'We're not going to be ready in time,' said Cato that night, as he sat at the table in Macro's quarters, eating cold chicken.

Macro and Tincommius looked up from their platters. Macro finished his mouthful and used the back of his hand to wipe the grease from his lips. 'Not unless we get the all clear to issue weapons we won't. Can't send men out armed with sticks and scythes – that'd be plain murder.'

'So what do we do?' asked Tincommius.

'We start drilling them. We've got some marching yokes on the inventory. I'll get the carpenters to cut them into lengths. At least we can begin basic sword practice.'

Tincommius nodded, and wiped his platter clean with his last hunk of bread. He pushed the platter away from him. 'Now, if you don't mind, sir, I've got to get back to the royal enclosure for the night.'

'What for?'

'The king's gathered some of his nobles together for a drinking session.'

'Drinking?'

'Well, there'll be dog-fighting, some wrestling and a few tall stories. But mostly drinking.'

'Make sure you're back here at dawn. We'll start training as soon as it's light.'

'I'll be there, sir.'

'You'd better be.' Macro nodded his head meaningfully towards his vine cane in the corner of the room.

'Are you serious?' asked Tincommius. 'You'd really strike a member of the royal household?'

'You'd better believe it, old son. The discipline of the legions applies to all men, or no men. That's how it is – how it must be – if we're going to sort out those bloody Durotrigans.'

Tincommius stared down at the centurion for the moment, and then nodded slowly. 'I'll be back before dawn.'

When the two Romans were alone Macro eased himself back from the table and patted his stomach. A burp rumbled in his throat, causing Cato to look up with a frown.

'What?'

'It's nothing, sir. Sorry.'

Macro sighed. 'There's that "sir" thing again. I thought you'd got over that.'

'Creature of habit.' Cato smiled weakly. 'But I'll work on it.'

'You'd better.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning you've been a bit drippy these last few days. If you're going to help me train these Atrebatans so they can take on the enemy, you're going to have to buck up your technique.'

'I'll try.'

'Trying's not good enough, lad. Training men for war's a serious business. You have to be hard on them from day one. You have to punish them hard for every single mistake they make. Be as cruel and nasty as you can, because if you don't, then you place them at a disadvantage when they face the enemy for real.' Macro stared at him to make sure the point had got through. Then he smiled. 'Besides, you don't want them calling you a pansy wanker behind your back, do you?'

'Probably not.'

'That's the spirit. Decisive as ever. Now then, weapons drill starts tomorrow. You're in charge. I've got to catch up on some paperwork. Being a bloody garrison commander's a right pain in the arse. I've got to sort out accommodation and provisioning for Verica's boys. I'll have them issued with tents. They can set them up along the inside of the rampart. Then I have to make sure the inventory is bang up to date before we start issuing tunics and boots to the natives. Otherwise some bloody clerk on the imperial general staff's going to bill me for any discrepancies. Bloody auditors.'

Cato's eyes lit up as the obvious thought occurred to him. 'Would you prefer me to deal with the inventory? You can do the sword drill.'

'No! Damn it, Cato, you're a centurion now, so act like one. Besides, you know some of the lingo. Tomorrow, you're going to go out there and stick it to 'em. You can pick some men to help you, but you're on your own now, lad… Right, I'm off. You'd best get some rest yourself.'

'Yes. Soon as I've finished.'

Alone at the table Cato stared at his food, appetite completely gone. Tomorrow he would go out in front of a thousand men and tell them how to fight with the short sword of the legions. A thousand men; some far older, some with far more experience of fighting and none of them likely to take kindly to being given their orders by a centurion of two months' standing, who had only recently reached the legal age of manhood. He would feel like a fake, he knew it, and dreaded that most of the men on the parade ground would see through him in an instant.

Then there was the fact that the last three days had left him feeling drained. Two months of convalescence had weakened him dreadfully. His side ached abominably and Cato was beginning to doubt that any amount of exercise was going to make it comfortable.

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

Cato cleared his throat and turned towards the volunteers. One hundred of the Atrebatans stood silently in front of him, formed up, as they had been taught, along one side of the parade ground. In front of them stood the ten men from the garrison, selected for their skill at arms and chosen by Cato for training duties. Once this hundred had finished training for the morning they would split up and pass their learning on to the rest of the Atrebatan recruits. With only Tincommius to help with translation there was no other practical way to teach weapons skills. Cato turned to Tincommius.

'Ready?'

Tincommius nodded, and prepared to translate.

'Today, you will be introduced to the gladius, the short sword of the legions. There are some who claim this is our secret weapon. But a weapon is just a tool like any other. What distinguishes a tool from a weapon is the person wielding it. The short sword, in itself, is no more or less deadly than any other sword. Indeed, unless it is used properly it is no match for a cavalry sword, or the long swords you Celts choose to bear. In single combat it lacks reach, but in the press of battle there is no finer weapon for a man to carry.'

Cato went for his own sword, and remembered just in time that he no longer wore it on the right, as he had done as an optio. With a smile he grasped the ivory handle and drew it out of its scabbard, raising it for all to see.

'The weapon's most obvious feature is the tapered point. It's designed for delivering one type of blow in particular – the thrust. From this moment on there is one rule you must take to your hearts: a few inches of point is far more deadly than any length of edge. I'm happy to tell you this from personal experience. A few months ago someone was foolish enough to use an edged weapon on me. He's dead and I'm still here.'

Cato paused to let the moral of the story sink in, and as he listened to Tincommius' translation he remembered the druid's attack in vivid detail, and the terrible pain as the scythe sliced into his ribs. Cato felt more of a fraud than ever. If only these fools knew how terrified he had been. He gritted his teeth at the precise recollection and tried to banish the thought. After all, the druid had gone to meet his dark gods, and Cato was alive. If the druid had thought to use a pointed weapon instead, things might have been different.

Tincommius had finished, and was waiting for Cato to continue.

'It may not look very glamorous, but when you're in tight formation, with your shield pressed into the body of your enemy, and his face inches away from your own, then you'll know the true value of this weapon. Listen closely to your instructors, learn how to use the short sword as we do, and soon those bastards, the Durotrigans, will just be a nasty memory!'

A burst of cheering greeted the translation of the last remark, and Cato was wise enough to indulge it a while before raising his hands for silence.

'Now, I know how keen you are to get started, but before you can be permitted to wield the real thing you must be trained in the basic movements, as we legionaries have been. In battle you must be confident of your ability to use your weapons with ease, and without tiring quickly. To that end you will begin your training with these…'