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

another.
    ‘Artax!’
    The nobleman turned back to Cato, mildy surprised as Cato beckoned to him. He shrugged and came on once more. This time it was Cato who attacked, going in low and fast, and taking Artax by surprise. The Briton skipped back, desperately swiping at Cato’s weapon as he tried to block a succession of thrusts. Then Cato double-feinted, throwing Artax’s rhythm. The first strike caught the Briton in the stomach again. The next high in the ribs, before the last one flattened his nose. Blood gushed out as Artax clenched his eyes shut against the shattering agony. Cato’s last strike was rammed home into his opponent’s groin and Artax crumpled to the ground with a deep groan.
    The Atrebatans fell silent, aghast at the sudden reversal. Cato stood erect, and backed away from his beaten foe. He gazed round at the natives, and raised his stave.
    ‘Remember what I said earlier: a few inches of point is far more deadly than any length of edge. There’s your proof.’ He pointed to Artax, slowly writhing on the ground.
    There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, then one of the Atrebatan warriors raised his stave and saluted Cato. Someone else cheered, and soon all of the trainee swordsmen were cheering him. Cato stared back, defiant at first, and then smiled. The lesson was learned. He let it continue a short while and then waved his hands to quieten them.
    ‘Instructors! Get ‘em back to work!’
    As the Atrebatans broke up and returned to sword drill, two of the king’s followers picked Artax up, hoisted him on to his horse and held him steady while they waited for Verica to remount. The king eased his horse over to Cato and smiled down at him.
    ‘My thanks, Centurion. That was most . . . educational. I’m sure my men are in good hands. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’
    Cato bowed his head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

Chapter Eight
    Over the next few days the rest of the recruits were trained in the basics of swordplay every morning. Cato had given orders for a series of thick wooden stakes to be set up on one side of the parade ground and the recruits practised landing their blows against these targets with a monotonous rapping that echoed round the depot. The more advanced recruits were being paired against each other and walked through the correct sequences of attack and defence in the event of a loose mêlée.
    Cato, with Tincommius at his side, did the rounds of each instruction group to monitor progress and get to know his men. With the help of the Atrebatan nobleman, he was beginning to pick up the local dialect, and was delighted to discover that it was not so different from the smattering of Iceni Celtic that he had learned earlier that year. For their part the recruits, with the exception of Bedriacus, were beginning to respond quickly to Latin words of command. Macro had insisted on that; there would be no chance for translation when the men first faced the enemy.
    The more Cato saw of Bedriacus, the more he despaired of the man. Unless he could grasp the fundamentals of military life Bedriacus would be more of a liability to his comrades than an asset. Yet Tincommius was adamant that the hunter would yet prove his worth.
    ‘You haven’t seen him at work, Cato. The man can track anything that moves on the ground. And he’s lethal with a knife.’
    ‘Maybe, but unless he can learn how to keep in formation and strike in sequence, we can’t use him. We’re fighting men, not beasts.’
    Tincommius shrugged. ‘Some say that the Durotrigans are worse than beasts. You’ve seen how they treat our people.’
    ‘Yes,’ Cato replied quietly. ‘Yes, I have . . . Has it always been this way?’
    ‘Only since they fell under the influence of the Dark Moon Druids. After that, they slowly cut themselves off from other tribes. The only reason that they fight alongside Caratacus is that they hate Rome above all else. If the legions quit Britain, they’ll be at their