Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves by Simon Scarrow

neighbours’ throats before the last of your sails crosses the horizon.’
    ‘If we quit Britain?’ Cato was amused by the thought. ‘You think there’s a chance of that?’
    ‘The future is written in the dust, Cato. The faintest breeze can alter it.’
    ‘Very poetic,’ smiled Cato. ‘But Rome carves its future in stone.’
    Tincommius laughed at the riposte for a moment, then continued more seriously. ‘You really do think you’re a destined race, don’t you?’
    ‘That’s what we’re taught, right from the cradle, and history has yet to refute it.’
    ‘Some might call that arrogance.’
    ‘They might, but only once.’
    Tincommius looked at Cato searchingly. ‘And do you believe it?’
    Cato shrugged. ‘I’m not certain about destiny. Never have been. All that happens in the world is down to the actions of men. Wise men make their own destiny, as far as they are able to. Everything else is down to chance.’
    ‘That’s a strange view.’ Tincommius frowned. ‘For us there are spirits and gods that govern every aspect of our lives. You Romans have many gods as well. You must believe in them?’
    ‘Gods?’ Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘Rome seems to invent a new one almost every day. Seems we’re never satisfied unless we’ve got something new to believe in.’
    ‘You’re a strange one-’
    ‘Just a moment,’ Cato interrupted. He was watching a particularly huge Atrebatan warrior, covered in tattoos, screaming his war cry as he shattered his practice sword against the side of a target post. ‘You there! You! Stand still!’
    The warrior stood, breathing heavily as Cato took a spare training sword and approached the post.
    ‘You’re supposed to thrust with it. It’s not a bloody hatchet.’
    He demonstrated the prescribed blows, and tossed the sword to the warrior, who shook his head and spoke angrily. ‘This is not a dignified way to fight!’
    ‘Not dignified?’ Cato fought down an impulse to laugh. ‘What’s dignified about fighting? I don’t care how you look, I just want you to kill people.’
    ‘I fight on horseback, not on foot!’ the warrior spat. ‘I wasn’t raised to fight alongside farmers and peasants.’
    ‘Oh, really?’ Cato turned to Tincommius. ‘What’s so special about him?’
    ‘He’s one of the warrior caste, raised to be a cavalryman. They’re quite touchy about it.’
    ‘I see,’ Cato reflected, well aware of the high regard for Celtic cavalry in the legions. ‘Any more like him training with us?’
    ‘Yes. Perhaps a few dozen.’
    ‘All right, I’ll think about it. Might be as well to have some mounted scouts with us when we start hunting Durotrigans.’
    ‘Sa!’ the warrior replied, and drew a finger across his throat with a grim smile.
    Just then Cato noticed another man in the group, and froze. Glowering at him from amongst the ranks of the recruits was Artax. His face was covered in black and purple bruising and his broken nose was swollen.
    ‘Tincommius, what’s he doing here?’
    ‘Artax? Training with the rest. Joined us this morning. The man’s dead keen to learn the Roman way of fighting. Seems you made quite an impact on him.’
    ‘Very funny.’
    Cato looked at the man for a while, and Artax stared back, lips fixed in a thin line. The centurion was not sure that he cared to have a man he had so publicly humiliated serve alongside him. There was bound to be resentment simmering in the proud and arrogant Briton’s breast. For now, however, it would be good politics to permit Verica’s kinsman to remain in the cohort. In any case, if he had been moved to volunteer then maybe there was another side to him. Perhaps he nursed a desire to redeem himself and win back his pride. Maybe, Cato reflected. But it was best to be wary of him, for a while at least.
    In the afternoons Macro took over the training and taught the recruits the fundamentals of mass manoeuvre. As ever, it was a slow business getting unaccustomed feet to march in