Cato was tall and thin, and the chain mail seemed to hang on the youngster rather than fit him. The vine stick was held awkwardly and it was difficult to imagine Cato wielding that across the back of some recalcitrant legionary, or even one of these natives. Cato’s recovery in hospital had been unkind to his already skinny body and the muscle wastage to his legs was evident in the way that the back of his greaves actually overlapped slightly.
Tincommius, by contrast, was evidently in rude health, and though even taller than Cato, he was broad in proportion and looked like he might be quick on his feet as well as strong. The young Atrebatan nobleman had been tasked by his king to serve as translator and advisor, and was keen to learn the ways of the Roman legions. Tincommius could only have been a year or two older than Cato, and Macro was pleased to see them laughing together as he strode over to join them. Let Cato befriend the man then; it would save Macro having to. The older centurion had an instinctive distrust of most foreigners, and all barbarians.
‘Gentlemen,’ he called, ‘we’re not here to crack jokes. There’s a job to be done.’
Cato turned to face his superior and stiffened to attention. Even though both men held the same rank, seniority counted for everything, and Cato would always be outranked by Macro, unless - by some perverse whim of providence - Cato was given command of an auxiliary cohort, or promoted to the First Cohort of the Second Legion, neither of which was remotely likely for many years to come.
‘Ready, lad?’ Macro winked at Cato.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right then!’ Macro tucked his cane under one arm and rubbed his broad hands together. ‘Let’s get ‘em in formation. Tincommius, how many of this batch have any military experience?’
Tincommius turned to the crowd and nodded. To one side, haughty and aloof, stood a small band of men, perhaps twenty or thirty, all in the prime of life.
‘They’re from our warrior caste. All weapon-trained from childhood. They can ride too.’
‘Good. That’s a start then. Tincommius?’
‘Yes?’
Macro leaned close to him. ‘Just a word about protocol. From now on, you’re to call me “sir”.’
The Atrebatan nobleman’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. To Macro’s intense irritation Tincommius glanced questioningly over towards Cato.
‘You look at me when I’m talking to you! Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’ Macro said with a menacing edge to his voice. ‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s better! Now don’t forget.’
‘Yes . . . sir.’
‘Now, then. The rest of them - what experience have they got?’
‘None, sir. Nearly all of them are farmers. Should be fit enough, but the nearest they’ve ever come to a fight is keeping foxes out of their chicken coops.’
‘Well, let’s see how fit they really are. We can only afford to take the best so we’d better start weeding out the rubbish. We’ll use your warriors to form the rest of them up. Get ‘em over here. Cato, you got the pegs?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nudged a small sack with his boot.
‘Then why aren’t they already set out?’
‘Sorry, sir. I’ll see to it straight away.’
Macro nodded curtly and Cato snatched up the bag and strode off a short distance from the native volunteers. He stopped and rummaged inside before drawing out a numbered peg, which he thrust into the ground. Then Cato took ten paces and planted the next peg, and so on, until there were two lines of ten pegs each; enough for the first batch of two hundred men. Over the next few days the two centurions would recruit twelve centuries of eighty men, nine hundred and sixty in all, from the far greater number that had responded to Verica’s call for volunteers. The mere promise of good rations had been enough to attract men from all over the kingdom.
‘Tincommius!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Position one of your warriors by each of those pegs. Tell them they’re
Tincommius, by contrast, was evidently in rude health, and though even taller than Cato, he was broad in proportion and looked like he might be quick on his feet as well as strong. The young Atrebatan nobleman had been tasked by his king to serve as translator and advisor, and was keen to learn the ways of the Roman legions. Tincommius could only have been a year or two older than Cato, and Macro was pleased to see them laughing together as he strode over to join them. Let Cato befriend the man then; it would save Macro having to. The older centurion had an instinctive distrust of most foreigners, and all barbarians.
‘Gentlemen,’ he called, ‘we’re not here to crack jokes. There’s a job to be done.’
Cato turned to face his superior and stiffened to attention. Even though both men held the same rank, seniority counted for everything, and Cato would always be outranked by Macro, unless - by some perverse whim of providence - Cato was given command of an auxiliary cohort, or promoted to the First Cohort of the Second Legion, neither of which was remotely likely for many years to come.
‘Ready, lad?’ Macro winked at Cato.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right then!’ Macro tucked his cane under one arm and rubbed his broad hands together. ‘Let’s get ‘em in formation. Tincommius, how many of this batch have any military experience?’
Tincommius turned to the crowd and nodded. To one side, haughty and aloof, stood a small band of men, perhaps twenty or thirty, all in the prime of life.
‘They’re from our warrior caste. All weapon-trained from childhood. They can ride too.’
‘Good. That’s a start then. Tincommius?’
‘Yes?’
Macro leaned close to him. ‘Just a word about protocol. From now on, you’re to call me “sir”.’
The Atrebatan nobleman’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment. To Macro’s intense irritation Tincommius glanced questioningly over towards Cato.
‘You look at me when I’m talking to you! Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’ Macro said with a menacing edge to his voice. ‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s better! Now don’t forget.’
‘Yes . . . sir.’
‘Now, then. The rest of them - what experience have they got?’
‘None, sir. Nearly all of them are farmers. Should be fit enough, but the nearest they’ve ever come to a fight is keeping foxes out of their chicken coops.’
‘Well, let’s see how fit they really are. We can only afford to take the best so we’d better start weeding out the rubbish. We’ll use your warriors to form the rest of them up. Get ‘em over here. Cato, you got the pegs?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nudged a small sack with his boot.
‘Then why aren’t they already set out?’
‘Sorry, sir. I’ll see to it straight away.’
Macro nodded curtly and Cato snatched up the bag and strode off a short distance from the native volunteers. He stopped and rummaged inside before drawing out a numbered peg, which he thrust into the ground. Then Cato took ten paces and planted the next peg, and so on, until there were two lines of ten pegs each; enough for the first batch of two hundred men. Over the next few days the two centurions would recruit twelve centuries of eighty men, nine hundred and sixty in all, from the far greater number that had responded to Verica’s call for volunteers. The mere promise of good rations had been enough to attract men from all over the kingdom.
‘Tincommius!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Position one of your warriors by each of those pegs. Tell them they’re
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