Simon Scarrow - Britannia

He was sitting on a bench outside the headquarters block, his crutch propped against the wall beside him. It was late in the afternoon, and though the sky had been clear all day, the temperature was dropping and both men wore their thick military cloaks. Cato stood in the street that ran across the fort. He shaded his eyes as he made his own first assessment of the garrison’s replacements. The Illyrians were an unprepossessing bunch to be sure. They made no pretence of marching in step, and their armour was dull through lack of polish. Some of the men wore their helmets, but most had them hanging from their sides, or from their marching yokes. At the front of the column was a short, broad officer with flabby cheeks veined and tinged with red. Clearly a man who enjoyed being in his cups, thought Cato.

The prefect was in a foul mood. The replacements had been expected around midday, releasing the garrison to join the rest of the army gathering at Mediolanum, two days’ march away. The Thracians and the legionaries under his command had already carefully prepared their marching yokes, and the garrison’s small baggage train of carts stood in line behind the rampart ready for the mules to be hitched up. In fact, the animals had been placed in harness shortly before noon, ready for a swift departure. When there was no sign of the Illyrians at the appointed hour, nor the two hours that followed, Cato had reluctantly given orders for the mules to be returned to their stables, as well as the horses of his mounted contingent. The men of the garrison had been dismissed too, now that there was no prospect of setting out until the following morning.

Cato paced slowly into the middle of the street to await the auxiliary centurion as the rest of the new arrivals fell out of line and spilled into the open ground between the ramparts and the barracks blocks.

The centurion ambled forward and bowed his head in salute, then gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Fuck me,’ he wheezed. ‘That was some march, sir. Never thought we’d make it before nightfall.’

‘Stand up straight!’ Cato snapped. ‘And make your report properly, man.’

The centurion’s jaw sagged a little before he recovered his wits, grounding his vine cane and drawing back his shoulders. This had the unfortunate effect of pushing out his large stomach, so that Cato was reminded of an egg. The comparison became even more apt as the man’s cheeks seemed to fold into his neck, and the whole angled down to merge seamlessly with his rounded shoulders. Yes, Cato thought. An egg. A very fat egg.

The officer drew a deep breath and introduced himself. ‘Marcus Fortunus, Fifth Century, Eighth Illyrian Cohort, sir! On detachment. Here are my orders, sir.’ He felt inside his side bag and took out a slate. Cato flipped it open and swiftly scanned the comments etched into the wax. The orders followed the standard format, authorising Fortunus to take two centuries to the appointed installation to serve as a temporary garrison until notified of further instructions. They bore the name of the legate’s chief of staff and the impression of the legate’s ring seal. He snapped the slate shut and returned it to the officer.

‘Marcus Licinius Cato, prefect of the Second Thracian Cavalry, and commander of this fort. You’re late. We were expecting you around noon.’

‘The road wasn’t easy, sir, and the camp followers slowed us down.’

‘Camp followers?’ Cato looked past the man towards the gate. Sure enough, the last of the soldiers had entered, and now came an extended throng of women and children, together with a handful of mule-drawn carts.

‘Jupiter give me strength!’ Macro spat. ‘What the hell is all that?’

Fortunus glanced over his shoulder, not without difficulty. ‘Some of the men have families in the vicus at Viroconium. A few of the demobbed veterans are in business with some of my men. No more than a hundred or so in all. The fort has been constructed to accommodate a thousand men, so there’ll be plenty of room. Besides, it’s good for morale.’ He looked curiously at Macro, uncertain if he should defer to him. The latter was in a plain tunic and cloak and had no insignia to indicate his rank.

Macro quickly put an end to his dilemma. ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. I’ll be in command while the prefect is absent.’

‘In command? I was led to believe that I would be . . . sir.’

‘Well you’re not,’ said Cato. ‘Centurion Macro is recovering from a wound and is unable to lead his cohort in the coming campaign. He will be remaining here.’

‘More’s the bloody pity,’ Macro added through clenched teeth.

Fortunus shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But my orders are quite specific. I’ve been appointed to command the fort in your absence. The legate’s chief of staff said so.’ He patted his bag. ‘You saw for yourself.’

Cato gestured towards the dishevelled men of the Illyrian cohort and the last of the civilians trudging in through the gate. ‘I am not leaving a forward outpost in the hands of the man who commands that rabble. I have made my decision. If you have any problem with it, take the matter up with the legate himself.’

‘But . . . but he’s about to set off into the mountains,’ Fortunus protested. ‘It could be months before he responds.’

‘That’s not my problem,’ Cato snapped. ‘Until then, my decision holds. And you will call both me and Centurion Macro “sir” when you address us. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s better.’ Cato glanced at the new arrivals crowding the gate. ‘For now, you can get your men and the camp followers into the stables at the end of the fort.’

‘Stables?’ Fortunus grimaced. ‘Sir, I-’

‘My men need the barracks tonight, thanks to your tardiness. And my horses will have the better of the stables. You will occupy what space is left and be thankful I don’t order you to camp outside the fort until I lead my men out tomorrow. Now get them out of my sight.’ Cato dismissed him.

Fortunus saluted and turned away to join his men as Cato and Macro looked on with grim expressions.

‘Now that,’ Macro said quietly, ‘is the most miserable fucking example of a soldier it has ever been my misfortune to meet.’

Cato cocked an eyebrow and glanced at his friend. ‘Really? What about that skinny recruit that joined the Second Legion back in Germania a while back? “A pointless streak of piss” was the phrase, as I recall.’

Macro shrugged. ‘Oh, that he was. Completely. But he turned out well enough in the end. The army made a decent soldier of him.’

‘I thank you for your faint praise.’

‘You don’t need me to praise you. Your record since then has done the job well enough.’

Cato experienced a ripple of unease. He never felt comfortable with his achievements, as if they were more the result of blind fortune than his own efforts and therefore he was as undeserving of praise as any man who had simply benefited from good luck. He cleared his throat.

‘Now you’ll have the chance to lick Fortunus and his men into shape while I am gone. Should keep you busy.’

‘That lot?’ Macro laughed bitterly. ‘Fat chance. In the case of Fortunus, literally. I’ll be lucky if the fort is still standing and habitable by the time the campaign is over.’

Some of the garrison had emerged from their barracks to inspect the new arrivals, and looked on with bemused smiles, or hurled good-natured insults at the Illyrians, who replied in kind before Fortunus ordered them to fall in, bellowing loudly – more to impress the senior officers at the fort than to encourage his men, Cato guessed. The auxiliaries shuffled into place, grounded their spears and waited for the last of their comrades to join them from amongst the camp followers.