going to be my section leaders. Once that’s done, take nine out of the rest and line ‘em up beside the first man. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. Carry on.’
Macro stood patiently as Tincommius led the volunteers over to the pegs and Cato then pushed and shoved his charges into position. The sun had long since cleared the ramparts by the time everyone was in place, and Macro’s highly polished helmet gleamed as he faced the Atrebatans to address them. To his right stood Tincommius, ready to relay the centurion’s words. To Macro’s left Cato stood stiffly to attention.
‘First thing!’ Macro bellowed, then paused to allow Tincommius to translate. ‘Whenever I give the order “Form up”, I want you all to go to exactly the same place you are standing now. Memorise it! . . . Second, right now you’re a fucking mess. We need to dress these lines.’
Tincommius paused before translating. ‘You want me to translate all of that, sir?’
‘Of course I bloody do! Get on with it!’
‘Right.’ Evidently the linguistic education of Tincommius had been more refined than vernacular. He shouted out in Celtic and there was a roar of laughter from the volunteers.
‘SHUT UP!’ roared Macro. The volunteers fell silent without the need for translation. ‘Now, then, each man raise his right arm horizontally, like me. Your hand should rest on the next man’s shoulder. If it doesn’t, then move yourself until it does.’
The natives started to shuffle around the moment Tincommius had finished translating and a soft babbling of Celtic broke out.
‘IN SILENCE!’
With stilled tongues they continued positioning themselves, all save one poor soul, who caught Macro’s eye almost at once.
‘You there! You trying to make a fool of me? Right arm, I said, NOT YOUR BLOODY LEFT! Cato! Sort him out!’
The junior centurion trotted over to the object of Macro’s rage. The native was short and thickset, with a dull bovine expression of incomprehension. Cato resisted the temptation to give him a friendly smile by way of greeting, and pushed the man’s left arm down to his side. He tapped him on the right shoulder. ‘This one!’ Cato said in Celtic.
‘Right arm . . . right arm. Got it? Right arm up!’ Cato raised his hand to demonstrate and the native nodded like an idiot. Cato smiled and took a step back before trying again. ‘Dress ranks! . . . No, the right arm, I said! Like everyone else!’
‘What are you doing, Centurion Cato?’ shouted Macro as he stormed over. ‘Here! Get out of my way. There’s only one way to teach dumb bastards like him.’
Macro stood in front of the tribesman, who was still grinning, more nervously now.
‘What you smiling at? Think I’m funny, do you?’ Macro grinned. ‘Is that it? Well, let’s see how fucking funny you think I am then!’
He brought up his vine cane and slashed it against the man’s left arm.
‘LEFT ARM!’
The man yelped in agony, but before he could do anything else Macro whacked the cane against the man’s other side.
‘RIGHT ARM! . . . Now, let’s see if we’ve learned anything . . . Left arm!’
The native quickly shot his left arm into the air.
‘Right arm!’
Down came one arm, up shot the other.
‘Bravo, mate! We’ll make a soldier of you yet. Carry on, Centurion Cato.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Once the volunteers could form up to Macro’s satisfaction then came the time to assess their fitness. Section by section the Atrebatans led off into a steady run around the perimeter of the depot. Cato and Macro were posted diagonally opposite each other and urged each section on as it rounded the angle and started down the next length. In a short space of time the sections had merged into a stream of men, puffing and panting their way round the depot. As Macro had expected, the warriors clustered to the front, along with the fittest of the others and quickly began to move ahead of the rest.
‘It’s not a race!’ Macro roared,
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very good. Carry on.’
Macro stood patiently as Tincommius led the volunteers over to the pegs and Cato then pushed and shoved his charges into position. The sun had long since cleared the ramparts by the time everyone was in place, and Macro’s highly polished helmet gleamed as he faced the Atrebatans to address them. To his right stood Tincommius, ready to relay the centurion’s words. To Macro’s left Cato stood stiffly to attention.
‘First thing!’ Macro bellowed, then paused to allow Tincommius to translate. ‘Whenever I give the order “Form up”, I want you all to go to exactly the same place you are standing now. Memorise it! . . . Second, right now you’re a fucking mess. We need to dress these lines.’
Tincommius paused before translating. ‘You want me to translate all of that, sir?’
‘Of course I bloody do! Get on with it!’
‘Right.’ Evidently the linguistic education of Tincommius had been more refined than vernacular. He shouted out in Celtic and there was a roar of laughter from the volunteers.
‘SHUT UP!’ roared Macro. The volunteers fell silent without the need for translation. ‘Now, then, each man raise his right arm horizontally, like me. Your hand should rest on the next man’s shoulder. If it doesn’t, then move yourself until it does.’
The natives started to shuffle around the moment Tincommius had finished translating and a soft babbling of Celtic broke out.
‘IN SILENCE!’
With stilled tongues they continued positioning themselves, all save one poor soul, who caught Macro’s eye almost at once.
‘You there! You trying to make a fool of me? Right arm, I said, NOT YOUR BLOODY LEFT! Cato! Sort him out!’
The junior centurion trotted over to the object of Macro’s rage. The native was short and thickset, with a dull bovine expression of incomprehension. Cato resisted the temptation to give him a friendly smile by way of greeting, and pushed the man’s left arm down to his side. He tapped him on the right shoulder. ‘This one!’ Cato said in Celtic.
‘Right arm . . . right arm. Got it? Right arm up!’ Cato raised his hand to demonstrate and the native nodded like an idiot. Cato smiled and took a step back before trying again. ‘Dress ranks! . . . No, the right arm, I said! Like everyone else!’
‘What are you doing, Centurion Cato?’ shouted Macro as he stormed over. ‘Here! Get out of my way. There’s only one way to teach dumb bastards like him.’
Macro stood in front of the tribesman, who was still grinning, more nervously now.
‘What you smiling at? Think I’m funny, do you?’ Macro grinned. ‘Is that it? Well, let’s see how fucking funny you think I am then!’
He brought up his vine cane and slashed it against the man’s left arm.
‘LEFT ARM!’
The man yelped in agony, but before he could do anything else Macro whacked the cane against the man’s other side.
‘RIGHT ARM! . . . Now, let’s see if we’ve learned anything . . . Left arm!’
The native quickly shot his left arm into the air.
‘Right arm!’
Down came one arm, up shot the other.
‘Bravo, mate! We’ll make a soldier of you yet. Carry on, Centurion Cato.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Once the volunteers could form up to Macro’s satisfaction then came the time to assess their fitness. Section by section the Atrebatans led off into a steady run around the perimeter of the depot. Cato and Macro were posted diagonally opposite each other and urged each section on as it rounded the angle and started down the next length. In a short space of time the sections had merged into a stream of men, puffing and panting their way round the depot. As Macro had expected, the warriors clustered to the front, along with the fittest of the others and quickly began to move ahead of the rest.
‘It’s not a race!’ Macro roared,
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