they attack our convoys. Above all, make sure that no harm comes to Verica. If he is deposed, or dies, the Atrebatans might turn against us. If that happens . . . we may have to abandon the conquest of this island. You can imagine how well that will go down in Rome. The Emperor will not be pleased with us.’ Vespasian stared at the two centurions to underline the significance of his warning. If Britain was lost, then there would be no mercy shown to the officers most directly accountable: the legate of the Second Legion and the two centurions he had entrusted with defending Calleva and protecting the Atrebatan king. ‘So keep Verica alive, gentlemen. That’s all I ask of you. Do a decent job and then you two can get back to the legion the moment you’re fit enough.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now then,’ Vespasian pushed his platter to one side and rose from his stool, ‘I’ve got a few things left to do before heading back to the legion. I want you to move into these quarters and take command of the garrison right away. As for the other matter, you’ll need to go to the royal enclosure and see one of Verica’s advisors. Tincommius is his name. Tell him what you need and he’ll make the appropriate arrangements. He seems reliable enough. Right then, I’ll see you two when I can. Good luck.’
Once Vespasian had left the room Macro and Cato sat down at the table.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Cato. ‘Legate’s taking a risk arming these natives. How loyal to Verica will they be? How far can we trust them? You’ve seen what they’re like in the streets. There’s no love lost for Rome there.’
‘True. But even less lost for the Durotrigans. Cato, think about it. We’ve got a chance to create and command our own army!’
‘It’ll be Verica’s army, not ours.’
‘His in name only, by the time I’ve finished with them.’
Cato saw the excited gleam in his friend’s eyes, and knew it was pointless to try to contradict him for the present. He could foresee that training native levies was going to be more of a challenge than training recruits to the legions. There were so many factors to consider, language not the least of them. He had picked up a basic grasp of Celtic during the months spent in Calleva, but Cato knew he would have to improve on that as quickly as possible if he were to make himself understood to native levies. In one thing Macro was right: it was an exciting opportunity. They could quit the hospital and take the first tentative steps back towards proper soldiering.
Chapter Six
The sun had not yet reached the top of the depot palisade when Centurion Macro emerged from the headquarters building. He was in full uniform, from nail-studded boots, silvered greaves, chain-mail vest with its harness of medallions, right up to the transverse crested helmet, gleaming dully in the shadow of the ramparts. In his hand was a vine cane, symbol of the right conferred upon him by the Emperor, Senate and People of Rome to beat the otherwise sacrosanct body of a Roman citizen. He twirled the cane between the fingers of his right hand as he marched up to the silent mass of natives gathered together on the depot’s training ground. Since news of the formation of the native cohorts had spread from the Atrebatan capital, thousands of men from the surrounding lands joined those from Calleva in coming forward to be selected.
After nearly two months in hospital recovering from his head wound, Macro felt good to be getting back to the familiar routines of a centurion’s life. No, he corrected himself, barring the odd skull-splitting headache, life didn’t just feel good, it felt bloody marvellous. He puffed out his chest, whistling contentedly to himself as he approached his new recruits.
Centurion Cato was standing to one side of the crowd, talking with Tincommius. It was the first time that Cato had worn the uniform and equipment of a centurion and Macro thought it suited him no better than that of an optio.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now then,’ Vespasian pushed his platter to one side and rose from his stool, ‘I’ve got a few things left to do before heading back to the legion. I want you to move into these quarters and take command of the garrison right away. As for the other matter, you’ll need to go to the royal enclosure and see one of Verica’s advisors. Tincommius is his name. Tell him what you need and he’ll make the appropriate arrangements. He seems reliable enough. Right then, I’ll see you two when I can. Good luck.’
Once Vespasian had left the room Macro and Cato sat down at the table.
‘I don’t like it,’ said Cato. ‘Legate’s taking a risk arming these natives. How loyal to Verica will they be? How far can we trust them? You’ve seen what they’re like in the streets. There’s no love lost for Rome there.’
‘True. But even less lost for the Durotrigans. Cato, think about it. We’ve got a chance to create and command our own army!’
‘It’ll be Verica’s army, not ours.’
‘His in name only, by the time I’ve finished with them.’
Cato saw the excited gleam in his friend’s eyes, and knew it was pointless to try to contradict him for the present. He could foresee that training native levies was going to be more of a challenge than training recruits to the legions. There were so many factors to consider, language not the least of them. He had picked up a basic grasp of Celtic during the months spent in Calleva, but Cato knew he would have to improve on that as quickly as possible if he were to make himself understood to native levies. In one thing Macro was right: it was an exciting opportunity. They could quit the hospital and take the first tentative steps back towards proper soldiering.
Chapter Six
The sun had not yet reached the top of the depot palisade when Centurion Macro emerged from the headquarters building. He was in full uniform, from nail-studded boots, silvered greaves, chain-mail vest with its harness of medallions, right up to the transverse crested helmet, gleaming dully in the shadow of the ramparts. In his hand was a vine cane, symbol of the right conferred upon him by the Emperor, Senate and People of Rome to beat the otherwise sacrosanct body of a Roman citizen. He twirled the cane between the fingers of his right hand as he marched up to the silent mass of natives gathered together on the depot’s training ground. Since news of the formation of the native cohorts had spread from the Atrebatan capital, thousands of men from the surrounding lands joined those from Calleva in coming forward to be selected.
After nearly two months in hospital recovering from his head wound, Macro felt good to be getting back to the familiar routines of a centurion’s life. No, he corrected himself, barring the odd skull-splitting headache, life didn’t just feel good, it felt bloody marvellous. He puffed out his chest, whistling contentedly to himself as he approached his new recruits.
Centurion Cato was standing to one side of the crowd, talking with Tincommius. It was the first time that Cato had worn the uniform and equipment of a centurion and Macro thought it suited him no better than that of an optio.
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