to the parade ground. The scene was chaotic, with the instructors hurrying round their charges to tighten straps, show which was the correct side to wear the sword and generally ignoring those who were trying to complain about their boots.
Macro gave them a brief moment to complete the arming, and then drew in a deep breath.
‘FORM UP!’
The tribesmen were well used to the routine by now; the coloured pegs were no longer needed. They hurried into position and took their station from each section leader, automatically dressing their lines to ensure correct spacing between each man. Each century was made up of ten sections, and commanded by a legionary chosen by Macro. Six centuries made up each cohort.
‘Who are those clowns?’ Macro pointed to small groups of warriors on either wing of the parade ground.
‘Cavalry scouts, sir.’
‘Cavalry scouts . . . Aren’t they, er, missing something?’
Tincommius stepped up to Macro’s side. ‘Verica’s promised me some horses. Be here tomorrow.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘And I had a word with him about those standards. Thought it might be good for the men’s spirits to have them presented by the king. I’ve sent word that we’re ready for the ceremony. He’ll be along directly.’
‘That would be terribly nice of him,’ Macro agreed sarcastically. ‘Any thoughts on candidates for the posts of standard bearer?’
‘One name comes to mind,’ said Cato. ‘Bedriacus.’
Tincommius laughed, incredulous. ‘Bedriacus?’
‘Why not? You said yourself he’s strong and doesn’t yield ground easily.’
‘Yes, but-’
‘And it keeps him from screwing up the formation.’
That was the clinching argument and Tincommius nodded his assent.
‘Right then,’ Macro continued. ‘That’s one. He’s in your cohort then, Cato. Who else?’
‘What about Tincommius for your cohort?’
‘Me?’ The Atrebatan prince looked unhappy. ‘Why me, sir?’
‘Macro could use a translator, isn’t that right?’
‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’ Macro grumbled.
‘I’m honoured,’ Tincommius managed to say.
‘That’s settled then, and by virtue of being the ranking officer, I’ll have the first cohort of Atrebatans, with the boar as its standard.’
Cato touched his arm. ‘Here’s the king, sir.’
Verica was approaching on foot from the main gateway. Behind him was a small crowd of Atrebatan nobles in their finery. True to the ways of Celtic flamboyance, bright colours, startling patterns and burnished gold predominated. Macro’s eyes instantly strayed towards the jewellery, automatically conducting a series of quick valuations.
‘Hey, Cato,’ he said softly, ‘do you suppose the Durotrigans share the same dress code?’
Cato smiled indulgently and nudged Tincommius. ‘He’s only joking. Get the standards. They’re just inside the door to my office.’
While Verica walked slowly by the massed ranks of his men, clearly impressed by the uniformed turn out, Tincommius ran off towards the headquarters building. He returned, at a more dignified pace, holding one standard in each hand, slanted against his shoulders. Verica finished his inspection and walked over to Macro and Cato.
‘My congratulations, Centurion Macro! They look formidable. ‘ He lowered his voice. ‘But can they fight as well as they parade? In your professional estimation.’
‘They’re as good as any men I’ve trained. But I’ve never had to train men for battle so quickly. Most of them have never been near a fight.’ Macro shrugged discreetly. ‘I can’t truly say. We’ll have to wait and see, my lord.’
‘Let’s hope you won’t have to wait long,’ Verica smiled. ‘Now, then. Let’s get on with the ceremonies.’
Verica turned round to face his two cohorts and, drawing a deep breath, he began to speak. Cato was surprised at the rich timbre of the king’s voice, and although he did not understand every word the delivery sounded wonderful. Verica, in his prime,
Macro gave them a brief moment to complete the arming, and then drew in a deep breath.
‘FORM UP!’
The tribesmen were well used to the routine by now; the coloured pegs were no longer needed. They hurried into position and took their station from each section leader, automatically dressing their lines to ensure correct spacing between each man. Each century was made up of ten sections, and commanded by a legionary chosen by Macro. Six centuries made up each cohort.
‘Who are those clowns?’ Macro pointed to small groups of warriors on either wing of the parade ground.
‘Cavalry scouts, sir.’
‘Cavalry scouts . . . Aren’t they, er, missing something?’
Tincommius stepped up to Macro’s side. ‘Verica’s promised me some horses. Be here tomorrow.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘And I had a word with him about those standards. Thought it might be good for the men’s spirits to have them presented by the king. I’ve sent word that we’re ready for the ceremony. He’ll be along directly.’
‘That would be terribly nice of him,’ Macro agreed sarcastically. ‘Any thoughts on candidates for the posts of standard bearer?’
‘One name comes to mind,’ said Cato. ‘Bedriacus.’
Tincommius laughed, incredulous. ‘Bedriacus?’
‘Why not? You said yourself he’s strong and doesn’t yield ground easily.’
‘Yes, but-’
‘And it keeps him from screwing up the formation.’
That was the clinching argument and Tincommius nodded his assent.
‘Right then,’ Macro continued. ‘That’s one. He’s in your cohort then, Cato. Who else?’
‘What about Tincommius for your cohort?’
‘Me?’ The Atrebatan prince looked unhappy. ‘Why me, sir?’
‘Macro could use a translator, isn’t that right?’
‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’ Macro grumbled.
‘I’m honoured,’ Tincommius managed to say.
‘That’s settled then, and by virtue of being the ranking officer, I’ll have the first cohort of Atrebatans, with the boar as its standard.’
Cato touched his arm. ‘Here’s the king, sir.’
Verica was approaching on foot from the main gateway. Behind him was a small crowd of Atrebatan nobles in their finery. True to the ways of Celtic flamboyance, bright colours, startling patterns and burnished gold predominated. Macro’s eyes instantly strayed towards the jewellery, automatically conducting a series of quick valuations.
‘Hey, Cato,’ he said softly, ‘do you suppose the Durotrigans share the same dress code?’
Cato smiled indulgently and nudged Tincommius. ‘He’s only joking. Get the standards. They’re just inside the door to my office.’
While Verica walked slowly by the massed ranks of his men, clearly impressed by the uniformed turn out, Tincommius ran off towards the headquarters building. He returned, at a more dignified pace, holding one standard in each hand, slanted against his shoulders. Verica finished his inspection and walked over to Macro and Cato.
‘My congratulations, Centurion Macro! They look formidable. ‘ He lowered his voice. ‘But can they fight as well as they parade? In your professional estimation.’
‘They’re as good as any men I’ve trained. But I’ve never had to train men for battle so quickly. Most of them have never been near a fight.’ Macro shrugged discreetly. ‘I can’t truly say. We’ll have to wait and see, my lord.’
‘Let’s hope you won’t have to wait long,’ Verica smiled. ‘Now, then. Let’s get on with the ceremonies.’
Verica turned round to face his two cohorts and, drawing a deep breath, he began to speak. Cato was surprised at the rich timbre of the king’s voice, and although he did not understand every word the delivery sounded wonderful. Verica, in his prime,
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