Macro nodded. ‘And he sends us a direct challenge. Whatever we may think of Ajax, you have to admit that he has balls of steel.’
Archaelus cleared his throat. ‘It seems you have what you need. Would you mind continuing your discussion elsewhere now?’
Cato stood up and beckoned to Macro and the two left the banqueting hall and stepped out of the pavilion into the bright glare of the sun. The harsh light forced them to squint until their eyes began to adjust.
‘On the upside, at least we know Ajax is nearby,’ said Macro.
‘True, but not very comforting. And if he does join the Nubians then I fear our situation has taken a turn for the worse.’
The prefects of the four auxiliary cohorts, together with the centurions of the Twenty-Second Legion and the remaining tribunes, sat on benches at one end of the colonnaded pool at the army’s headquarters. Word of Candidus’s death had got round the camp and the men were conversing in low, anxious tones. Cato and Macro sat slightly apart, and the latter regarded the other officers with a critical eye.
‘Too many old men and too many who look unfit.’
Cato said nothing, but he knew that his friend was right. The long years of untroubled garrison duty had made the men of the Twenty-Second soft. A large number of the officers were running to fat - there were clear gaps between the front and back plates of their cuirasses, which could not accommodate their heavy torsos. Their fleshy jowls and veined noses betrayed their fondness for drink. There were others who looked more like the centurions Cato was familiar with from the other legions he had served with since he had joined the army. Powerfully built men who shared the steady, unflappable demeanour of the centurionate. They at least looked as if they would serve well enough when the campaign got under way. However, Macro was right that rather too many of them looked as if they were nearing the end of their careers. It was sad to see how a legion’s combat readiness could be so badly eroded by the benefits of a prolonged peace.
There was a loud stamp of boots as the sentries at the entrance to the colonnade stood to attention and an optio barked out. ‘Commanding officer present!’
The officers rose and stood stiffly as Aurelius strode down the length of the pool, his reflection wavering in its surface as a light gust of hot air wafted over the water. He took up his position behind a campaign table and stared round at his officers in a theatrical manner, as if seeing them for the first time.
‘Be seated, gentlemen.’
The officers eased themselves back down and sat quietly, waiting for his address to begin. Aurelius carried a slate tablet in his hand and he laid it down on the table before him and glanced at the notes he had made in the wax surface. Macro watched with a twinge of unease. He preferred commanders who addressed their men without notes, as if their words came from their hearts. Aurelius had revealed himself as one of those officers who lacked belief in their own authority and needed prompts to carry them through such occasions. It was not a good sign, Macro decided.
Aurelius looked up and cleared his throat. ‘As all of you no doubt have heard, the legate is dead. He and his escort were wiped out a few days ago as they were on the road to Ombos. Whether this was at the hands of Arab brigands or a Nubian patrol we do not yet know.’ He paused and swallowed. ‘As camp prefect of the Twenty-Second Legion, and therefore the senior officer present, command of the army falls to me. It is my duty to lead our forces against the Nubians and complete the task started by Legate Candidus, namely to drive the enemy out of our province as swiftly and decisively as possible.’
Cato noticed that while some of the officers nodded approvingly at their new commander’s intentions, most did not. Some looked apprehensive and a few muttered quietly with their neighbours.
‘To that end,’ Aurelius continued, ‘I will be finalising our campaign plans with my staff officers after this meeting. Orders will be sent to my senior officers at first light tomorrow. And speaking of officers, I am pleased to introduce the two latest to join the legion. Firstly, my new senior tribune.’ He gestured to Cato to rise. ‘Cato is newly arrived from Alexandria where the governor has appointed him to the Twenty-Second Legion for the duration of hostilities. Despite his young years, the governor assures me that the new tribune has a fine military record. As does my new first spear centurion. Stand up, Macro.’
‘I’m not a bloody performing monkey,’ Macro growled as he stood up and stared round at the other officers, straight-lipped.
‘You may sit,’ Aurelius said graciously. Once Macro and Cato were back in place, the new commander looked over his officers once again and then nodded. ‘We have been set a great challenge, gentlemen. It has been a long time since the legion and the auxiliary cohorts of the province have been called upon to prove their mettle. There are some who doubtless say that we have grown soft, that the soldiers of this province compare poorly with those of the rest of the Empire.’ He paused to consult his waxed tablet briefly. ‘To them I say you are wrong. Our day has come and we will show the rest of the Empire what the soldiers of the province of Egypt can do. I have heard that the enemy outnumber us. So much the better. We shall win even greater glory.’ He had a quick glance at the wax tablet again and smiled. ‘The eyes of the Emperor are upon us, my friends. The Roman Empire looks to us with bated breath. When we have won our great victory, the Empire will never forget us and every man here will walk in honour until his dying day!’
Aurelius thrust his fist in the air. A handful of officers followed suit, then a few more, anxious to win the favour of their new commander. Some of the more experienced and professional officers merely nodded or applauded politely. Others, Cato noted, sat in stony silence. Once Aurelius realised that he had won all the acclaim that he was going to get, he raised his hands and gestured for quiet. ‘That’s all for now, gentlemen. You are dismissed.’
There was a low hubbub of conversation as the men rose and edged away around the pool and filtered out through the columns at the far end. Macro turned to Cato. ‘Quite the orator, our camp prefect,’ he said wryly. ‘There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, though for my part it was due to embarrassment. What a pillock.’
‘I think he meant it. Every word of it.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Oh yes. He knows he is never going to make his mark as a competent staff officer. This is his one chance to win some fame. This has potential to become a dangerous situation, Macro.’
‘Really? I thought the fact that we are outnumbered, the soldiers are of questionable quality and now it’s possible that Ajax has thrown in his lot with the Nubians meant that things were already dangerous.’
Cato frowned at him. ‘All right then, it could be even more dangerous. Happy now? Come on, we have to speak to Aurelius.’
‘What about?’
‘We have to persuade him to rein in his thirst for glory.’ Cato made his way round the end of the pool towards the table where Aurelius was talking to a handful of other officers, some of whom Cato had seen at headquarters since he and Macro had arrived. Aurelius turned towards them as they approached and smiled warmly.
‘What did you think of my small oration?’
‘Inspiring,’ Cato responded warily.
‘I know. I have been waiting for the chance to make such a speech,’ Aurelius continued in a pleased tone. ‘I confess that I was much influenced by a book I read in the Great Library some months back. Battle addresses of history’s great commanders. A minor work by Livius, but beautifully written. Just the stuff to stir a man’s blood, eh?’ He tapped Cato on the chest.
‘I haven’t had the chance to read it, sir,’ Cato replied evenly. ‘Perhaps I will once the campaign is over. Speaking of which, I would welcome the opportunity to discuss your plans for the campaign. I assume you will be following normal practice and therefore include both myself and the first spear centurion in drawing up the army’s orders, sir.’
A brief look of irritation clouded Aurelius’s expression. ‘There is no need,
Tribune Cato. The plans were drawn up by the legate and his closest advisers. Now they are dead. Only I remain from the ranks of those he trusted with his scheme for defeating the Nubians.’ Aurelius paused briefly. ‘Of course, I may see fit to amend some details, but I have my own advisers.’ He indicated the four men standing to his other side. ‘So I will not need to trouble you for any advice.’
‘It’s no trouble, sir. We would be glad to offer you the benefit of our considerable experience.’
‘Your considerable experience?’ Aurelius smiled faintly. ‘Tribune, these men and I were, in all likelihood, serving the Emperor when you were but an infant suckling at your mother’s tit. We can manage with the experience we already have between us. But I thank you for your offer all the same.’ His eyes brightened as another thought struck him. ‘However, I have every wish to put your abilities, and those of good Centurion Macro, to use. I would be obliged if you would take charge of the training regime of the legion. The men are already fine soldiers, but a little exercise and some sword practice will hone their spirits to the appropriate edge, I should think. Macro here has the stern look of a drill instructor, and the voice of one too, I should imagine. Let your experience be of use to the Twenty-Second Legion in that manner, eh? Leave the operational planning to those who have served in Egypt and know the ground well.’
‘It ain’t as simple as that, sir,’ Macro responded. ‘We have good reason to believe that the Nubians have been joined by the fugitive slave that Prefect - Tribune Cato and I had been hunting before we were reassigned to the legion.’
‘Oh? And how did you come by this snippet of intelligence?’
‘We questioned the survivor of the ambush, sir. He told us that a gladiator led the attack and left a survivor to tell the tale.’
‘Nonsense,’ Aurelius said firmly. ‘The man is delirious. You heard the decurion say so earlier this morning.’
‘He seemed lucid enough when we spoke to him, sir,’ said Cato. ‘If Ajax serves with the Nubians then I think it is vital that we, who have faced Ajax before, and know his methods, should be involved in any plans that are made for the coming campaign.’
Aurelius shook his head. ‘I think the fact that you have failed to track down and capture this man is eloquent testimony of your failure to comprehend his methods, Tribune. Perhaps it is time a fresh mind was set to the task. Meanwhile I would like you, and Centurion Macro, to take care of the training. I want a full report on your training scheme, and an accurate projection of the number of men who will be fit to serve once the campaign begins. I would like that report on my desk as soon as possible.’ He offered them a brief smile. ‘I think you will soon see that we have the measure of our enemy, without the help of any advice you might care to offer. That is all, gentlemen.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted, and after a brief hesitation Macro followed suit. They turned about and strode swiftly away from Aurelius and his staff.
‘Why the hell didn’t you say something, sir?’ asked Macro in an undertone.
‘I did, in case you missed it.’
‘How dare he dismiss us in such a fashion!’ Macro fumed. ‘You in particular. No commander of a legion ever ignores the advice of his senior tribune and his first spear centurion. Not if he’s any good.’
‘It is only common practice, Macro. He is under no obligation to consult us.’
Macro was silent, then he glanced at Cato. ‘Fuck, you were right, sir.’
‘I was? What about?’
‘The situation just got more dangerous.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
Five days later Cato and Macro were standing to one side of the makeshift parade ground outside the temple complex. It was late in the afternoon and the regular breeze that swept in from the desert was swirling the dust kicked up by the First Cohort of the legion as it tramped round the circuit, laden with full kit and marching yokes. A number of men had already collapsed from exhaustion and had been hauled aside to recover in the shade of Karnak’s outer wall. The stragglers were being driven on by the centurions and optios Macro had selected to act as his drill instructors. Some of them had served in other legions and still clung to the hard-won values that had been instilled before they were posted to Egypt. They shouted abuse and threats at the legionaries, and used their sticks freely to spur the men on.
Macro regarded the scene fondly. ‘Like old times. Nothing I like better than getting the men ready for battle.’
‘Nothing?’ asked Cato with an amused expression.
‘All right, there’s wine and there’s women too. I’m not that picky. Find me a boozy, belligerent Amazon and I’ll die a happy man.’
Cato laughed and then turned his attention back to the exhausted men as they paced past the two officers. ‘What is the condition of the First Cohort?’
Macro rubbed his chin. ‘Most of the men are sound enough. They struggled on the first two days, but they’ve rediscovered their marching boots. They’re ready for the campaign. Battle drill is another matter.’
‘Oh?’
‘The sword skills are there. They’ve had regular weapons practice at least. The trouble is that some of the formations are shaky. When I tried each century on forming a testudo there were gaps wide enough to drive a battering ram through. Looked more like an upended colander than a bloody tortoise. They’re getting better though, now that I’ve turned my best officers on them.’
‘What about the others?’ asked Cato. ‘Are some of the officers still claiming to be excused duties?’
Macro nodded sourly. ‘When I told ’em to join the men this morning, they refused. I gave them the order, and at once that fat git, Aescher, went straight to Aurelius and asked that he and the others be excused.’ Macro discreetly pointed out the officers sitting in the shade of a small shrine at the far end of the parade ground. ‘They came straight back with their permission in writing.’
A slave stood to one side cooling them with a large fan made from woven palm leaves while some women from the camp followers sat on their laps and laughed playfully as the officers fondled them. Macro sniffed. ‘Smug bastards.’
‘Quite,’ Cato agreed. ‘It does the men no good to see their officers sitting it out. And that includes us. I think we need to set an example, Macro.’
‘What did you have in mind, sir?’
‘Have all the officers issued marching kit tomorrow morning, whether they are excused from drilling or not. You and me included. And also, find Hamedes and have him join us.’
‘Hamedes?’ Macro smiled. ‘I haven’t seen him for days. Bloody little drill dodger.’
‘He asked me for permission to visit the local temples. He says he knows some of the priests here and is looking for a position once the campaign is over.’
‘And he’s doing this while on the payroll as a scout, I take it.’
‘Naturally.’
‘Then he’ll have to earn his pay. I’ll march him on to the parade ground myself tomorrow morning.’ Macro rubbed his hands at the prospect. ‘What kind of drill did you have in mind?’
‘A route march down the Nile for the First Cohort. We’ll have the legion’s senior officers, and Hamedes, at the head of the column where the men can see us, and be sure to let the drill instructors know that the officers are not to be given any slack.’
Macro stared at him with an amused expression. ‘What do you hope to achieve?’
‘Think of it as an experiment in winnowing. Let’s see if we can separate the chaff from the men.’ Cato folded his arms and turned his attention back to the men of the cohort again. ‘What about the other cohorts?’
‘A similar picture. The cohorts led by good officers will be ready as soon as they’ve had a few more days of hard drilling. The problem units are the Seventh and Ninth Cohorts. They’re commanded by cronies of Aurelius.’
‘Then add them to tomorrow’s route march. The other cohorts can be exercised over the following days.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro grinned briefly. ‘Wha
t about the auxiliary units?’
While Macro had been put in charge of drilling the legion, Aurelius had ordered him to leave the drilling of the auxiliary cohorts to their prefects. Cato still had oversight of the process. He took a weary breath.
‘Both of the infantry cohorts are in fair shape. Their prefects are looking for a chance to prove themselves and win advancement. So they’ve kept their men on their toes. The Syrian mounted cohort is first class. They know how to look after their horses and they manoeuvre well. The Alexandrian mounted cohort is a different matter. They have something of a superior attitude and their prefect seems to think they are the direct descendants of Alexander’s Companion Cavalry. They drink hard and the discipline is a little sloppy. No question of their elan though. I just hope that they last the distance when the army marches. Then they’ll have a chance to live up to their self-regard.’
‘Or they’ll discover that they’re a bunch of gutless worms and bolt from the battlefield.’
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