Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘Please do.’

‘They’re a useless shower. They don’t march in step, they don’t look after their kit and they don’t look after themselves. Some of them are old enough to be my grandad, and others are young enough to be my son. Gods forbid, but if it comes to a fight, the only danger they pose is that the enemy may die laughing at the fucking spectacle presented by Centurion Fortunus and his men. Other than that, they’re a fine body of men who do the emperor proud, sir.’

Macro smiled. ‘My thoughts, more or less. They’re shockers right enough. But now they’re your problem, Optio Diodorus.’ He saw the brief flicker of confusion in the legionary’s eyes before the sestertius dropped. ‘That’s right, I’m giving you a field promotion. You know the drills. I want you to begin working the Illyrians from tomorrow. Get ’em fit first. Then move on to weapons training. I want Fortunus and his layabouts ready for action as soon as possible.’

‘You think we’re likely to be attacked, sir?’

‘More likely than ever, Diodorus. You can count on it that the enemy will know about the change in the garrison here. They’ll be aware that the fort’s strength has been reduced. Once the legate opens his campaign, they’ll also know that there will be no relief column marching to our aid from Viroconium in the event of an attack. It’ll be as good a time as any to try to take the fort.’

The optio nodded. ‘I see, sir.’

‘Then you’ll also see why we have to toughen the Illyrians up as soon as possible. Much as I like training soldiers, I’m not just doing it to keep myself entertained. If it comes to a fight, we need to know that Fortunus and his men can be relied upon. And that goes for the civilians, too. Any man there who is fit enough to train is to join the auxiliaries. Pray that we don’t need them. But if the enemy does try to seize the opportunity, then they’ll face as many swords as we can find to man the fort’s walls.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll do what I can to help, but until I can get rid of this bloody crutch, it’s up to you to train those bastards. I think you’re the right man for the job, Diodorus, but do you?’

The legionary drew himself up to his full height. ‘I won’t let you down, sir.’

‘Glad to hear it. Dismissed!’

They exchanged a salute, and the newly appointed optio turned on his heel and marched out of the room. As Macro listened to his steps echoing through the main hall of the headquarters block, he smiled. This was what proper soldiering was about. Training men for war, and then, if need be, putting that training into practice. It was what he was born to do.

More footsteps approached the office, and one of the handful of clerks Cato had left behind knocked on the door frame and entered. He was carrying an armful of waxed tablets.

‘What’s that lot?’ Macro demanded.

‘Report on the damage to the granary, sir. One of the piles collapsed and the rats got into the grain. Ruined ten modii of barley. Then there’s the promotion authority for Diodorus, sir. The rest are the strength returns and records for the Illyrians. I assumed you’d want to see them.’

‘Of course. On the desk.’

The clerk unloaded his burden and left Macro staring at the pile of tablets. He let out a frustrated hiss. So much for proper soldiering. If Cato had still been here, he would have been dealing with all the paperwork. ‘The lucky bastard,’ muttered the centurion sourly.Then, for the first time, he saw the small dice box near the edge of the desk, half hidden beneath a waxed slate, and felt his guts lurch. His friend had forgotten to take the lucky dice with him. Macro could not help thinking it was a bad omen. A bad omen indeed.

‘Prefect Cato, greetings!’ Legate Quintatus smiled warmly as he looked up from his evening meal. ‘Come, sit with me and I’ll send for some more food.’

‘Thank you, sir, but no. My men have force-marched to get here. They’re tired and I need to see that they’re assigned tent lines and find some food for them. I just came to report my arrival.’

‘Look after the men first, eh? Good for you. I wish there were more officers like you.’ The legate chewed quickly and swallowed. Then his expression became formal. ‘So why the forced march and the later than expected arrival?’

‘We were delayed because our replacements were late in arriving, sir. I did not think it prudent to leave the fort without a garrison.’

‘And why were the Illyrians late, I wonder?’

Cato did not feel comfortable informing on a fellow officer, but he had been asked directly, and Fortunus had done nothing to deserve being defended.

‘It might have had something to do with the camp followers that came with them.’

Quintatus raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Camp followers? Who would authorise that? No, wait! Let me guess. It would be that corrupt dog, the prefect of the Eighth. No doubt he took a decent backhander from the centurion on behalf of the families and traders who supply his men.’ He laughed briefly. ‘That Placidus is an ambitious fellow. He has the necessary greed and venality to go far in the world. Perhaps I should keep an eye on him.’

‘That might be a wise notion, sir, given that he should be furthering the military aims of Rome rather than lining his own purse.’

Quintatus eyed Cato warily. ‘Not all of us share the same highly developed sense of morality that you clearly think you possess in such abundance.’

Cato stiffened. ‘I merely wish to serve Rome to the best of my ability, sir. And I expect others to do the same.’

‘Do you? Why, I wonder? I find it hard to believe that someone with your undoubted intelligence and experience would insist on such a naive sense of duty from those higher up the scale than the common soldiery. The Glory of Rome is an idea that the aristocrats have sold to the plebs since the earliest days of the Republic, in order to justify their self-aggrandisement.’

Cato experienced an instant of cold fury at the other man’s cynicism. ‘I imagine you are right in some cases, sir. But there are men of honour even in the Senate.’

‘Then they’re fools, and you’re a fool for believing in them.’ All trace of good humour had faded from the legate’s face. ‘I had hoped for better from you, Cato. After all you have done in the service of Narcissus, I had considered you a man after my own heart.’

‘I am not sorry that I have disappointed you, sir.’

There was a brief pause as the men stared at each other and the muffled sounds of the army in camp continued heedlessly. At length Quintatus pushed his plate away, his appetite ruined. ‘Be careful what you say, and to whom you say it, Cato.’

‘I am not afraid of you, sir. Nor Pallas.’

‘You should be. Particularly of Pallas. He has a heart darker than Hades, and he is more cunning than a pit filled with snakes. I am a mere shadow of that man, yet I alone present more than enough of a threat to you.’

‘I am aware of that, sir,’ Cato said bitterly as he recalled the dangerous posting that Quintatus had assigned to him and Macro when they had arrived in Britannia earlier that year.

‘Then do I understand that you have decided not to offer your services to me?’

Cato felt a calmness in his mind. He had rehearsed this moment many times during the march from the fort. He breathed deeply before he framed his reply. ‘Sir, I respect your offer, and I respect your view of the realities of politics in Rome.’

‘But . . . ?’

‘But I do not share your ambitions or values. How could I? I was not born into the senatorial class. I have reached equestrian rank and have no expectation of ever becoming a member of the Senate. That naturally curtails any ambitious instinct I may have. But I am no fool, and I know that it would be better to serve you than be your enemy. If only for the sake of my friends and my family. I just wish you to know that I choose to serve you with a heavy heart.’