Free Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves by Simon Scarrow

instructors as they cajoled and kicked their charges. Cato, mindful of Macro’s advice of the previous night, forced himself not to intervene, but hoped that his presence might at least cause his instructors not to be gratuitously rough.
    A sudden shriek of pain drew Cato and Tincommius over to one group. The legionary instructor was standing over a figure on the ground, and whacked him on the back even as the centurion thrust his way through the line of Atrebatans for a closer look.
    ‘What the fuck is the matter with you?’ roared the instructor. ‘How much more bloody simple can I make it for you, you stupid prick! It’s block, parry, thrust and advance! Don’t make it up as you go along!’
    ‘What’s going on here?’
    The instructor snapped to attention. ‘This twat’s trying to take the piss, sir. Making out he can’t remember four simple bloody steps.’
    ‘I see,’ Cato nodded, looking down at the figure crouched on the ground. The man slowly turned his head and grinned up at the centurion.
    ‘Oh, no! Not you again. What’s your name?’ Cato asked in Celtic.
    ‘Bedriacus.’
    ‘Bedriacus, eh? You call me “sir”.’
    The man grinned again, displaying a jagged set of teeth. He nodded and pointed a finger at himself. ‘Bedriacus, sir! Bedriacus, sir!’
    ‘Yes, thank you. I think we’ve established that,’ Cato smiled back, before turning to Tincommius. ‘Know anything about him?’
    ‘Oh yes. He’s a hunter. Lost his family in a Durotrigan raid. He was injured, half dead when he was discovered.’
    ‘Half-witted more like,’ muttered the instructor.
    ‘That’s enough!’ Cato snapped. He nudged Tincommius. ‘I’m not sure he’s up to it.’
    ‘He’s good. Especially with a blade. Saw him turn over a couple of our warriors yesterday.’
    ‘Strength isn’t everything.’
    ‘No, no, it’s not. But this man wants vengeance. Deserves it.’
    Cato nodded with understanding. The desire for revenge was as powerful a motive as anything else in life, and the centurion had seen enough of the bloody work of the Durotrigans and their druids to be sympathetic to their victims.
    ‘Fair enough. We’ll take him, if he can be trained. Instructor!’
    ‘Sir!’
    ‘You can carry on, Marius.’
    Cato was suddenly aware of a commotion over by the main gates of the depot and turned round for a better look. A group of horsemen had been admitted and were trotting over towards the parade ground. They were tribesmen, but Cato recognised only one face.
    ‘Verica. What’s he doing here?’
    ‘Come to see how the training’s getting on,’ replied Tincommius.
    Cato gave him a cold look. ‘Well, thanks for the warning.’
    ‘Sorry. He mentioned something about it last night. Just remembered.’
    ‘Right . . .’ Cato punched Tincommius on the shoulder. ‘Come on.’
    They left the instruction groups and walked over to meet the king of the Atrebatans and his retinue. Verica reined in and slowly dismounted before he waved a greeting to his kinsman and Cato. Tincommius looked at his uncle with apparent concern.
    ‘It’s all right, boy. Just feeling a bit stiff. Happens at my age,’ the king smiled. ‘Now then, Centurion Cato, how is my army coming along? . . . What on earth are they doing with all of those sticks? Where are their weapons?’
    Cato had anticipated this moment and had his answer ready. ‘They’re in training, my lord. They’ll be issued with the real thing as soon as they’re ready for it.’
    ‘Oh?’ The old man’s disappointment was clear. ‘And when will that be?’
    ‘Soon enough, my lord. Your subjects learn very quickly.’
    ‘May we watch them for a while?’
    ‘Of course, my lord. We’d be honoured. If you’d care to follow me . . .?’
    Verica beckoned to his retinue and they obediently dismounted and walked slowly behind their king.
    Cato leaned towards Tincommius and whispered, ‘Whatever you do, steer him clear of that group with Bedriacus in