The Eagle and the Wolves

Cato frowned. The reason he slept most of the day was because his room-mate snored so loudly that sleep was almost impossible at night. In truth, he was heartily sick of the hospital and was looking forward to being returned to active duty. But it would be some time before that happened, Cato reflected bitterly. He had only just regained enough strength to get back on his feet. His companion, despite an appalling head wound, was blessed with a tougher constitution and, barring the occasional shattering headache, was almost fit enough for duty.

As Macro looked down at his boot straps Cato gazed at the livid red scar stretching across the top of Macro's head. The wound had left knotty lumps of skin and no hair grew around it. The surgeon had promised that some of the hair would return eventually, enough of it to hide most of the scars.

'With my luck,' Macro had added sourly, 'that'll be just in time for me to start going bald.'

Cato smiled at the memory. Then a fresh line of argument that might justify staying in bed occurred to him.

'Are you sure you should go out, what with you fainting the last time we sat in the hospital yard. Do you really think it's wise, sir?'

Macro looked up irritably, fingers automatically tying his straps as they had almost every morning for the best part of sixteen years. He shook his head. 'I keep telling you, it's not necessary to call me "sir" all the time – only in front of the men, and in formal situations. From now on, it's "Macro" to you. Got it?'

'Yes, sir,' Cato responded immediately, winced and smacked his forehead. 'Sorry. It's all a bit hard to adjust to. I still haven't got used to the idea of being a centurion. Must be the youngest one in the army.'

'In the whole bloody Empire, I should think.'

For a moment Macro regretted the remark, and recognised in himself a trace of bitterness. Much as he had been genuinely delighted when Cato had won his promotion, the older man had soon got over his enthusiasm and every so often let slip some remark about a centurion's need for experience. Or he would offer a few words of advice about how a centurion should conduct himself. It was all a bit rich, Macro chided himself, given that he had been promoted to the centurionate barely a year and a half before Cato himself. Granted he had already served sixteen years with the Eagles, and was a well-respected veteran with a generally good conduct record, but he was almost as new to the rank as his young friend.

As he watched Macro tie his boots Cato was uneasy about his promotion. He could not help believing it had come too soon for him, and felt shamed when he compared himself to Macro, a consummate soldier, if ever there was one. Cato already dreaded the moment when he would have recovered enough to be appointed to the command of his own century. It took very little imagination to anticipate how men far older and more experienced than he would respond to having an eighteen-year-old placed in command of them. Sure, they would see the medals on his harness and know that their centurion was a man of some valour, and that he had won the eye of Vespasian. They might note the scars he bore on his left arm, further proof of Cato's courage in battle, but none of that changed the fact that he had only just reached manhood, and was younger than some of the sons of the men serving in his century. That would rankle, and Cato knew they would watch him closely, and be utterly unforgiving of any mistakes that he made. Not for the first time he wondered if there was any way he could quietly request being returned to his previous rank, and slip back into the comfortable role of being Macro's optio.

Macro finished fastening his boot straps, stood up and reached for his scarlet military cloak.

'Come on, Cato! On your feet. Let's go.'

Outside the cell, the corridors of the hospital were filled with orderlies and casualties as the wounded continued to arrive. Surgeons pushed through the throng, making quick assessment of the injuries and directing the fatal cases to the small ward on the rear wall where they would be made as comfortable as possible before death claimed them. The rest were crammed in wherever space could be found. With Vespasian continuing his campaign against the hillforts of the Durotrigans, the hospital in Calleva was filled to capacity already, and the construction of a new block was not yet complete. The constant raids on the supply lines of General Plautius' army were adding yet more patients to the overstretched facilities of the hospital and men were already being accommodated on rough mats along the sides of the main corridors. Fortunately, it was summer and they would not suffer too much discomfort at night.

Macro and Cato made for the main entrance. Wearing only their standard-issue tunics and cloaks, they carried their vine staffs to indicate their rank, and other men respectfully gave way before them. Macro was also wearing his felt helmet liner, partly to conceal his wound – he was tired of the looks of disgust he was getting from the local children – but mostly because exposure to fresh air made his scar ache. Cato carried his vine staff in his right hand and raised his left elbow to protect his injured side from any knocks.

The entrance of the hospital opened on to the main thoroughfare of the fortified depot that Vespasian had constructed to the side of Calleva. Several light carts stood outside the entrance, and the wounded were still being unloaded from the last one to arrive. The beds of the empty carts were a jumble of discarded equipment and dark smears of blood.

'The other side are getting pretty ambitious,' said Macro. 'This isn't the work of some small group of raiders. Looks like they're hitting us with a large column. They're getting bolder all the time. If this carries on, the legions are going to have a real problem keeping up the advance.'

Cato nodded. The situation was serious. General Plautius had already been forced to leave a string of forts to protect the columns of slow-moving supply wagons. With the establishment of every new garrison, his strike force was shrinking and in its enfeebled condition must eventually prove an irresistible target for Caratacus.

The two centurions walked quickly down the track towards the depot gate where the fort's small garrison was hurriedly forming up. Men fiddled with straps and belts while Centurion Veranius, commander of the garrison, screamed abuse into the entrances of the barracks, swiping at the tardy few stumbling towards their comrades as they struggled with their equipment. Macro exchanged a knowing look with Cato. The garrison had been made up from the dregs of the Second Legion, the sort of men Vespasian could not afford to take with him on his lightning campaign into the heartlands of the Durotrigans. The soldiers' poor quality was readily apparent to an experienced eye, and mortally offended Macro's professionalism.

'Fuck knows what the locals make of this mess. One word of this gets out of Calleva, and Caratacus will realise he can walk in here any time he wants to, and kick Verica out on his arse.'

Verica, the aged king of the Atrebatans, had been allied to the Romans since the legions had landed in Britain a year earlier. Not that he had any choice in the matter. He had agreed to an alliance in return for being restored to power over the Atrebatans even before the legions had advanced on Caratacus' capital at Camulodunum. Once the campaign had extended to the hostile tribes of the south-west Verica had eagerly offered Calleva to General Plautius as a base of operations. So the depot had been constructed. Besides wi