Read Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves Online
Authors: Simon Scarrow
Here it comes, thought Cato, as Vespasian looked at him with a sympathetic expression.
‘I’d be delighted to have someone of your potential serving as one of my line officers. That does mean, of course, that you will have to relinquish command of your native unit. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘In addition,’ said Quintillus, ‘the legate and I have decided that, in view of recent events, the Atrebatans must be disarmed.’
‘Disarmed, sir? My men?’
‘All of them,’ Quintillus confirmed. ‘Especially your men. Can’t have a gang of disgruntled locals armed with swords wandering around, can we?’
‘No, sir,’ Cato said coldly. To call the Wolves a gang was almost as much as he could take. ‘I suppose not. Not after all they’ve done to save our necks.’
Quintillus laughed. ‘Careful, Centurion. You mustn’t allow yourself to get too close to these barbarians. And I’d appreciate it if you would show my office the deference it demands in future.’
‘Your office. Yes, sir.’ Cato turned to his legate. ‘Sir, if I may?’
Vespasian nodded.
‘Why not retain the Wolves as an auxiliary unit? They’ve proved themselves in battle. I know there aren’t many left, but they could act as a training cadre for others.’
‘No,’ Vespasian said firmly. ‘I’m sorry, Centurion. But those are the general’s orders. We can’t afford to have any doubts about the loyalty of the men serving alongside the legions. The stakes are too high. It’s over. They’re to be disbanded and disarmed at once.’
The emphasis on the last two words struck Cato forcibly. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘They’re outside, behind the tents. I had them sent for before you were summoned. I want you to give them the news.
‘Why, sir?’ asked Cato, the sick taste of betrayal in his throat. ‘Why me?’
‘You speak their language. You’re their commander. It would be best coming from you.’
Cato shook his head. ‘I can’t do it, sir . . .’
Quintillus quickly leaned forward, glaring at the young centurion. ‘You will do it! That’s an order, and this is the last time I will brook any insubordination from you!’
Vespasian laid his hand on the procurator’s shoulder. ‘There’s no need to concern yourself with this, Quintillus. The centurion will obey my orders. He knows what will happen if his men are told to disarm by someone else. We don’t want them to cause us any trouble. Trouble they might regret.’
So that was it then, Cato realised. The Wolves were finished, and if they protested too much they would face summary punishment of one kind or another. And he would do the dirty work for the new governor. Worse still, there was no choice in the matter. For the sake of his men, Cato must be the one to tell them how little value Rome placed on the blood the Atrebatans had shed on behalf of the empire.
‘Very well, sir. I’ll do it.’
‘I’m most grateful, to be sure,’ said Quintillus.
‘Thank you, Centurion.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘I knew you’d understand. Best get on with it straight away then.’
Cato turned and saluted his legate, and before the procurator could react to the slight, he marched out of the tent and back into the brilliant sunshine. The heat closed round him like a blanket, but the prickly discomfort of his tunic no longer bothered Cato as he made his way out of the administration tent and walked slowly round the side of the headquarters area. He felt sick. Sick from the cold-hearted betrayal of his men. Sick at the fact that the Wolves would regard him with hatred and contempt. The bond of comradeship they had once shared would twist in their guts like a knife, and it would be his hand behind the blade. All thought and pleasure he might have had of his new command was banished from his mind as Cato turned the corner of the tent complex and walked stiffly towards the double line of the surviving men of the Wolf Cohort. To one side of the Atrebatan warriors a few sections of legionaries were being drilled in full armour. Just in case, Cato smiled bitterly to himself.
As soon as he caught sight of the centurion, Mandrax called the men to attention. They stopped chatting and straightened up, spear and shield neatly grounded by every man. Shoulders back, chests out and chins up, as Macro had showed them on their first day of training. Their bronze helmets gleamed in the sunlight as Cato walked up and stood in front of them.
‘At ease!’ he called out in Celtic, and his men relaxed. For a moment he stared over their heads into the distance, fighting off the urge to glance down and admit to his shame. Someone coughed and Cato decided this was a deed best done quickly.
‘Comrades,’ he began awkwardly - since he had never used the term before, even though that’s what they had become in the desperate days of their last fight - ‘I have been transferred to another unit.’
A few of the men frowned, but most continued to stare ahead without any expression on their faces.
‘The procurator has asked me to thank you for your fine performance in recent months. Few men have fought more bravely against such great odds. Now, it is time for you to return to your families. Time for you to enjoy the peace you so richly deserve. Time to lay down the burden of your arms and . . .’ Cato couldn’t continue any further with the charade. He swallowed and looked down, angrily blinking back the first dangerous tears. He knew that once he released his true emotions there would be no stopping the outpour. And that he would rather die than weep before his men, whatever the injustice, hurt and shame of the situation. He swallowed again, clenched his jaw and looked up.
‘The Wolves have been ordered to disband. You’re to leave all your arms and equipment here and quit the depot . . . I’m sorry.’
The men looked at him in silence for a moment, confused and unbelieving. Mandrax spoke first. ‘Sir, there must be some mistake. Surely there’s-’
‘There’s no mistake,’ Cato replied harshly, not trusting himself to offer any sympathy, or even an explanation. ‘Lay down your arms and equipment now. That’s an order.’
‘Sir-’
‘Obey my order!’ Cato shouted, as he noticed the legionaries were no longer drilling, but were being formed up a short distance from the Wolves. ‘Disarm! Now!’
Mandrax opened his mouth to protest, then clamped it shut and shook his head. Cato stepped up to him and spoke in a whisper.
‘Mandrax, there’s no choice. We must do it before they make us.’ Cato indicated the legionaries. ‘You must lead the way.’
‘Must I?’ Mandrax replied softly.
‘Yes!’ Cato hissed. ‘I will not have your blood on my hands. Nor theirs. For pity’s sake, do it, man!’
‘No.’
‘If you don’t, none of them will.’
Mandrax looked at Cato with great hurt in his eyes, then he glanced at the legionaries watching them closely. He thought for a moment and then nodded. Cato breathed deeply. Then Mandrax drew his sword and thrust it into the earth at Cato’s feet. There was a short pause before the next man moved, laying down his spear and shield before unfastening his helmet. Then the rest followed suit, until they stood before Cato in their tunics and the ground was littered with their equipment. Cato stiffened his back and called out one last order to his men.
‘Cohort . . . dismissed!’
The men turned towards the gateway that led back into Calleva. A few of them glanced back once or twice at Cato, then turned away, and walked silently along with their comrades. Mandrax remained, still holding the Wolf standard. He stared at Cato, still as a statue, neither man knowing what to say. What could they say now? There was a bond between men who had fought side by side, and yet there was no bond between them now, and could be no bond in the future. Then Cato slowly raised his arm and extended his hand towards Mandrax. The standard bearer looked down and then nodded slowly. He reached forward and grasped Cato’s forearm.
‘It was a good time, Roman. It was a fine thing to be a warrior one last time.’
‘It was a fine thing.’ Cato nodded faintly. ‘I’ll not forget the Wolf Cohort.’
‘No. Don’t.’ Mandrax relaxed his grip and his arm fell back to his side. Then he looked up at the gilded wolf’s head at the top of the standard. ‘Can I keep this?’
The request took Cato by surprise. ‘Yes. Of course.’
Mandrax smiled. ‘Farewell then, Centurion.’
‘Farewell, Mandrax.’
The standard bearer turned away, lowered the shaft over his shoulder and walked slowly towards the distant gateway.
Cato watched him go, feeling hollow and ashamed, and despicable. As Mandrax passed through the gate and out of sight Cato was aware of the sound of footsteps closing on him from behind.
‘Cato! Cato, lad . . .’ Macro panted, and drew up beside his friend. ‘I’ve just heard the news . . . Legate just told me . . . Said you were round here . . . We’re going to be back in the thick of it! Just think. With us serving in the same cohort those Britons won’t know what’s hitting them!’
‘No . . .’ Cato said quietly. ‘They won’t.’
‘Come on, lad!’ Macro punched him on the shoulder. ‘It’s great news! Two months ago that quack in the hospital was saying you might never serve with the Eagles again. Now look at you!’
Cato finally turned round to face Macro, and forced himself to smile. ‘Yes. It’s good news.’
‘Better still,’ Macro’s eyes were wide and shining with excitement as he leaned closer, ‘I was talking to a clerk at headquarters, and it looks like we’re on the move again. In the next few days.’
‘On the move?’
‘Yes. The legate has to link up with the other legions and finish off that bastard Caratacus. Then it’ll be over. All but a nice session of dividing up the booty. So cheer up, lad! We’re centurions in the finest legion of the finest army in the bloody world, and you can’t ask for better than that!’ Macro tugged his arm. ‘Come on, let’s go and find some drink and celebrate.’
‘No, let’s not drink,’ said Cato, and Macro frowned. Then Cato smiled slowly before he continued. ‘Let’s get drunk. Really, really drunk . . .’
Historical Note
It is, perhaps, ironic that the difficulties facing General Plautius in the second summer of campaigning were forced on him by his success of the previous year. The Britons, and their commander, Caratacus, had taken a beating in a series of bloody set-piece battles that had ended in the fall of Camulodunum - the capital of the most powerful tribe on the island - and the capitulation of a number of tribes. With dwindling resources of men to make good his losses it is likely that Caratacus adopted a different approach in AD 44. The Romans had shown what they could do on the battlefield and Caratacus would have been most reluctant to risk his forces against the massed might of the legions again.
Retreat was the most prudent strategy for the Britons’ commander, and not just because it kept a native army in being. General Plautius and the legions would be drawn after him, intent on destroying the core of native resistance in a final decisive battle. The further they advanced, the more extended their communications became, and the more forces they had to leave in their wake to guard their supply lines. Nor could the legions disperse in order to push forward on a broad front; there were too few of them and they would have been picked off piecemeal. Which makes it all the more surprising to see Vespasian sent off with a small battle group to campaign in the south-west.
Such a division of Roman forces in the face of an enemy that still outnumbered them looks like a very rash command decision. Of course, General Plautius may have had good reason to believe that the risk was slight, but we shall never know. With hindsight historians always comment on the string of successes Vespasian enjoyed, but one wonders what would have happened if the Britons had been able to concentrate sufficient forces against the Second Legion. If Caratacus had managed to give the Second a nasty surprise, and defeat them, then the way would have been open for him to sweep across the rear of the rest of General Plautius’ army, destroying his lines of supply. That would have spelled disaster for the legions and may well have led to another defeat on the scale of the Varian débâcle in the German forests, where three legions had been massacred.
Such a hypothesis once again reminds us of the delicate balance of all military campaigns - a facet of history that is almost always lost in the neat narratives that subsequent historians weave around events. But for the men on the ground - the likes of Macro and Cato - the reality is always confusion, doubt and a bloody struggle for survival. A world far distant from the tidy maps and plans of generals and policy makers.
Caratacus is still at large. Defiant and increasingly desperate, he is looking for one last chance to reverse the misfortunes of the Britons. In the coming months Centurions Macro and Cato, and their comrades in the four legions of the Roman army, cannot afford to make one mistake as they seek to end the deadly duel with their increasingly desperate and fanatic enemy.
Table of Contents