When the Eagle Hunts

'You've got a point there.'

'And it's not just wine,' continued Diomedes. 'Cloth, pottery, cooking utensils and so on. They've taken to the empire's exports in a big way. A few more years and the Atrebates will almost be on the first rung of civilisation.' Diomedes sounded wistful.

'Why so glum?'

'Because then it'll be time for me to move on.'

'Move on? I thought you'd settled here.'

'Only while there's money to be made. Once this place becomes part of the empire it'll be flooded with traders and my profit margins will disappear. I'll have to move on. Maybe further north. I hear the Queen of the Brigantes has developed a taste for civilised living.' The Greek's eyes flashed with excitement at the prospect.

Macro regarded Diomedes with the special distaste he reserved for salesmen. Then something occurred to him.

'How can they afford all of this stuff you import?'

"They can't. That's the beauty of it. There's not much coinage about – only a handful of these tribes have started their own mints. So I let them barter instead. I get a much better deal that way. In exchange for my goods I take furs, hunting dogs and jewellery – anything that commands a high price back in the empire. You'd be astonished at the price Celtic jewellery commands in Rome right now.' He looked at the torc round Macro's neck. 'Take that little trinket, for example. I could get a fortune for that.'

'Not for sale,' Macro said firmly, and automatically reached for the gold torc with one hand. The heavy ornament had once been worn round the neck of Togodumnus, a chief of the Catuvellauni and brother of Caratacus. Macro had killed him in single combat shortly after the Second Legion had landed in Britain.

'I'd give you a fair price.'

Macro snorted. 'I doubt it. You'd rip me off just as soon as you would one of these natives.'

'You shame me!' Diomedes protested. 'I'd never dream of it. For you, Centurion, I would pay a good price.'

'No. I'm not selling.'

Diomedes pressed his lips together and shrugged. 'Not now. Maybe later. Sleep on it.'

Macro shook his head, and met the gaze of one of the other centurions who raised his eyes in sympathy. These Greek merchants had spread right across the empire, and well beyond its frontiers, yet they were all the same – chancers on the lookout for financial gain. They viewed everyone in terms of what they could make out of them. Macro suddenly felt repulsed.

'I don't need to sleep on it. I'm not selling it, particularly not to you.'

Diomedes frowned and his eyes narrowed for an instant. Then he nodded slowly and smiled his salesman's smile again. 'You Roman army types really think you're better than the rest of us, don't you?'

Macro didn't answer, just raised his chin a little, causing the Greek to explode with laughter. The other centurions stopped their quiet chattering and turned towards Macro and Diomedes. The Greek raised his hands placatingly.

'I'm sorry, really I am. It's just that I'm so familiar with the attitude. You soldiers think that you alone are responsible for expanding the empire, for adding new provinces to the Emperor's territorial inventory.'

'That's right.' Macro nodded. 'That's about the size of it.'

'Really? So where would you be without me right now? How would your superior over there manage to buy provisions? And that's not the end of it. Why do you think the Atrebates are so well-disposed towards Rome in the first place?'

'Don't know. Don't really care. But I expect you'll tell me anyway.'

'Glad to oblige, Centurion. Long before the first Roman legionary ever shows his face in the more uncivilised corners of this world, some Greek trader like me has been travelling and trading with the natives. We learn their languages and their ways, and introduce them to the goods of the empire. More often than not they're pathetically keen to get their hands on the accessories of civilisation. Things we take for granted they treat as status objects. They develop a taste for it. We feed the taste, until they become dependent on it. By the time you turned up these barbarians were already part of the imperial economy. A few more generations and they'd have begged you to let them become a province.'

'Bollocks! Utter bollocks,' Macro replied, jabbing his finger at the Greek, and the other centurions nodded. 'Expanding the empire depends on the sword, and having the guts to wield it. You people just peddle tat to these ignorant fools for your own profit. That's all there is to it.'

'Of course we do it for profit. Why else would one risk the dangers and privations of such a life?' Diomedes smiled in an attempt to lighten the tone of the discussion. 'I merely wished to point out the benefits to Rome of our dealings with these natives. If, in some small way, my kind has helped smooth the path for the all-conquering legions of Rome then we are gratified beyond all measure. I apologise if this modest ambition in any way offends you, Centurion. I did not intend it to.'

Macro nodded. 'All right then. Apology accepted.'

Diomedes beamed. 'And if you should change your mind about the torc…'

'Greek, if you mention it again, I swear I'll -'

'Centurion Macro!' the senior centurion, Hortensius, called out.

Macro instantly turned away from Diomedes and stiffened to attention. 'Sir?'

'Cut the chatter and get your men formed up. Same for the rest of you – we're moving on.'

While the centurions hurried back to their units, bawling out their orders, the villagers quickly loaded the salted beef into the back of one of the supply wagons. As soon as the column was formed up, Hortensius waved the cavalry scouts on ahead and then gave the order for the infantry to advance. The haunted faces of the Atrebate villagers were eloquent testimony to their dread of being left undefended once again, and the headman begged Diomedes to persuade the cohort to stay. The Greek had his orders and politely but firmly made his apologies and hurried after Hortensius. As the Sixth Century, on rearguard duty behind the last of the wagons, marched out of the village gate, Cato felt ashamed to be deserting them while the Druids and their Durotrigan henchmen were still raiding along the frontier.

'Sir?'

'Yes, Cato.'

'There must be something we can do for these people.'

Macro shook his head. 'Nothing. Why do you ask? What would you have us do?'

'Leave some men. Leave one of the centuries behind to guard them.'

'One less century makes the cohort that much weaker. And where would you stop? We can't leave a century in every village we pass through. There's not enough of us.'

'Well, weapons then,' Cato suggested. 'We could leave them some of our spare weapons in the wagons.'

'No we couldn't, lad. We might need them. In any case, they're not trained to use them. It'd be a waste. Now then, let's hear no more about it. We've a long march ahead of us today. Save your breath for that.'

'Yes, sir,' Cato replied quietly, his eyes avoiding the accusing glare of villagers standing beside the village gate.

For the remainder of the day the Fourth Cohort trudged along the muddy track leading south to the sea and a small trading settlement which nestled beside one of the cha