Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘I’ll be fine. It’s time I learned how to stand on my own two feet,’ Cato replied lightly.

‘You’ve been doing that for many years. You don’t need me. The fact is that I’m the one who needs to be in the thick of the action. I can’t fucking stand to miss out.’

‘There will be other campaigns, Macro.’

‘I know.’ The veteran was silent for a moment. ‘There’s something I want you to do for me, sir.’

‘Name it.’

Macro replaced his dice in their box and held it out to Cato. ‘Take this with you.’

Cato looked puzzled. ‘Why? What for?’

‘For good luck. I was told they would bring me luck when I bought them. You saw how well I did at the table tonight. They’ve worked for me. Now they’ll do the same for you.’

‘Macro, I-’

‘Just take them, please. I’d be happier knowing you had them with you.’

Cato hesitated, until he saw the concerned look on Macro’s face. He smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll keep them close. You can have them back when I return.’

‘Good.’ Macro took up his crutch and struggled to his feet. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, sir. Good night.’

‘Good night, Centurion Macro.’

Macro limped off and closed the door behind him, leaving Cato alone in the dying light of the fire and the two rush torches still burning. He stared down at the box in his hand, then closed his fist over it and walked slowly towards his private quarters. Despite his misgivings about the workings of fate, he might just need all the luck he could get in the days to come.

‘I expect to see that you have worked your usual magic on Fortunus and his mob by the time I return,’ said Cato as he took one last look around the fort.

The garrison was formed up along the main thoroughfare that stretched across the fort, passing the arched entrance of the headquarters block. The riders of the mounted squadrons stood by their horses at the head of the column. Each mount was laden with hay netting and bags of oats. Behind them came the colour party with the collected standards of the two units under Cato’s command, followed by the legionaries, standing beside their laden marching yokes. At the rear was the small baggage train: fourteen carts carrying spare kit and marching rations, as well as four of the fort’s complement of bolt-throwers. The foot soldiers of the Thracian cohort, organised into two centuries, were assigned to protect the vehicles as well as forming the rearguard. It was the least-regarded duty for those on the march, since they had to endure the choking dust kicked up by those ahead of them during the summer, and negotiate the churned mud of winter.

It was the first hour of the day and the sun had not yet risen above the eastern rampart, though its light bathed the men of the replacement garrison in its rosy glow as they paced along the ramparts and stood watch on the platforms above the four gatehouses. In the shadow of the rampart the air seemed tinged with blue and felt chilly, so that the men were thankful for their thick military cloaks.

Macro leaned his crutch against the wall beside the entrance to headquarters and rubbed his hands together vigorously. ‘Don’t you worry. You’ll hardly recognise the Illyrians. Especially that tub of lard Fortunus. I see him as my personal challenge. He will shed the fat and get fit, or I’ll see that he dies in the process.’

‘No need to go that far,’ Cato responded. ‘Just make sure he can actually get into his armour. That will do.’

They shared a quick laugh and then Cato held out his hand. They clasped forearms.

‘Take care, sir.’

Cato detected the anxious tone behind his friend’s words. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Macro spoke earnestly. ‘Just watch yourself around that bastard Quintatus. Whatever he says, he’s still one of them devious bastards out for whatever he can get.’

‘I know. I’ll be careful.’

‘All right . . .’ Macro smiled self-consciously and quickly changed the subject. ‘And while you’re at it, take good care of my lads.’

Cato nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Crispus and make sure your cohort doesn’t come to grief.’

They both glanced towards the head of the legionary column and saw the tall figure of the centurion tapping his vine cane impatiently against his palm.

‘They’re in good hands,’ said Macro. ‘Crispus is a fine soldier. Reminds me of myself in younger days.’

‘Really? Then he’s grown some.’

Macro growled deep in his throat and gently pushed Cato’s arm away. ‘And fuck you too, sir,’ he muttered lightly. ‘Get going, and let me get on with sorting these Illyrian bastards out.’

Cato shot him a final smile and turned away to stride towards the head of the column, where Thraxis was holding his horse. As Centurion Crispus became aware of his approach, he quickly grounded his cane and drew a deep breath.

‘Column! Form line of march!’

The infantry instantly broke off their muted conversations and took up their yokes, shuffling the sturdy shafts into as comfortable a position as possible on their shoulders. The four squadrons of Thracians took the reins of their mounts and steadied them as Miro glanced round to make sure they were ready for the next order.

‘Second Thracian Cavalry! Prepare to mount . . . Mount!’

The riders grasped their saddle horns to lift themselves up and used the momentum to help them swing their legs over the backs of their horses before settling into the saddle and taking up the reins. With the tightly packed hay in nets fastened over the rumps of the horses, together with the bags of oats, it was no easy feat, and it took a moment before the lines were dressed and the cavalry stood ready. Cato was glad that his horse was simply saddled and free of such encumbrances. Thraxis handed him the reins and bent over to make a step with his hands. Once Cato’s boot was in place, the sturdy Thracian heaved the prefect up and Cato landed in his saddle with a modicum of grace. He adjusted his grip on the reins and sat as erect as he could as he looked back down the column and saw that every man was ready and waiting.

He drew a deep breath. ‘Open the gates!’

Fortunus snapped an order to the section of Illyrians standing by the gatehouse, and they rushed forward to remove the locking bar and draw the timber gates inwards, releasing a flood of dazzling sunlight that streamed into the fort. Cato was forced to squint as he raised his arm and swept it forward. ‘Column! Advance!’

He urged his horse into a walk and felt the familiar swaying motion as his mount clopped forward. Behind him rode Thraxis, carrying the prefect’s personal standard, then two of the headquarters clerks, followed by Decurion Miro and the first of the squadrons of Thracian cavalry, beneath their black banner with its depiction of a red crow, hanging limply from the crosspiece in the still morning air. As soon as they had cleared the ditch surrounding the fort, Miro ordered his squadron forward and they cantered past on either side of Cato and took up their place quarter of a mile ahead of the rest of the column, watching for any sign of the enemy.

As the last of the Thracian auxiliaries tramped out of the fort, Macro eased himself up on to his feet and took up his crutch. He picked his way towards the gatehouse as Fortunus shouted the order for the gates to be closed and barred, pausing at the foot of the wooden stairs rising up the rampart to the palisade.

‘You!’ He addressed the nearest of the Illyrians. ‘Help me up here.’

With the soldier supporting him on one side while using the crutch on the other, Macro hopped awkwardly from step to step until he reached the palisade, then clutched the roughly hewn logs as he stared down at the column snaking slowly along the valley. The sun had crested the rim of the hills to the east and the shadows rapidly began to shrink away as the day began. Macro stood and watched for a while longer, catching the twinkle of light on polished metal and squinting slightly as he strained to pick out the red cloak of the prefect close to the head of the column. He was worried for his friend. Over the years, they had become so accustomed to guarding each other’s backs, from enemies on all sides, that it felt unnatural to be watching helplessly as Cato marched to war.