Simon Scarrow - The Eagle In the Sand

He forced himself to look upon the approaching enemy again. He tried to imagine how those men would be feeling. Most of them were simple peasants, provoked into this fight by the ceaseless hardship and injustice of their lives. That would embolden them for a while yet, but they lacked training, experience and the confidence of professional soldiers, like the auxiliaries of the Second Illyrian cohort.What were they thinking as they tramped across the dusty plain, and saw the thick walls of Fort Bushir, with its squat towers at each corner and over the gates? Wouldn't they feel a twinge of fear, for all their superiority in numbers? Cato certainly hoped so, for their sake as well as his own.There was no satisfaction, let alone any glory, to be had from killing peasants. It was a dirty, thankless and profitless task that would only add to the misery of the people of Judaea. If they were defeated, yet more fuel would be added to the simmering anger and hatred towards Rome that dwelt in their hearts.That was all that Rome would win if Cato, Macro and the other men managed to hold the enemy at bay. But if Bannus won, Cato reflected, the example of Bushir would sweep through the province. A multitude would swell his ranks and no Roman garrison would be safe between Egypt and Syria. And what then? From what Cato understood of these people, there would be no peace. No unified independent nation of Judaea. The inhabitants were simply too divided by class and religious faction to work as one. In that case, it would be only a matter of time before Judaea was broken apart by civil war and then consumed by another empire whether that be Rome, again, or Parthia. As Judaea had always been consumed by empires throughout history.

Cato smiled as he discovered that he felt sorry for the downtrodden peasants marching towards him.

Bannus marched his army up to within half a mile of the fort before he halted and set up camp as darkness closed in.The sky was clear, and as the orange hue of the setting sun's afterglow faded the stars pricked out brilliantly in the heavens above. The sounds of the enemy carried across the sand to the fort and if he strained his ears Cato could hear snatches of laughter and singing between the shouted orders. One by one, fires were kindled and lit and bright pools of light sprang up across the desert, each illuminating a dense ring of humanity clustering about it as night gripped them in its cold embrace.

Macro waited a while, to make quite sure that the enemy was settling for the night, before he ordered the units that were not on watch-keeping duty to stand down. The men tramped down from the wall and sombrely made their way back to their barracks. Some would find sleep easy enough. Others would continue in the agitated state of anticipation that Cato had observed as they stood and watched the approach of the enemy. At length Macro beckoned to Cato and they returned to the prefect's quarters for a meal with the other officers. Scrofa and Postumus sat as far from the cohort's commander as rank permitted and kept their eyes lowered, refusing to meet the gaze of either Macro or Cato. The mood was subdued, even though Macro had ordered his housekeeper to bring out the best jars of Scrofa's remaining stock of wine. Conscious that his men were looking to him, Macro made himself appear calm and unflustered by the presence of the enemy. He even attempted a few ribald jokes with some of the officers, and ended the evening with a toast to their inevitable victory. The officers responded with forced enthusiasm and then the dinner party broke up as they returned to their rooms at the end of each barrack block.

'Well, that was a storming success,' Macro muttered as the last of them left and only Cato remained, picking at the dates in the bowl in front of him. 'Might as well surrender the fort to Bannus right now and be done with it.'

'They'll fight hard enough when the time comes, sir.'

'Oh? What makes you think that, my esteemed veteran friend?'

Cato looked up. 'They haven't got any choice. It's fight or die.'

'So what's new?' Macro grumbled. 'I tell you, Cato, if that lot were legionaries instead of auxiliaries the spirit would be different. They'd be thirsting to get stuck into Bannus and his mob.'

'Maybe they would feel the same, if Scrofa and Postumus hadn't got to them. It's a question of leadership. They'd been badly commanded for months before you took over. You've had too little time to return them to battle-readiness.'

'Maybe.' Macro reflected. 'Perhaps the first attack might put a little bit of iron back into them.'

Cato smiled. 'I hope not. A wound is the last thing they need.'

Macro winced at his friend's attempt at humour. 'It's not a laughing matter, Cato. Our lives depend on it.' He snorted. 'The fate of the bloody province depends on it. So no stupid quips please. Not unless we've had a skinful of wine first, eh? Even then…'

'All right then, sir. No more jokes.'

'Good.' Macro was silent for a while, deep in thought. Then he suddenly turned to Cato. 'How do you suppose Vespasian did it?'

'Did what, sir?'

'Prepared his officers for battle.You remember, back in the Second Augusta, whenever we were about to go into a fight, the legate would find a few words for us, make a toast, and we'd all head back to our men raring to go? How did he do that?'

Cato recalled their former commander, the stocky frame, the thinning hair crowning the strong-featured face. The steady, deep voice with which Vespasian could equally charm and lambast his men. It was hard to define what made the legate the kind of man you'd fight to the death for. Maybe it was the fact that you believed that he, in turn, would fight to the death for you. Whatever the quality of leadership was, Cato concluded, it was clear that some men possessed it and many more did not. Macro was one of the former; he just had a different style from Vespasian's.

Cato smiled. 'I can't answer that.'

'Great. Thanks,' Macro responded sourly.

'Don't fret, sir. You'll do well enough. I'd follow you to the ends of the earth.'

Macro looked at him with a surprised expression. 'You mean that, don't you?'

'Of course, sir. And when these men get to know you better, they'd do just the same. Now that we've a battle on our hands they'll see the quality of their new prefect soon enough. Maybe that's what Vespasian had.'

'What?'

'The benefit of an example.We followed him because we'd seen him in battle. He'd proved himself to us. Once a commander's done that, I'd say that was the point where he won his men over.This is your chance to do the same with the Second Illyrian.'

Macro stroked his chin thoughtfully, then refilled Cato's cup and his own before raising the latter in a toast. 'To those who lead from the front.'

Cato nodded. 'I'll drink to that.'

Cato was roused from his sleep in the last hour before dawn. An auxiliary was gently shaking his shoulder. 'Sir, the prefect wants you.'

Cato blinked, yawned and rubbed his eyes. 'Right, where is he?'

'On the main gatehouse, sir.'

'Very well, my compliments to the prefect. Tell him I'm coming.'

'Yes, sir.' The soldier saluted and turned to leave the room. At once Cato threw back his covers and swung his legs over the side of his bed. By the light of a single lamp the soldier had left on his table he pulled on his boots, tied them up and stretched his shoulders before standing up. Then he lifted his chain mail over his head, collected his helmet and sword belt and went to join Macro. Outside headquarters the air was cold and the pale light of the stars provided just enough illumination for Cato to see the barracks on either side of the street as he made for the main gate. Faint glimmers of light showed round the door and window frames of some of the barracks as those auxiliaries who could not find sleep passed the time at dice, or carving, or the myriad ways that soldiers occupy themselves while waiting for action.