Simon Scarrow - Britannia

Livonius looked startled, but then took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll find it.’

‘You’ll have to, Tribune. If you do not, then we’re all dead men.’

Cato’s bleak expression instantly told of the news from headquarters

‘How many does he want?’ asked Macro.

‘Ten from each cohort.’

‘On top of the volunteers? We’ve already given up fifteen volunteers as it is. And one of them was Portillus. He’s a good officer, and now he’s going to get himself killed.’

Cato sympathised with his friend, but there was no avoiding Quintatus’s order. ‘Ten more is what he said. It’s up to me to decide whether to select them or do it by lot.’

Macro craned his head so that he could read his friend’s expression more clearly by the flickering flame of the oil lamp. ‘And what have you decided? If you select them, there’s enough malingerers and bad apples to go round. We could fill the quota without too much effort. It would save the best men.’

Cato had rehearsed the arguments in his head as he made his way over to Macro’s tent. It was true that the logical choice was to pick those men whose deaths would be the least loss to their cohorts. However, the moral burden of choosing them was too heavy for Cato to endure, even though he was angry with himself for what he considered to be mere sentimentality. Officers were required to make difficult choices, or else they had no right to be officers in the first place. But there was something innately immoral about choosing men to die in this way. It could only cause bad feeling amongst the comrades of those who were picked, and that would poison the fierce elan of the men who served in the army’s rearguard. It was better that blind fate determined who would live and who would die.

It would not be so easy for the wounded, who lay in the tents closest to headquarters. They had each been given a dagger, and the surgeons had gone from man to man to explain the quickest and most painless way to inflict a mortal wound. Most had resolved to end their lives by their own hand, but Cato knew that some would lack the heart to do it, and those poor souls would have to endure whatever torment the Druids chose to inflict on them.

‘I will be selecting them by lot,’ he announced. ‘That goes for the Blood Crows. I will leave the choice of what happens in your cohort to you.’

Macro tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘That should really be your decision, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘It goes with the rank.’

‘It does,’ Cato agreed wearily. ‘That’s why I am requiring you to decide. They are your men, Macro. Your responsibility. Either way, Legate Valens wants them up at headquarters as soon as possible.’

‘Fair enough. I’ll deal with it. By lot.’

‘Good. When we’re done, I want the rearguard formed up and ready to march. The legate has ordered that half the tents stay behind, to help give the impression that the army is still in the camp. It means the men will have to double up, but at least it will halve the baggage. Which means we’ll have the spare mules to eat.’

Macro laughed drily. ‘There’s always an up side.’

Cato smiled back. ‘I’ll see you once we’re done.’

They saluted, and Cato strode off towards his cohort. The men already knew what was about to take place and were formed up in their squadrons, while Decurion Miro added coins from the cohort’s pay chest to a nosebag. Once he had counted out the plain bronze coins, he added ten more, in almost the same size, of silver and gave the bag a good shake. Cato approached and turned to address his men.

‘There’s no time to waste on speeches, lads. The drill is this. The squadrons come up in turn for each man to take one coin each out of the bag. We’ll start with Harpex and his lads; last to go will be Decurion Miro and his squadron. I’ll go first.’

So saying, he turned towards Miro and the latter held up the nosebag. Cato placed his hand inside, stirred the topmost coins with the tips of his fingers, then closed them round one and drew it out, raising it up for all to see.

‘Bronze! Harpex, you’re up.’

Cato stepped aside and let the decurion lead his men to the bag. Each one took a coin out and held it up as the result was called out. It took until almost the last man before the first silver coin came up, and the Thracian froze in shock for a moment before accepting his destiny, bidding his comrades a brief farewell and stepping to the side to await the fate of the rest. The five remaining cohorts took their turn and more of the silver coins emerged, until at last there was only one remaining as Miro’s squadron came forward. Each man extracted a coin from the dwindling number left and held it up.

‘Bronze . . . Bronze . . . Bronze . . .’

As it continued, Cato could see the growing anxiety in the decurion’s face by the light of the moon. And then there was just Miro and Thraxis left to draw, and the officer hesitated before holding the bag out to the standard-bearer.

‘You first.’

Thraxis pressed his lips together, then reached in and quickly picked a coin out. He could not help a relieved expression as he held it up.

‘Bronze!’

Miro looked at him in horror, then, as all eyes turned to him, placed his trembling hand into the bag and pulled out the last coin as if it were a poisonous serpent. ‘Silver . . .’

He lowered the coin back into the bag and dropped it at his feet before looking helplessly at Cato, who forced himself to keep his expression impassive as he turned to the men who had picked the silver coins. ‘That’s the way it goes, lads. But remember, you have served with the Blood Crows. Do the cohort proud and you will be remembered. Hold the enemy off for as long as you can, and take down as many of the bastards as possible.’ He clasped hands with each man in turn, and lastly with Miro. ‘Goodbye, Decurion. It’s been an honour to serve with you.’

Miro opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. He swallowed and tried again, in a low, pleading tone. ‘Sir, you need me. Who will command the squadron?’

‘I will take care of them for you.’

‘But they need me, sir. They’re used to me. We’re comrades. Lose me and they’ll not fight nearly so well as they did.’

‘I am sure they will fight to honour you, Decurion. As will I.’

Miro leaned forward and lowered his voice further. ‘Sir, I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to stay here and die. Please don’t order me to. Tell Valens you’re a man short . . . Please, sir. Please.’

Cato tried to pull his hand free, but the decurion held on desperately. Cato felt sickened by the man’s open display of his loss of nerve. He hissed furiously, ‘Pull yourself together. Right now. The odds were the same for you as for everyone else, but Fortuna chose you. Accept it and get those men up to headquarters. Go . . .’

Miro’s grip weakened for a moment and Cato took his hand back swiftly. ‘Carry on, Decurion Miro. Do your duty.’

Miro hesitated and looked round, his jaw trembling. There was a terrible silence before Thraxis stepped forward. ‘Permission to change places with Decurion Miro, sir!’

‘What?’ Cato was nonplussed. ‘What did you say?’

‘I’ll swap places with Miro, sir. Like he said, the cohort needs him. Let me have a crack at those Druid bastards instead. I fancy teaching them a lesson.’

Cato was about to deny the request when he saw the desperate glint in Miro’s eye and realised that the only way he would fight was if someone dragged him kicking and crying to the enemy. It would be unsettling for those that remained and set a terrible example. He swallowed his reluctance and turned to face Thraxis instead. ‘Are you sure about this?’