Simon Scarrow - Britannia

No, not helplessly, Macro corrected himself. He had a job to do. Cato had left him in command of the fort and the replacement garrison. That would keep him occupied and give him something useful to do. He smiled to himself at the prospect of what he had in store for Fortunus and his Illyrians. It would be like old times.

The head of the column crested a small hill at the mouth of the valley and began to disappear from view, like a shimmering insect. Given the season, and the recent rain, there was none of the usual dust that was kicked up in the wake of soldiers, horses and carts on the move, and Macro was clearly able to see the last of the men reach the top of the hill and disappear from sight. Then the valley was still, and the quiet landscape stretched out around the fort nestling between the two forested ridges that led into the mountainous land of the Ordovices. Autumn was well advanced, and the branches of many of the trees were almost bare, while the ground beneath lay covered in brown and yellow leaves. Macro sniffed the air. He liked the dank, musty odour at this time of year, and the way the sunlight seemed to bring out the richness of the colours of nature.

He stood erect quite suddenly and frowned with irritation.

‘What the fuck am I thinking?’ he muttered. ‘Poncing around like a bloody poet.’

Taking up his crutch, he turned to look over the fort, and soon spied Fortunus sitting with his optio on stools outside the barrack block his century had been assigned. Macro filled his lungs and bellowed down from the rampart, loudly enough to be heard easily throughout the fort.

‘Centurion Fortunus! I want you and your officers at headquarters as soon as the morning watch is changed. Hear me?’

Fortunus struggled to his feet and saluted. Macro nodded curtly and beckoned to the auxiliary to help him back down the steps, his heart warmed by the thought that he would no longer be subject to the fussy care of the surgeon, who had marched off with Cato.

It felt unusual to be sitting the other side of the desk. Fortunus, Appilus and their optios stood facing Macro, together with the senior legionary of the section Cato had left behind. Lucius Diodorus had served over ten years in the Fourteenth, nearly all of that time in Britannia. He had mousy hair, left rather too long and unkempt for Macro’s taste, and a puckered white scar on his cheek. Tall and well built, and with a good record, he seemed a sensible choice for the role of drill instructor. The auxiliary optios, by contrast, looked as useless as the two centurions. Saphros was a small, wiry man in his late thirties with a cunning expression, while Mago was heavily built and dull-looking. The kind of man who might have had a brief career in the arena, where his brute strength would have seen him through until he met an opponent with even a grain of guile.

Macro sighed softly. Such was the stuff of which his new command was made. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table as he addressed Fortunus. ‘Have the men moved into their barracks?’

‘Yes, sir. Just about.’

Cato had assigned them to the blocks closest to the stables, where the camp followers had been lodged, but Macro had a different view of arrangements.

‘Then herd ’em up to the barracks opposite headquarters. I want them moved there as soon as you are dismissed.’

Fortunus looked puzzled. ‘Move them? Again?’

‘That’s what I said. I want them where I can see ’em. And I don’t want them anywhere near that rabble in the stables until they are off duty. Even then, the men will sleep in their barracks. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir. But is it necessary?’

‘Are you questioning my orders, Centurion Fortunus?’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘Then you will do as I say. This is an army outpost, not a bloody veterans’ colony. I want your men to act like proper soldiers, even if they fall rather short of being proper soldiers. That’s where Diodorus comes in. I have chosen him to help me knock them into shape.’

Fortunus bridled. ‘The Eighth Illyrian are a good unit, sir. We’re not raw recruits. You saw the battle honours on our standards.’

‘I did. So tell me, how recently were those awarded?’

Fortunus shifted his weight on to the other foot. ‘Before my time, sir.’

‘I see. Then when were you and your unit last in a fight?’

‘Back in Pannonia, sir. A few years before we were ordered to Britannia.’

Macro’s brow creased briefly in concentration. ‘I don’t recall hearing about any war in Pannonia.’

‘It was not a war as such. The cohort was ordered to quash an uprising, sir.’

‘Oh? Tell me more.’

‘There were some villages who refused to pay their taxes. We were sent in to restore order.’

‘So you knocked a few heads together, razed the odd building and so on, right?’

Fortunus flushed. ‘You could put it that way, sir. But as I recall, the locals were very hostile indeed.’

‘I dare say they were. Let me guess. They shouted insults at you and followed up with lobbing a few stones, or turds, and you chased them off.’

Fortunus opened his mouth to protest, then paused, thought a moment and pressed his lips together in a thin line.

Macro nodded. ‘Thought so. This is no place for a glorified town watch. We’re right on the frontier, facing an enemy who will fight to the last breath. And they’re wily buggers too. Somewhat more of a challenge than a bunch of surly taxpayers. The gods only know why some idiot at the imperial palace selected your unit to be sent to Britannia. Though it does explain why you’ve been kept back with the reserves. But you’re here now, and you have to be fit and ready to fight properly. I’ll see to that.

‘First thing you need to know is that I am far from happy that you’ve arrived with camp followers in tow. In different circumstances I wouldn’t have let them inside the fort. But being where we are, that would be tantamount to leaving them to the mercy of the enemy. So I am stuck with them. But that doesn’t mean they won’t be subject to the same discipline as the garrison. I want you to appoint a leader of the civilians. Someone reliable and preferably trustworthy. He will be responsible for seeing that they abide by the fort’s rules and regulations. Do you know any likely candidates?’

Fortunus and Appilus exchanged a look before the latter spoke.

‘What about Venistus? Most people look up to him.’

Fortunus nodded. ‘He’s the best man.’

‘Venistus it is, then,’ Macro announced. ‘You can break the good news to him and tell him to come and see me at once, so I can explain his duties.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I want a barrier set up across the fort to keep the civilians in their area. No one is to move to or from the civilian blocks unless they are on duty or have authorisation.’

‘Sir, some of the men have families . . .’

‘Not according to military regulations they don’t. The army does not allow marriage, or families, for rankers. Your men might need reminding of that.’

‘That may be true, sir, but it’s a long-established custom.’

‘Not in my fort it isn’t,’ Macro responded tersely. ‘And if they don’t like it, then they’re free to make their own way back to Viroconium.’ He sat up. ‘That’s all for now, gentlemen. You’re dismissed. Diodorus, stay behind.’

Fortunus and the others saluted, then left the office. When the door closed behind them, Macro turned his attention to Diodorus.

‘What do you think?’

The legionary’s expression remained neutral. ‘Sir?’

‘You’ve seen the officers and the men of the Illyrian cohort. Thoughts?’

‘If I may speak freely, sir?’