Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (6 page)

‘You could always replace him,’ Macro suggested.

‘No,’ Cato replied obstinately. ‘He’ll do.’

‘If you say so. It’s your decision, lad.’

‘Yes. It’s my decision. And you’re not my father, Macro. So please stop acting like it.’

‘All right! All right!’ Macro raised his hands in surrender. ‘Won’t mention it again.’

‘Good …’

‘So, er, what do you make of our man, Maximius?’

‘Don’t know him well enough to make a judgement yet. Seems competent enough. Bit harsh on the bullshit front.’

Macro nodded. ‘He’s from the old school: every buckle done up tightly, every blade polished until it dazzles and not a speck of mud allowed on parade. His kind are the backbone of the army.’

‘What’s his history?’ Cato glanced at his companion. ‘You speak to anyone about him yet?’

‘Had a word with Antonius in the mess the other day. He came in with the same replacement column and got to know Maximius back in the depot at Gesoriacum.’

‘And?’

‘Not much to tell. He’s been a centurion for the best part of ten years, and served right across the Empire. Before that he was in the Praetorian Guard. Served a few years and then transferred to the legions.’ Macro shook his head. ‘Beats me why he took a transfer. I’d have killed to serve in the Guard; better pay, better accommodation and the best fleshpots and cheapest dives that only Rome can provide.’

‘Too much of a good thing, perhaps?’

‘What?’ Macro was astonished. ‘What kind of bollocks is that? One of your stupid fucking philosophies, I bet. Look, lad, there’s no such thing as enough of a good thing. Believe me.’

‘Very epicurean of you, Macro.’

‘Oh, piss off . . .’

They had reached Maximius’ tent. A dull glow framed the flaps at the entrance, and as the sentries spied the two centurions approaching from the darkness, one stepped to one side and held a flap open. Macro led the way. They entered the thick, hot atmosphere inside the tent and saw Maximius seated beside his campaign table. In front of him were arranged five stools, three of which were already occupied by the other centurions of the Third Cohort.

‘Thank you for joining us,’ Maximius said curtly.

The signal for the change of watch was still not due for nearly half an hour, by Cato’s calculation, but before he could even consider protesting Macro stepped in front of him.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Take your seats, gentlemen. Then we can get started.’

As they sat down Macro raised an eyebrow to Cato in warning. It dawned on Cato that this was how Maximius liked to run his cohort. He expected - no, demanded - that his subordinates exceed the requirements of his orders. It might lead to a certain amount of second-guessing, but it kept them on their toes. Cato had been aware of this style of command in other cohorts and disliked it intensely. A commander who adopted such an approach could never be certain that his orders would be carried out as he intended.

Once the last arrivals were seated Maximius cleared his throat and stiffened his spine before he began to address his officers.’Now that we’re all here . . . You saw the legate’s map and understand our task. We hold the fords against Caratacus and he is beaten. We’ll be the first cohort to march from camp tomorrow, before sunrise, as we’ve got the furthest to go. We’ll be following a supply track that leads to the ford. There’s an auxiliary post we should reach by noon. We’ll rest there and draw from their rations. The ford’s a mile or so further to the north and we can reach it and fortify it soon afterwards. We should arrive in plenty of time. Your men are to leave their packs here tomorrow. They’re to be ready to fight and carry nothing else, apart from their canteens. We’re marching to battle. There are to be no shirkers, no stragglers . . .and no surrender when we meet the enemy. Of course,’ he grinned,’if the enemy wants to surrender, then we must make every effort to accommodate his wishes. With a bit of luck we might just win the day, and a small fortune besides. You understand me?’

All but one of the centurions nodded solemnly. Maximius turned towards Macro.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Can we really afford to take prisoners, sir?’

‘Can we afford not to?’ Maximius laughed. ‘You got something against being rich, Macro? Or do you want to be just a wretch when you retire?’

Macro smiled politely. ‘I like money as much as the next man, sir. But we’re one cohort, way out on the flank of the legion. If we have to start detaching men to guard prisoners it’ll be a drain on our strength. And I’m not happy at the idea of having any sizeable body of Britons behind us as well as in front of us, whether they’re armed or not. It’s asking for trouble, sir.’

‘Come now, Macro. I think you exaggerate the danger. What about you, young Cato? Wouldn’t you agree?’

For a moment Cato was gripped by an instinctive panic as he struggled for a response to the direct question.

‘I don’t know, sir. Depends how many of them there are. If we can handle them then of course we should take prisoners. But, like Macro says, if they come at us in any kind of strength we’ll need to face them with every man we have. In that event, any prisoners will pose a danger to us . . . sir.’

‘I see.’ Maximius nodded thoughtfully.’You think we should err on the side of caution? You think that’s what made us Romans the masters of the world?’

‘I don’t know about that, sir. I just think we should carry out our orders without taking any unnecessary risks.’

‘So do I!’ Maximius laughed loudly, and Felix and Antonius joined in. Tullius smiled. When Maximius had finished he leaned forward and clapped Cato on the shoulder.’Don’t worry. I’ll not take any chances. You have my word. On the other hand, I’ll not willingly pass up an opportunity to make some easy money. But you’re right to be cautious. We’ll see what the situation is tomorrow, and act on what we find. That should set your mind at rest, eh, lad?’

Cato nodded.

‘Good. That’s settled then.’ Maximius took a step back to address his officers more formally. ‘Following on from our orders, I wanted you to know that I am determined that the Third Cohort will prove itself worthy of the task the legate has assigned to us. I will tolerate nothing less than the best tomorrow, from both you and your men. I set high standards for the men under my command because I want us to be the hardest fighting cohort there is. Not just in this legion, but in any legion.’ He paused to look round at his centurions’ faces, scrutinising them for any unfavourable reaction. Cato returned the gaze without betraying any emotion.

‘Now then, gentlemen, I know I have been commanding this cohort for a little more than a month, but I have watched the centuries being put through their paces and I’m certain that I have never served with a finer body of men . . . outside Rome, that is. I’ve also had the chance to assess the potential of Felix, Antonius and Tullius, and I’m pleased with what I’ve seen. You’re good men. Which brings me to our recent appointments …’ He turned fully towards Macro and Cato and made a brief smile. ‘I’ve read through your records and I’m glad to have you both serving under me. Macro, two years of service in the centurionate, with excellent reports and commendations from the legate and the general himself. I’m sure you will have every chance to build on that while you serve in my cohort.’

For a moment Macro felt a bitter twist of resentment in his guts. He had served with the Eagles for over fifteen years. Fifteen years of hard experience and some of the toughest fighting to be had. He doubted that anyone he had left behind in the small fishing village along the coast from Ostia would recognise him now. The thickset boy who had hitched a ride to Rome to join the legions was a distant memory, and Macro fumed at the patronising tone of his superior’s welcome. But he bit back on the anger, and nodded stiffly. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Maximius smiled, and turned his gaze to Cato. ‘Of course, Centurion Cato, some records were quicker to read through than others. Despite your years you’ve racked up some impressive achievements, and you’ve even picked up some of the local lingo. That might come in useful,’ he mused. ‘It’ll be interesting to see how you cope tomorrow.’

‘I hope I won’t disappoint you, sir,’ Cato replied, tight-lipped as he bit back on his injured pride.

‘You’d better not.’ The smile faded from Maximius’ face. ‘There’s a lot riding on this for all of us, from the general right down to the legionaries in the front rank. We carry it off and there’ll be more than enough glory to go round. We fuck it up and you can be sure that the people back in Rome won’t ever forgive us. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Antonius and Felix answered at once.

‘That’s good. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll join me in a toast . . .’ Maximius reached under the table and lifted a small wine jar from the shadows. ‘It ain’t the best vintage, but think of it as a taster of the spoils to come. So I give you, the Emperor, Rome and her legions. Jupiter and Mars, bless them all, and grant bloody defeat and death to Caratacus and his barbarians!’

Maximius pulled the stopper out of the jar, grasped the handle and, letting the jar lie across his bent arm, he raised its rim to his lips and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of wine. Cato watched as a red bead trickled from the corner of the cohort commander’s lips and ran down his cheek. Maximius lowered the jar and passed it to Tullius, and one by one the centurions echoed the toast and sealed their oath by sharing the wine. When Macro’s turn came, he took rather more mouthfuls than was required and then handed the jug to Cato as he wiped his lip on the back of his other hand.

As he lifted the jug and repeated the toast, Cato sensed every eye in the tent on him and he pursed his lips as the first trickle of wine came down the rough earthenware neck of the jar towards his mouth. As the liquid flowed over his tongue Cato resisted the impulse to gag at the sharp, burning vinegary taste. Even in the poorest quarters of Camulodunum Cato had never tasted such a rancid wine. He forced himself to take another mouthful and then lowered the jar.

‘There!’ Maximius retrieved the jar, stopped it up and placed it back under the table.’Tomorrow then, gentlemen. Tomorrow we show the rest of the army what a cohort can achieve.’

CHAPTER SIX

It was still dark as the cohort prepared to move off. Two braziers either side of the gatehouse illuminated the head of the column, but the glow cast by the gently licking flames carried only as far down the Praetorian way as the First Century. The rest of the men were shrouded in the clammy air of the pre-dawn. Cato, standing with the other centurions by the gate, could hear only the muted exchanges and dull clunk and clatter of equipment of nearly five hundred men getting ready to march into battle. On the open ground, to one side of the gate, stood the mounted contingent that was to accompany the cohort - thirty men under the command of a decurion, lightly armed and trained for scouting and courier duties rather than battle. The horses waited expectantly, ears twitching and hoofs gently scraping the ground as their dismounted riders kept firm hands on the reins. From further off came the muffled sounds of other legionaries rousing; quiet curses amid the coughs and groans of men stretching sleep-stiffened bodies.

‘Not long now, lads!’ Centurion Maximius called out as he warmed his back against one of the braziers, and cast a huge wavering shadow across the nearest line of tents.

‘He’s up for it,’ Macro remarked quietly.

Cato yawned. ‘Wish I was.’

‘Lose much sleep?’

‘Had to finish the accounts before I turned in.’

‘Accounts?’ Centurion Felix shook his head in disbelief. ‘On the eve of a battle? Are you mad?’

Cato shrugged and Felix turned to Macro. ‘You’ve known him a while, haven’t you?’

‘Man and boy.’

‘He always been like that?’

‘Oh, yes! Bit of a perfectionist, our Cato. Never goes into a fight unless his records are sorted. Nothing worse than being killed with a bit of paperwork on your mind. Some peculiar religious thing he picked up from the palace officials. Something to do with his shadow being doomed to walk the earth until the accounts are completed, audited and filed. Only then can his spirit rest in peace.’

‘Is that true?’ Centurion Antonius asked, wide-eyed.

‘Why do you ask?’ Macro turned towards him with a horrified expression. ‘You haven’t gone and left your paperwork half done?’

Cato sighed. ‘Just ignore him, Antonius. Taking the piss is Centurion Macro’s stock in trade.’

Antonius glanced from Cato to Macro and narrowed his eyes. ‘Fucking idiot . . .’

‘Oh, yes? Had you going there for a moment, didn’t I? So who’s the idiot?’

‘You were at the palace?’ Felix said, turning to Cato. ‘The imperial palace?’

Cato nodded.

‘So what’s the story, Cato?’

‘Not much to say. I was born and raised in the palace. My father was a freedman on the general staff. He arranged most of the entertainments for Tiberius and Caligula. Never knew my mother. She didn’t live long after giving birth to me. When my father died I was sent to join the legions, and here I am.’

‘Must be a bit of a comedown, after the palace.’

‘In some ways,’ Cato admitted. ‘But life in the palace could be every bit as dangerous as here in the legions.’

‘Funny,’ Felix smiled and nodded towards Maximius.’That’s just what he said.’