Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Macro turned his head and spat into the open drain running past the headquarters block. ‘I could train monkeys to drill better than that lot. They’re a fucking disgrace.’

‘Well, now they’re all yours, my friend.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

Cato chuckled. ‘Just keep ’em out of trouble. And look after my fort. And make sure you rest that leg as much as you can. I want you back on your feet and ready to stick it to the enemy as soon as possible. How is it coming on, by the way?’

Macro patted his thigh above the dressing. ‘The scar is healing nicely. But the muscle hurts like buggery and feels like it’s pulled in every direction. Still not good enough to put much weight on, and too stiff to walk without looking like a Subura whore after a double shift.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve had worse, but nothing quite as humiliating as being picked off by some native kid. Still, he had balls, I’ll say that for him.’

‘Him and all the other barbarians in these mountains.’ Cato’s mood soured as his thoughts returned to the coming campaign. It was a bad time of year to commence a large-scale military operation. The army would begin its march with the autumn well advanced, and the frequent rain in these lands would quickly make the ground hard going for the baggage train, not to mention the miserable prospect for the infantry of plodding through the glutinous mud of the native tracks, which would quickly be churned up by the hooves, wheels and nailed boots of the Roman column. The natives would have the advantage of being familiar with the ground, and would no doubt attempt to continue with the harrying tactics that had served them well in earlier campaigns.

However, if the legate’s aim to use brute force and ruthlessness to shatter the Deceanglians and the Druids produced the anticipated results, there was a good chance that the army could return to their winter quarters before the short, cold days of the season settled over Britannia. Already the chill and the damp had begun to make Cato’s hand ache where he had endured his own arrow wound earlier that year. He rubbed the knotted white scar tissue behind his knuckles and on his palm and felt the familiar tingle that shot down to his fingertips and up his arm as far as his elbow.

Macro saw him wince. ‘Hand still troubling you, sir?’

Cato dropped his arms to his sides. ‘Just thinking.’

He glanced round to make certain they would not be overheard. The sentry at the entrance to headquarters was the closest other person, and Cato lowered his voice to be safe. ‘Have you had a chance to consider what I told you?’

‘About Quintatus? Yes, I’ve thought about it. Can’t say I’m happy to throw my lot in with another schemer after all we’ve been through with Narcissus.’

‘Me neither. But I don’t think we’ve got much choice in the matter. It’s true what he says. Narcissus’s star is waning. He won’t be able to offer us any protection soon. He won’t even be able to protect himself.’

‘Well I shan’t be grieving for him when the snake has to fall on his sword. Shit, I’d be more than happy to lend him my blade to do the job. Or stick it in him if he lacked the guts to see it through.’ Macro smiled grimly at the thought of providing the necessary service to the imperial secretary.

‘It’s not him I’m worried about,’ Cato continued. ‘It’s us. And those who depend on us.’

‘You need not worry about Julia. Her father would look after her. Sempronius is popular enough in the Senate to make Pallas think twice before making an enemy of him.’

‘I hope so. But I don’t think Pallas is the kind of man who would baulk at the thought of making enemies in the Senate. Not while he has the ear of the emperor’s wife, and the chance to put Nero on the throne. Much as I despise the idea of becoming followers of Quintatus, it would be the sensible thing to do. For now, at least. If for any reason Pallas falls from favour, then we can cut our ties to the legate.’

Macro sighed deeply. ‘We shouldn’t have to live like this, Cato. We’re soldiers. Not spies. Not assassins. Certainly not servants of some bloody freedman with ideas above his station in life. I am bloody sick of living under the threat of being knocked on the head, right here at the arse-end of the world, about as far away from Rome as you can get, just because I have pissed off some flunkey back in Rome.’

‘Believe me, Macro, I share your feeling. But wishes are cheap, and no help to us right now. I don’t see that we have any real choice. Not if we don’t want to spend every day guarding our backs. We’ve got enough to worry about dealing with the enemy. Much of Britannia is a province in name only. There’s plenty of work for us here.’ He paused and ran a hand over his dark curls. ‘Time enough to demonstrate that we’re more use to the empire alive than dead.’

‘Fuck that!’ Macro’s expression darkened. ‘We don’t have anything to prove to anyone, Cato. Not us. We’ve shed our blood time and again for Rome. And sweated our guts out on long marches through hostile lands. Not to mention wading through all the shit of Narcissus’s dark little schemes. We’ve earned the right to be left alone to get on with our lives. We’ve earned it a thousand times over.’

‘Macro-’

The centurion shook his head. ‘I won’t do it. I’m not going to trade Narcissus for Pallas. I’m not going to be the lackey of a scheming aristocrat like Quintatus. No! Never again. From now on, my only loyalty is going to be to my comrades, and Rome. If you want to continue playing games with the likes of Quintatus and Pallas then that’s up to you. But I’ll have no part of it, see?’

Cato recognised that his friend was determined in his desire to escape from the lethal world of politics and plotting. This was not the occasion to try and reason with him. There was not enough time, or privacy, in which to talk it through. Besides, he sympathised with the principles behind Macro’s position, dangerous though they might be. Neither of them deserved to be treated as the tool of self-regarding men whose only care was the pursuit of power. But such men paid scant regard to the idea of principle, and were unlikely to be impressed by the stand that Macro was taking. Worse, they might even regard it as an act of defiance. One thing that Cato had learned about the likes of Pallas was that they did not tolerate defiance. To be seen to do so would imply weakness. An example had to be provided to all others who might be tempted to similar acts. Macro was playing with fire. In doing so, he was placing not only himself in grave danger, but Cato as well.

As night fell over the fort, the usual routines of posting the first watch and distributing the watchword continued with little regard for the unaccustomed presence of women and children. The shrill cries of the latter as they played in the lanes between the barracks and the other buildings lent the fort the ambience of a small village rather than an outpost of empire on a hostile and dangerous frontier.

At headquarters, Cato was hosting a meal for the officers of the garrison. He had not intended to, but the delay in marching meant remaining in the fort an additional night, and since all preparations had been made, there was little for the officers to do. Thraxis had slaughtered the last of the suckling pigs owned by the prefect, and roasted it with a honey glaze. Macro rubbed his hands in glee as the glistening side of pork was brought out on a large wooden platter and set down on the long table in the main hall of the headquarters block. The meat was accompanied by bread, cheese and the best of the remaining wine. Aside from Macro, Cato had invited Crispus and the centurions from the legionary cohort, as well as the decurions of his own auxiliary cohort.