Simon Scarrow: The Eagles Conquest

Macro sensed a change in the young man's attitude. It was strange, he considered, how much he had become aware of the lad's moods. Every optio he had ever known had been just a legionary on the make, but Cato was different. Quite different. Intelligent, well-read, and a proven soldier, yet perversely critical of himself. If he lived long enough, Cato would surely make a name for himself someday. Macro could not understand why the optio did not seem aware of this, and tended to regard Cato with a mixture of guarded amusement and admiration.

'Don't worry, lad. You'll live through this lot. If you were going to cop it, you'd have done so by now. You've survived the worst army life can throw at you. You'll be around for a while yet, so cheer up.'

'Yes, sir,' Cato replied quietly. Macro's words were false comfort, as the death of even the finest soldiers -like Bestia – had shown.

'Now then, where were we?'

Cato looked down at the wax tablet. 'The last man in the hospital is making a good recovery. Sword slash to the thigh. Should be back on his feet in a few more days. Then there's four walking wounded. They'll be back on our fighting strength soon. Leaves us with fifty-eight effectives, sir.'

'Fifty-eight.' Macro frowned. The Sixth Century had suffered badly at the hands of the Britons. They had landed on the island with eighty men. Now, only days later, they had lost eighteen for good.

'Any news on the replacements, sir?'

'We won't be getting any until the staff can organise a shipment from the reserve pool back in Gaul. Take them a week or more at least before they can ship them over the Channel from Gesoriacum. Won't join us until after the next battle.'

'Next battle?' Cato sat up eagerly. 'What battle, sir?'

'Easy, lad.' Macro smiled. 'The legate told us at the briefing. Vespasian has had word from the general. It seems the army is facing a river. A nice big, wide river. And on the far side Caratacus is waiting for us with his army, chariots and all.'

'How far from here, sir?'

'Day's march. The Second should arrive at the river tomorrow. Aulus Plautius doesn't intend to hang around, apparently. He'll launch the attack the following morning, as soon as we're in position.'

'How do we get at them?' Cato asked. 'I mean, how do we get across the river? Is there a bridge?'

'You really think the Britons would leave one standing? Just for us to use?' Macro shook his head wearily. 'No, the general still has to figure that one out.'

'Do you think he will order us in first?'

'Doubt it. We've been pretty roughly handled by the Britons. The men are still feeling very shaken. You must have sensed it.'

Cato nodded. The low morale of the legion had been palpable in the last few days. Worse still, he had overheard men openly criticising the legate, holding Vespasian responsible for the heavy casualties they had suffered since landing on British soil. That Vespasian had fought the enemy in the front rank alongside his men was of little account to most legionaries who had not witnessed his valour in person. As things stood, there was considerable resentment and mistrust of the legion's senior officers, and that did not bode well for the next engagement with the Britons.

'We'd better win this one,' Macro said quietly. 'Yes, sir.'

Both men were silent a moment as they gazed at the flickering tongues of flames in the brazier. Then a loud rumble from the centurion's stomach abruptly shifted his thinking to more pressing issues.

'I'm bloody hungry. Anything to eat?'

'There on the desk, sir.' Cato gestured towards a dark loaf of bread and a hunk of salted pork in a mess tin. A small jug of watered wine stood beside a battered silver cup, a memento of one of Macro's earlier campaigns. The centurion frowned as he looked at the pork.

'Still no fresh meat?'

'No, sir. Caratacus is doing a thorough job of clearing the land ahead of our line of march. The scouts say that nearly every crop and farm has been fired as far as the banks of the Tame sis, and they've driven their livestock away with them. We're stuck with what comes up to us from the victualling depot at Rutupiae.'

'I'm sick of bloody salted pork. Can't you get anything else? Piso would have got us something better than this.'

'Yes, sir,' Cato replied with resentment. Piso, the century's clerk, was a veteran who had known every dodge and scam in the book, and the men of the century had done very well by him. Only days before, Piso, a mere year off his honourable discharge, had been cut down by the very first Briton he encountered. Cato had learned much from the clerk, but the more arcane secrets of working the military bureaucracy had died with him, and Cato was on his own now.

'I'll see what I can do about the rations, sir.'

'Good!' Macro nodded as he bit into the pork with a grimace and started the long process of chewing the tough meat into a consistency soft enough to swallow. As he chewed he continued to grumble. 'Much more of this stuff and I'll quit the legion and take up the Jewish faith. Anything's got to be better than putting up with this. I don't know what the fuck those bastards in the commissariat do to the pigs. You'd have thought it would be almost impossible to screw up something as simple as salted pork.'

Cato had heard it all before and got on with his paperwork. Most of the dead men had left wills bequeathing their camp property to their friends. But some of those named as beneficiaries had died as well, and Cato had to trace the order of bequests through the documents to ensure that the accumulated possessions reached the right recipients. The families of those who had died intestate would require notification in order to claim the man's savings from the legion's treasury. For Cato, the execution of wills was a new experience, and since the responsibility was his, he dared not risk any errors that might lead to a lawsuit being brought against him. So he carefully read through the documentation, and checked and rechecked each man's accounts in turn, before dipping his stylus in a small ceramic inkpot and writing up the final statement of possessions and their destinations.

The tent flap swished open and a headquarters clerk hurriedly stepped inside, his sodden army cloak dripping all over the place.

'Here, keep that off my work!' Cato shouted as he covered the scrolls piled on his desk.

'Sorry.' The headquarters clerk stood back against the flap.

'And what the fuck do you want?' Macro asked as he bit off a piece of brown bread.

'Message from the legate, sir. He wants to see you and the optio in his tent, at your earliest convenience. '

Cato smiled. A senior officer's use of that phrase meant at once, preferably sooner. Quickly ordering the documents into a pile, and ensuring that none of the leaks in the tent were dripping anywhere near his campaign desk, Cato stood up and retrieved his cloak from its position in front of the brazier. It was still heavy with moisture and felt clammy as he pulled it round his shoulders and fixed the clasp. But the warmth in the folds of greased wool was comforting.

Macro, still chewing, pulled on his cloak and then waved impatiently at the headquarters clerk. 'You can piss off now. We know the way, thank you.'

With a longing look at the brazier, the clerk pulled his hood up and backed out of the tent. Macro crammed in a last mouthful of pork, crooked his finger at Cato and mumbled, 'Come on!'

The rain hissed down on the glistening ranks of the legion's tents and formed disturbed puddles on the uneven ground. Macro looked up at the dark clouds in the night sky. Away to the south occasional flashes of sheet lightning marked the passage of a summer storm. The rain streamed down his face and he flicked his head to clear a loose strand of drenched hair from his forehead. 'What crap weather this island has.'