Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves by Simon Scarrow Page A

step, but even the Britons could march, halt, wheel and change facing with minimal confusion within a week.
    The training day ended with a quick march round and round the outside of Calleva, until dusk. Then the men were led back into the depot and, by sections, issued their rations to take away to cook. The hardest part of the strict routine for the natives to bear was the early end to their evening. As the trumpet sounded the second watch, the instructors strode up and down the lines of tents, screaming at the men to get inside and get to sleep, upsetting cooking pots over any fires that were not extinguished quickly enough. There was none of the drinking and raucous telling of tall tales and crude anecdotes that was so much a part of the Celtic way of life. Men undergoing a harsh training regime needed rest, and Macro refused to give way when Tincommius represented the views of a number of his warriors who had complained bitterly to him.
    ‘No!’ Macro said firmly. ‘We go soft on them now and discipline goes down the shithole. It’s hard, but no harder than is necessary. If they’re complaining about being sent to sleep early then they’re obviously not tired enough. Tomorrow I’ll end the training with a run round Calleva instead of a march. That should do the trick.’
    It did, but there was still an underlying resentment evident in the men’s faces as Cato did his rounds each morning. Something was lacking. There was a vague sense of looseness, of incohesion, in the two cohorts. He raised the matter with Macro and Tincommius as they met in Macro’s quarters one night after the first week of training.
    ‘We’re not doing this quite right.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ grumbled Macro. ‘We’re doing fine.’
    ‘We were told to train two cohorts, and we’ve done it as best as we can. But they need something else.’
    ‘What then?’
    ‘You’ve seen how the men are. They’re keen enough to learn how to use our weapons and manoeuvre as we do. But they don’t have any sense of themselves as a discrete body of soldiers. We’ve got our legions, our eagle standards, our sense of tradition. They’ve got nothing.’
    ‘What are you suggesting?’ Macro smirked. ‘We give them an eagle to follow?’
    ‘Yes. Something like that. A standard. One for each cohort. It’ll help give them a sense of identity.’
    ‘Maybe,’ Macro conceded. ‘But not an eagle. Those are reserved for the legions. Has to be something else.’
    ‘All right, then.’ Cato nodded and turned to Tincommius. ‘What do you suggest? Are there any animals that are sacred to your tribe?’
    ‘Plenty.’ Tincommius started counting them off on his fingers. ‘Owl, wolf, fox, boar, pike, stoat.’
    ‘Stoat?’ Macro laughed. ‘What the fuck is sacred about the stoat?’
    ‘Stoat - swift and sleek, king of stream and creek,’ Tincommius intoned.
    ‘Oh, great. I can see it now: First Cohort of Atrebatan Stoats. The enemy will piss themselves laughing.’
    Tincommius coloured.
    ‘All right, so perhaps we don’t use the stoat idea,’ Cato interrupted before Macro caused too much damage to Atrebatan sensitivities. ‘I like the idea of wolf and boar. Nice sense of wildness and danger. What do you think, Tincommius?’
    ‘The Wolves and the Boars . . . sounds good.’
    ‘What about you, Macro?’
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘All right then, I’ll have some standards made up tonight. With your permission?’
    Macro nodded. ‘Agreed.’
    Footsteps sounded down the corridor outside, and there was a rap on the door.
    ‘Enter!’
    A clerk stepped into the glow of the oil lamps. He held out a sealed scroll.
    ‘What is it?’
    ‘Message from the general, sir. Courier’s just arrived.’
    ‘Here!’ Macro reached for the scroll, broke open the seal and ran his eyes over the message while his companions sat in silence. While Macro could read well enough, it was still something of an effort, and it took a moment to digest the contents of General