Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Looking around the table, Cato saw that the officers had finished their meal and shoved their platters to one side as they concentrated on their wine. He beckoned to Thraxis and indicated that he wanted him to clear the table.

Thraxis took up his commander’s platter and knife first, leaning in as he muttered, ‘Sir, we’re down to the last amphora of wine. Do you wish me to open it? There will be next to no chance of picking up any more while we’re on the march.’

‘Maybe so, but I can live without wine, and besides, I’ll need a clear head. Which is more than the others will have come the morning. But let them enjoy the moment . . . Yes, bring them wine.’

Thraxis clicked his tongue. ‘As you wish, sir.’

Once the table was cleared and the wine jug was replenished, Macro took a set of carved ivory dice from a small box. ‘Now for some sport with my lucky dice, eh, boys? A chance for me to clean you out. You won’t need much silver where you’re going.’

Crispus leaned his elbows on the table and grinned. ‘I’m game.’

‘Who else?’ asked Macro, glancing round. ‘How about you, Fortunus?’

The new arrival nodded and set down a surprisingly heavy-looking purse. ‘Why not? Always good to supplement my army pay.’

Macro’s eyebrows rose. ‘I admire your confidence. What about you, sir?’

Cato hesitated. He did not like playing dice on principle. There was no skill, just random luck, no matter what those who loved the game said. It seemed ludicrous to hazard the small fortunes that were routinely gambled by soldiers. It often caused as much bad feeling as enjoyment, and dice games were the cause of frequent fights, and not a few deaths. However, it was a long-established tradition, and any commander who attempted to curb his men’s urge to gamble risked causing considerable bad feeling in the ranks. Sometimes, Cato reasoned, it was better to overlook such vices and take part, in order to better understand those around him.

Stifling a sigh, he sent Thraxis to bring him fifty denarii from the strongbox in his quarters, a sum he could barely afford to lose but one that did not appear unduly parsimonious to his guests. He had no wish to be shown up by Centurion Fortunus.

Once everyone’s stake money lay on the table, Macro called for a spare beaker for the dice as his companions placed their bets. Cato examined the circles Macro had chalked on the table and placed a coin on number 7, then, steeling himself, added a second. He watched as the others placed their bets, some going for the higher odds, others spreading their bets. Cato noted each man’s strategy, and wondered how much it revealed of their personality; whether they were risk-takers, or whether they played safe. He watched curiously as Fortunus placed a coin on 12 and then three more beside Cato’s stake. Macro was the last to bet. He sized up the others’ positions and then slid five coins on to the circle marked 6.

‘All ready?’

He covered the beaker and shook it hard so the dice rattled noisily inside. Then, with a muttered plea to Fortuna, he tossed the dice on to the table. They bounced and settled and the officers leaned forward to inspect the result.

‘Six!’ Macro shouted with glee. ‘Lucky six for Fortune’s centurion!’

The others muttered curses, save Croton, who had placed a bet on an even number and smiled broadly. Macro flicked a coin across to him and drew all the others to one side to form the pot, from which he extracted his winnings. Then he looked up eagerly. ‘Tough luck, lads. Time to go again.’

While the others reached for fresh coins, Centurion Fortunus reached out a puffy-fingered hand. He picked up the dice and held them up to the light as he inspected them, rolling them in his palm to test their weight and balance. Macro’s smiled faded.

‘Something wrong, Fortunus?’

‘No. Not at all. Just admiring these. A very fine set, if I may say so, sir. Must have cost you. Where did you get them?’

‘Syria.’

‘Ah, Syria . . .’ Fortunus nodded sagely. ‘Of course.’

Macro’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’

‘Just that that would explain their quality, sir.’ Fortunus placed the dice back on the table. He waited until the last of the others had placed their bets, then slid a coin on to 6 and sat back on his stool. Cato sensed his suspicion, but thought it misplaced. Macro was not the kind of player who cheated. He preferred the honest excitement of the game over the prospect of winning under a cloud of dishonest guilt.

Cato played for the odds again and bet on 7. Once again the dice rattled and rapped sharply on the table before yielding their result.

‘Two! Castor and Pollux!’ Macro exclaimed. ‘Fuck my luck . . .’

As the game continued, punctuated by expectant silence, uproar and excited exchanges, each man took his turn at throwing the dice for a few rounds. Cato saw that some muttered prayers, some closed their eyes as their lips moved soundlessly, while others were more matter-of-fact and gave a quick shake before casting. None of which seemed to divert the inexorable good fortune of Macro and Fortunus, whose piles of coins grew steadily while the others shrank. At the sound of the trumpet announcing the change of the watch, Cato decided it was time to put an end to proceedings.

‘Last round, gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘We have a long day ahead of us.’

The others nodded blearily and prepared for the final cast of the dice. Looking down, Cato saw that he had eight coins left. With as much good humour as he could muster, he slid them on to the circle marked with a 10. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

The final bets were placed and then Macro passed him the dice in the beaker. ‘The honour is yours, sir.’

Cato took the beaker with a grateful nod and held it up. ‘Best of luck to you all.’

He shook it hard, the dice beating a shrill tempo close to his ear. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw them on to the table, where they bounced high, then again, and rattled to a stop. There was the briefest of pauses before Fortunus snorted with disgust.

‘Ten! Of all the luck . . .’ He puffed his cheeks and shook his head. ‘Never mind. I’ve done all right. Well done, sir. A skilful throw.’

Cato was disappointed by the glib flattery. ‘There is no skill in this game. You can only play the odds.’

Macro’s brow creased. ‘Then how do you explain why some men win more than others, sir?’

‘That’s life, Macro,’ Cato replied patiently. ‘Just life.’

‘If you say so.’ Macro counted out some coins and slid the small heap over to Cato. ‘I’d say you have come out about even, sir.’

‘Like I said. Nothing gained.’ He swept the coins into the purse that Thraxis had brought from his chest, and the others likewise gathered up what they had left. ‘That concludes the occasion. I thank you all for your company. We’ve made a fine night of it.’

The officers mumbled their thanks, more or less coherently, as stools scraped on the flagstone floor and they rose to their feet, making for the door leading out to the small courtyard of the headquarters block. Macro remained seated, gently rubbing the skin around his dressing.

‘Giving you some grief?’

Macro sniffed. ‘Just itches from time to time, like a bastard.’

‘It won’t be for much longer.’

Macro looked up with a sober expression. ‘Long enough . . . Long enough to have to sit on my arse and watch you lead my cohort out to battle.’

‘Not all of the cohort. I’ve decided to leave you two sections of legionaries, to provide some backbone to the garrison. And ten of the mounted contingent from the Blood Crows. You’ll need them for patrolling and dispatches.’

‘Fair enough. Thanks . . . Take care, my friend.’