Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘I do. Now wipe that foolish smile off your face.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The tribune looked a little crestfallen.

‘And who is this?’ Cato gestured towards the man at Livonius’s side.

‘Hieropates, sir. My private secretary and drafter of maps. He’s the real brains behind our double act.’

‘Is he now?’ Cato looked the man over more closely. Hieropates was clearly from the Eastern Empire, and didn’t look as if he was enjoying being sent to the far end of the emperor’s domain. His dark curly hair was streaked with grey, above a heavily lined face out of which two dark eyes gleamed. His cloak appeared bulky due to the layers of clothing beneath, and his head seemed to hunch into the folds of cloth about his neck, like a bird withdrawing into its nest. ‘You have experience of map-making amid such mountains?’ Cato gestured towards the grey outlines of the ridges stretching away to the west.

Hieropates bowed his head gracefully. ‘Indeed, sir. I and my master Livonius have mapped the eastern frontier from Cappadocia to Nubia, at the command of the Prefect of Syria.’

‘A slave, then?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And a bloody good teacher,’ Livonius intervened. ‘Old Hieropates has taught me all I know about making maps. And he taught Tribune Plinius before me, on whose recommendation my father bought Hieropates.’

Cato felt a pang of sympathy for the man. He was clearly well educated and might well believe that he deserved to be freed after giving many years of good service to his masters. As it was, he had been passed from one aristocratic family to another to educate the scions of their bloodline. And now here he was in Britannia, far from the warm comforts of the Eastern Empire. Cato smiled faintly at Livonius. ‘Then I am pleased that you are assigned to my column. I trust that you and your maps will serve the army well.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Livonius. ‘An army needs good maps just as much as it needs regular supplies, fortitude and the blessings of Fortuna. Between Hieropates and myself, we shall detail every step of the route the army takes in bringing the war to the enemy. We shall measure distances and sketch prominent landmarks so that we can shine a light into the darkest valley of the barbarians’ mountainous lands.’

‘Just as long as you don’t hold my column back in any way. We can’t afford to stop and wait for you to complete your little sketches and pacing-out of distances. You will need to keep up with us. If you don’t, I’ll leave you behind. Is that understood?’

The tribune looked chastened and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. You’ll ride with the fourth squadron of the Blood Crows. The decurion will remain in command and you will regard yourself as supernumeraries.’

Livonius was clearly struggling to contain his discomfort at being placed under the command of a man several ranks beneath his own, and Cato relented.

‘How long have you been in Britannia, Tribune?’

‘Nearly three months, sir.’

‘Three months . . .’ The prefect sighed. It was unlikely that Livonius had much grasp of conditions in Britannia. While Cato appreciated the need for such young men to get some military experience early on in their careers, they tended to serve for too short a time. Most were attached to legions on garrison duty and merely had to adjust to the daily routine of such a life. Livonius had picked the short straw, thrown into a posting where he would need to learn fast just to stay alive. Still, it might be the making of him, if he survived the experience. And Crispus had vouched for him at least. Cato forced himself to smile encouragingly. ‘Well then, you’ll have something to tell your family when you return to Rome. Observe all that you can, Livonius, and listen to any advice the veterans give you. That’s the best way to learn the craft of soldiering.’

‘Yes, sir . . . Thank you.’

Cato wheeled his mount around and glanced back down the column. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of the men he was about to lead against their adversaries, the vanguard of the entire army launching itself against the enemy warriors and their Druid allies. He had fought and shed blood alongside these men and knew that they shared his pleasure in the hard-fighting reputation that both units had garnered since he had taken command. It was a pity that Macro was not here to share the moment with him, he reflected briefly.

He raised his arm and drew a deep breath. ‘Blood Crows! Fourth Cohort! Prepare to advance!’

The legionaries and auxiliary infantry bent down to lift their shields, while the riders eased their mounts into two columns and adjusted their reins. Cato waited until the last of the men was ready before he turned his horse away from the army’s camp and swept his arm down to point along the track leading towards the hills and mountains. A dull overcast made them seem more distant, and already he could see a broad band of darker clouds rolling in from the north, threatening rain.

‘Column . . . advance!’

Centurion Macro was sitting on a camp stool on the grass mound beside the modest training area that had been levelled by his legionaries shortly after they had completed the fort itself. Taking advantage of the nearest expanse of flat ground outside the fort, they had removed rocks and clumps of gorse bushes and scythed down the long grass to clear space for the garrison to conduct its training sessions. At one end stood a line of wooden posts, at which Fortunus’s men stood in files, each auxiliary waiting to take his turn at hacking the target. The steady clatter of their swords striking the posts filled the air, until Optio Diodorus blew his whistle to signal the changeover. Panting men broke away from the stakes and trotted to the rear of each file before the whistle sounded again and the sword drill resumed.

The other Illyrian century was marching around the training ground, breaking into a trot on each of the longer sides of the rough rectangle. They came puffing past Macro, kit clinking as they struggled to keep up with their commander. Centurion Appilus maintained a steady pace, his crest bobbing as he led his men on. Now and then he dropped to the side, marking time as he shouted threats at those lagging behind their comrades.

‘Pick those bloody feet up! Move yourselves! Any man who falls more than a length behind the century is on latrine duty for the next ten days!’

Macro nodded approvingly. Despite his thin frame and the lack of an eye, Appilus was a decent officer who appeared to know his trade, unlike Fortunus, who was at that moment flailing away at one of the stakes, urged on by the optio. When the whistle blew again, the centurion bent forward, gasping for breath, before stumbling to the rear of his file. This was only the second day of training, and Macro was already starting to pick out the more fit and able of the Illyrian auxiliaries. Men who could be depended on if it came to a fight. Of the rest, there were some who merely needed exercise, while others needed to improve their drilling. Only a handful were no-hopers – too old to serve in a front-line capacity. One of those from Appilus’s century had already fallen out of formation, slumping to his knees, shield grounded to one side as he struggled to prop himself up with his javelin shaft. At once the centurion shouted at the rest to keep going before doubling back to stand over the hapless straggler.

‘On your feet!’

The soldier tried to rise, but fell back and shook his head.

‘That was fucking pathetic!’ Appilus bellowed, hefting his vine cane as he glared dangerously with his remaining eye. ‘On your feet, you fat bastard. I won’t tell you again.’

The man on his knees made no effort to obey, and Appilus lashed out with his stick, striking the soldier on the backside. He let out a yelp before scrambling up and staggering after his comrades.