Simon Scarrow - Britannia

‘Of course we are grateful. But what about the men’s families? What about our livelihoods?’

Macro sighed with irritation at the demanding tone of the civilian. ‘Like I said, this is an army outpost. I set the rules here, and you will abide by them. If any of your people break them, I will have them thrown out of the main gate to fend for themselves. If any of my men try to cross the line into your part of the fort without permission, I’ll have them flogged. If you have any objection to these arrangements, then I suggest you have a word with your friend Fortunus. I’m betting the two of you had a cosy little relationship back at Viroconium. If he can’t deliver on his side of it now that you’re here, then that’s your problem. You are free to leave at any time. However, if you choose to stay, then you live under my authority and there is no more to be said on the matter.’

Venistus opened his mouth to remonstrate, but had the wit to still his tongue. Macro glared at him, defying him to protest. The civilian’s gaze slipped away and he stared meekly at the floor between them.

‘That’s better,’ said Macro. ‘Now you take care of your people and keep them out of my way and out of trouble and we shall get on well enough. Once I have the Illyrians in hand, then perhaps we can arrange for them to have access to the stables once in a while as a reward.’

Venistus looked up hopefully.

‘But only if everyone keeps to the rules,’ Macro said firmly.

A figure entered the hall and Macro glanced aside to see Optio Pandarus turn towards his quarters and pause as he caught sight of his superior in conversation with the civilian. Macro waved him on. ‘I’ll join you in a moment.’

‘Yes, sir.’

He turned back to Venistus. ‘You know where you stand. In future, if you wish to speak with me, then wait until evening watch is sounded. I will not have you interrupt the day-to-day running of the fort, is that understood?’

‘Yes, Centurion.’

‘Then you may go.’

Venistus bowed his head again and backed away respectfully before turning to leave the hall. Macro watched him depart, gratified that he had put the man in his place, but still frustrated that he had had to deal with the matter at all. It was outside the remit of soldiering as he understood it, and he wondered briefly how Cato might have handled the matter. Perhaps this was precisely the kind of thing that was part and parcel of being a senior officer, he mused. An ability to deal with a range of unexpected and unwanted situations that had little to do with the everyday routines of commanding a line unit. If this was what promotion brought with it, then he wanted none of it, he concluded bitterly.

He let out a deep sigh and turned to limp across the hall to the door leading through to his office and the modest quarters that lay beyond. Pandarus was standing at ease in front of the desk as Macro entered and shuffled round to the chair before slumping down with a grunt. He leaned his crutch against the edge of the table as he addressed the optio.

‘It seems you are now the senior cavalry officer in the fort, but don’t let it go to your head.’

Pandarus grinned. He was an amiable type, one of the shrinking number of men from the first draft of Thracians who had made up the cohort when it had been formed a few years earlier in a small town on the north shore of the Aegean Sea. The campaigns in Britannia had whittled their ranks down, and the replacements had been drawn mostly from Gaul, from tribes skilled at horse-riding. The recent losses of so many experienced men had helped Pandarus to achieve his recent promotion to optio. When Macro had first encountered the unit, they had resembled wild hill men, wrapped in furs and dark cloaks and wearing their hair long and unkempt. Thanks to the dilution of the original Thracians, the troopers of the cohort now tended to look more like the longer-established auxiliary units. The cloaks and furs remained, but they had braided their hair and favoured long Celtic moustaches instead of beards. As far as the enemy knew, however, this was the same cavalry unit that had terrorised the lands of the Silures, and they dreaded the very sight of the red crow on the black background of the cohort’s standard.

‘Your ten men are all that I have to do the work of a cohort,’ Macro continued. ‘We still need to mount patrols of the surrounding area. The difference now is that you’re going to have to behave like the prey rather than the hunter. I want you to lead each patrol in person, and take five men with you. The others will stay here in case I need to send a message to Viroconium in a hurry. When you are out in the hills, stay out of sight of the locals. On no account are you to get into any kind of contact with the enemy, no matter how tempting. I cannot afford to lose a single trooper. I just want you to observe and report back. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pandarus nodded and then pursed his lips. ‘Are we really expecting trouble, sir? The enemy will have their hands full dealing with Quintatus.’

‘You should know how it goes by now, Optio. You’ve been here long enough. Every time the army pushes forward, it needs to disperse its troops to garrison the territory we’ve gained. That keeps things under control as long as the enemy does not concentrate its forces so they are strong enough to pick off our outposts. If they do mass their warriors, then we have to pull our forces together to confront them, and that means stripping out every available man from forts like this. Which makes us vulnerable. I hope you’re right about the legate, but I’m not taking any risks. If the enemy intends to give us a kicking, then I want to be warned about it in good time.’ He looked at the optio frankly. ‘You are the eyes and ears of the garrison, Pandarus.’

‘You can count on me, sir.’

‘I didn’t doubt it. Pick the best of your men to ride with you, and make sure they know the score. I don’t want heroes, I want information. Starting from tomorrow, you will conduct a daily sweep of the hills to the west. Any settlement you encounter, or any band of hunters or armed men, take down their number and location and report back.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s all. You’re dismissed . . . Wait! One more thing.’

‘Sir?

‘I’ll need a servant.’ Macro patted his thigh. ‘While I’m getting over this bastard wound. One of yours will do. Who can you spare?’

The optio thought quickly. ‘Bortamis, sir. He’s the strongest of us, but also the largest, and he’ll slow me down. He’ll be remaining at the fort.’

‘Bortamis, then. You’d better tell him the good news. I’ll need him first thing in the morning. He’s to bring his kit and use the storeroom of the main hall. You can go.’

They swapped a salute and Pandarus left the office. Macro eased himself back and gently rubbed the dressing above his knee. It itched badly, but the surgeon had told him not to worry it for fear of reopening the wound. So he had to content himself with gentle pressure that only seemed to make it worse.

‘Fuck . . .’ he growled bitterly as he allowed himself to dwell on his situation. ‘Sitting here nursemaiding those soft Illyrian slackers while the army goes off to fight. It ain’t right. It ain’t right at all.’ He cleared his throat and spat into the corner of the room. ‘I bet Cato’s having a right old time of it.’

Cato sat hunched in his saddle, trying to take advantage of what little warmth remained in his body. His tunic and cloak were soaked through, and the rain pinged relentlessly off his helmet, all but drowning out the harsh hiss of the downfall around him. Behind him stretched the mounted squadrons of the Blood Crows, and behind them the infantry, men and horses alike drenched by the icy rain and sleet that had beset the army from the first day of the advance. The rough track that they had followed into the hills had become a sucking quagmire the moment the first hundred men had churned it up, and the baggage train required the constant assistance of the escorting troops to keep the wheels of the heavy wagons turning. Instead of the anticipated eighteen miles a day, they had been managing no more than half that since they had set out from Mediolanum, at the price of exhausting the men so that they took far longer than usual to erect a marching camp each night.