Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘That’s more like it! Keep going! You drop out again and I’ll take the bloody hide off you!’

They caught up with the rest of the unit and Appilus increased his pace until he had resumed his position at the head of the column. Macro drummed his fingers on the shaft of the crutch lying across his thighs. The straggler would only be the first of the day. The morning drill was not yet halfway through, and he knew that there would be many more who would fall out of formation before then. It looked like the latrines were going to be kept spotless for the next month or so, he reflected with a wry grin.

He swung the end of the crutch on to the ground and gritted his teeth as he stood. There was the familiar sharp stab of pain as his wounded leg took the load, and he adjusted his balance to favour his other limb. He swore under his breath and waited for the pain to pass. It would be a while yet before he would be able to walk comfortably. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he called over towards the men at the stakes.

‘Diodorus! On me!’

The acting optio hurried across to the reviewing mound and stood panting as he saluted his superior.

‘Give it a little longer and then swap them round,’ Macro ordered. ‘Work ’em hard. I want these layabouts to know what real soldiering feels like.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Give them a short break at midday, then get them in full marching gear and take them round the fort until they’ve covered eight miles. That should sort them out. Anyone who falls out knows what to expect.’

‘Latrines, sir?’

‘Indeed. While I’m in command of this fort, we’ll save shit-shovelling for the layabouts. They’ll get sick of the stink soon enough and put their backs into training. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right, I’m off. If you need me, I’m at headquarters.’

They exchanged a salute, and Diodorus turned away and hurried back to his charges. Macro took one last look around the training ground, then hobbled towards the track leading up to the fort’s main gate. As he approached, he saw that the legionaries charged with keeping watch from the ramparts were watching the auxiliaries with the broad smiles soldiers usually wore for less fortunate companions.

‘What the hell are you gawping at?’ Macro shouted at them. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping a lookout for the enemy, not watching those lazy bastards!’

The legionaries immediately returned to their stations and scanned the surrounding landscape intently.

Still wearing a scowl, Macro entered the fort and made his way to headquarters. One of the Blood Crows left behind by Cato was standing guard at the arched entrance and snapped his spear upright as the garrison’s commander passed by. With the departure of Cato and the rest of the fort’s standing garrison, the building was much quieter, and only two clerks remained at the desks just inside the main hall. Macro addressed the nearer of them.

‘I want Optio Pandarus in my office now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro was about to head towards the garrison commander’s quarters at the end of the hall when the clerk cleared his throat and nodded to one side. Following the direction, Macro saw a civilian sitting on a bench, looking at him expectantly.

‘He’s asked to see you, sir.’

‘Really? Who the hell is he?’

‘Venistus, sir. The man assigned to speak for the camp followers.’

Macro gritted his teeth as he considered this uninvited complication to his day. ‘What does he bloody well want?’

‘I don’t know, sir. He said he would only speak to the man in charge.’

‘The man in charge, eh?’ Macro sniffed. ‘This is an army outpost, not an inn on the Appian Way.’ He thought briefly about sending the civilian away with orders never to bother him again, but then he relented a fraction. Regardless of how he felt about the presence of the camp followers in the fort, they were here now, and unless he was prepared to order them to return to Viroconium, then he had better get used to the idea. If he sent them away, they would be easy prey for the enemy war bands that ranged through the borderlands between the mountain tribes and the new Roman province. Neither could he afford to send them back with an escort strong enough to guarantee their safety, not without putting the fort at risk. So for now, at least, he was stuck with them. And Venistus. He approached the man with a surly expression.

‘All right. What is it?’

Venistus stood up and smiled easily. ‘Centurion Macro I believe? We have not yet had the pleasure of making each other’s acquaintance.’

‘Pleasure does not come into it. Speak your mind and make it quick, Venistus.’

Macro’s abruptness barely fazed the civilian, even though he had spent many years in the company of soldiers. His smile did not falter as he bowed his head modestly. ‘I apologise for imposing on you, sir, but there are certain arrangements about our accommodation and living conditions that I fear I must bring to your attention.’

‘Really? Do tell me.’

‘As you know, sir, we were given permission by Legate Quintatus’s headquarters to accompany Centurion Fortunus and his men to this posting, and-’

‘You got this permission from the legate himself, I take it?’

‘Not as such, sir. No. It was authorised by a member of his headquarters staff.’

‘Someone with a greasy palm, I’ll wager.’

Venistus affected dawning realisation and then shock. ‘Sir, are you accusing me of offering a bribe to an imperial official?’

‘Do I really have to accuse you?’ Macro sniffed. ‘We both know it works, so let’s not waste time. What do you have to say?’

Venistus’s cordial expression disappeared and the hardened features of the market trader came to the fore. ‘You’ve put us in the stables, sir. Treating us no better than animals. Worse. We get the run-off from the barracks up the slope from us. The place stinks. Furthermore, you have confined us to that area and your men refuse to let us move freely about the fort, or indeed to leave the fort at any time. Many of the auxiliaries have families amongst the camp followers, sir. They are not being allowed to see them. This was not the arrangement that pertained back at Viroconium with the rest of the Illyrian cohort.’

‘I don’t suppose it was. But that might have more to do with how the prefect of the cohort chose to run things. The Eighth Illyrian is a joke, Venistus. Not fit to take its place in the battle line. Not even fit to be a reserve unit, let alone the garrison of a frontier outpost. That has to change. I will see to it. Those men are going to earn their bloody pay and perform like soldiers of the Roman army. Only then will I cut them some slack and let them enjoy the privileges of real soldiers. And if that means depriving them of their bed rights, then that’s just tough on them. Besides, it’ll give the tarts from the vicus a chance to rest.’

‘But they have to eat, sir. The soldiers are the only customers they have.’

‘They will eat. Food, at least. They get the same rations as the men, for now.’

‘For now?’

Macro nodded. ‘I’ll be asking headquarters for an escort to take you and your people back to Viroconium as soon as possible. I dare say that may take a while, given that there’ll only be a small garrison there now that the legate has taken the army into the mountains. And perhaps your man on the staff might find a way to scupper my plan. But I want you out. As for the accommodation, count yourself fortunate that I haven’t ordered you to set up a vicus outside the fort. At this time of year, shelter from the elements is at something of a premium. The stables may smell, but they are dry and they are safe. You might reflect on that with a bit more gratitude.’