The Eagle and the Wolves

Chapter Eighteen

'You've done a fine job,' Tribune Quintillus smiled. 'Both of you.'

Macro shuffled uncomfortably in his chair, while Cato smiled modestly. The tribune, encouraged by the younger centurion's response at least, continued pouring on the praise in his silky aristocratic accent.

'General Plautius is delighted with the report that you submitted.'

Macro felt he should have been basking in this approval from on high. Outside the window the sky was a perfect blue, and birds were singing, completely unfazed by the savage shouts of the drill instructors on the parade ground. He had been enjoying his independence, and had successfully raised and trained his own small army, and led it to a grand victory over the enemy. Everything should have felt right in the world. And it would have done, had it not been for the tribune sitting before him.

'So much so that he sent you down here to check it out… sir.'

The bitterness in Macro's voice was clear as the summer sky and the tribune's thin lips narrowed even further for an instant, before the smile returned and he shook his head. 'I haven't been sent here to spy on you, Centurion. And I have no orders to take control either. So rest easy. The depot, its garrison and the two native cohorts are still yours to command. The way you and your men have performed wouldn't justify any change, nor would the general tolerate it. He likes his heroes, and he knows that success needs to be encouraged if it is to breed success.'

Macro was not fully satisfied by this response, and nodded curtly. He had dealt with enough tribunes in the past to know that they were weaned on to politics from the teat. He had met one or two who had seemed to put soldiering first. Such men were the exception. The rest were all men on the make, desperate to prove themselves and thereby catch the eye of Narcissus, the senior official of the imperial general staff. Narcissus was ever on the look out for young aristocrats who managed to blend political capability with moral flexibility.

Accordingly Macro had a dim view of almost every tribune – and most of the legates, he decided, then relented. Vespasian was all right. Their legate had proved himself an honest man, a man of courage, who was not above sharing all the discomforts and dangers faced by his men. It was that quality that Macro always looked for in his commanders. It was a shame then, he concluded, that Vespasian was inevitably fated to a life of obscurity once his tenure of command over the Second Legion had expired. The legate's very integrity was his worst enemy.

Macro shook off this line of thought and concentrated on the tribune sitting opposite him. Macro decided that Quintillus was typical of his kind in most respects. Young. Not so young as Cato, but young enough to lack experience where it counted. Cato, despite his years, was tough, intelligent, and as deadly in battle as almost any soldier Macro had ever known. By contrast Quintillus looked soft. There was no fat on his tall elegant frame, but the skin had that well-scrubbed smoothness that spoke of a pampered upbringing. His dark hair was neatly cropped, with oiled ringlets along the fringe. The tribune's uniform was likewise adorned with expensive little touches that spoke of his family's rank and richness in a knowing but understated ma

'There is, unfortunately, an aspect of the report that I would like to discuss further.' Quintillus smiled once again, drawing a scroll from a leather satchel at his feet.

Macro looked at his report with a sinking feeling. 'Oh?'

The tribune unrolled the report from the bottom and skim-read the conclusion.

'You mention, in passing, that elements amongst the Atrebatans are not quite as keen as their king on the tribe's alliance with Rome.'

'Yes, sir.' Macro tried to recall the exact phrasing he had used in his report. He hated being put on the spot like this, called to respond to words he had written several days previously, by a senior officer who had the advantage of having the entire report at his disposal. It was unfair, but there wasn't much that was fair in the legions.

'What do you mean, precisely?' Quintillus asked.

'There's nothing much to it, sir. A few malcontents grumbling about Rome's long-term plans for the Atrebatans, but nothing the king can't handle.'

Cato shot his friend a quick look of surprise, and quickly composed his expression as the tribune looked up from the report.

'Yes, that's pretty much what you say here. But I understand that the king's way of handling these, er, malcontents is perhaps a little more dogged – if you'll pardon the pun – than you imply. I mean to say, feeding one's critics to the hounds is a little extreme…'

'How'd you find out about that?'

The tribune shrugged. 'That's not important. Right now what is important is for you to tell me what the true situation is here in Calleva.'

'They weren't critics, sir. They were traitors and got what was coming to them. Bit harsh, perhaps, but these people are barbarians, after all. Verica's dealt with the problem.'

'True. But why not mention it in this report?'

'That was written before Verica had the traitors killed.'

'Very well,' Quintillus conceded. 'Can't fault you on that one.'

'No, sir.'

'So what has been the situation since then?'

'It's calm enough. A bit of tension on the streets, but that's it.'

'And it would be safe to say that King Verica is secure on his throne?'

'I'd say so.' Macro glanced at Cato. 'Wouldn't you?'

Cato gave the faintest of nods and Macro glared angrily at him.

'Centurion Cato would seem to have a slightly different view of matters,' Quintillus suggested quietly.

'Centurion Cato is not very experienced, sir.'

'I can see that.'

Cato blushed.

'Yet it would be useful to have a second opinion, just for clarity.' The tribune gestured towards Cato. 'Well?'

Cato felt a black wave of anxiety and depression engulf him. He must answer the tribune, yet his loyalty to Macro meant that he must not be seen to undermine his friend's version of events. He cursed his comrade's touchiness. Cato was no more enamoured of aristocratic hauteur than Macro, but having been raised in the imperial palace at least he was used to it and had found a way to cope with such arrogance. Much as Macro might want to enjoy his independent command far from the view of senior officers, Cato knew that it would be dangerous to underplay the political difficulties facing Verica. Moreover, being somewhat more speculative than Macro he could see the wider strategic implications faced by Rome. If the Atrebatans turned against Rome then not only would the current campaign be lost, but the conquest of Britain might well have to be abandoned. The shameful consequences of such an outcome would threaten the Emperor himself. Cato drew himself back from speculation to focus on the present. Much as Cato might be aware of the wider issues Macro was in trouble here and now, and needed his support.

'Centurion Macro is right, sir…'

Macro rested his hands on his knees and eased himself back into his chair, trying hard not to smile.

'He's right,' Cato repeated thoughtfully. 'But it would be wise if we considered the possibility of some kind of trouble brewing up. After all, the king is an old man. Old men have a predilection for mortality, unassisted or otherwise…'

The tribune chuckled. 'And are you aware of any potential assistants in the field – besides Caratacus and the Durotrigans?'