, don’t you?’

‘That’s what we’re taught, right from the cradle, and history has yet to refute it.’

‘Some might call that arrogance.’

‘They might, but only once.’

Tincommius looked at Cato searchingly. ‘And do you believe it?’