There was a murmur of approval at this last comment, and Cato saw the eyes of the men seated alongside him light up at the prospect of receiving their share of the booty. As centurions, they stood to make a tidy sum out of the money raised from the sale into slavery of the men they had taken prisoner over the last year. All the land seized fell into the hands of the imperial secretariat, whose agents stood to make vast fortunes from sales commissions. The system for the division of booty was a source of bitter contention amongst the men of the legions when they were drinking, and the unequal shares of legionaries and centurions ensured that the far greater inequality of fortunes between centurions and imperial land agents was generally overlooked.
'Any further questions?' asked Vespasian. There was a moment's stillness before the legate turned to his camp prefect. 'Very well. Sextus, you may dismiss them.'
The officers rose from their stools and snapped to attention. Once the legate had left the tent Sextus stood them down. The camp prefect reminded them to collect their written orders from the general's secretaries as they left headquarters. As the centurions of the Third Cohort stood up, Maximius raised a hand.
'Not so fast, lads. I want a word with you in my tent, soon as you've set the evening watch.'
Macro and Cato exchanged looks, which was instantly detected by Maximius. 'I'm sure my new centurions will be relieved to know that I won't be keeping them too long, and wasting their precious time.'
Cato coloured.
Maximius regarded the youth coldly for a moment before his face creased into a smile. 'Just make sure you're both in my tent before the first change of watch is sounded.'
'Yes, sir,' replied Cato and Macro.
Maximius gave a sharp nod, turned on his heel and strode stiffly from the briefing tent.
Macro's eyes followed their commander.'Now what was all that about?'
The nearest of the centurions drew back, glancing warily at Maximius until the cohort commander had disappeared through the tent flaps. Then he spoke quietly to Macro and Cato.
'I'd play it carefully, if I were you two.'
'Carefully?' Macro frowned. 'What are you talking about, Tullius?'
Caius Tullius was the most senior of the Third Cohort's centurions after Maximius; a veteran of over twenty years and several campaigns. Although he was reserved in manner, he had been the first to greet Macro and Cato when they had been appointed to the Third Cohort. The other two centurions, Caius Pollius Felix and Tiberius Antonius, had said no more than necessary to Cato as yet, and he sensed hostility in their attitude. Macro was more fortunate. They already knew him from the time before his promotion, and treated him in a cordial manner, as they must, given that Macro's appointment to the centurionate predated their own.
'Tullius?' Macro prompted.
For a moment Tullius hesitated, mouth open as he seemed to be on the verge of saying something. Then he just shook his head. 'It's nothing. Just try not to get on the wrong side of Maximius. Especially you, young 'un.'
Cato's lips compressed into a tight line, and Macro couldn't help laughing.
'Don't be so touchy, Cato. Centurion you may be, but you'll have to forgive people if they mistake you for a boy sometimes.'
'Boys don't get to wear these,' Cato snapped back, and tapped his medallions, instantly regretting the immature need to prove himself.
Macro raised both his hands with a placating smirk. 'All right! I'm sorry. But look around, Cato. See anyone else here that's within five years of your age? I think you'll find that you're a bit of an exception.'
'Exception he may be,' Tullius added quietly, 'but he'd do well not to stand out, if he knows what's good for him.'
The veteran turned away and followed Felix and Antonius towards the entrance to the tent. Macro watched him go and scratched his chin.
'Wonder what he meant?'
'Can't you guess?' Cato muttered bitterly.'Seems our cohort commander thinks I'm not up to the job.'
'Rubbish!' Macro punched him lightly on the shoulder. 'Everyone in the legion knows about you. You've got nothing to prove to anyone.'
'Tell Maximius that.'
'I might. One day. If he doesn't recognise it himself first.'
Cato shook his head. 'Maximius only joined the legion a few months back, in that batch of replacements that arrived while we were in hospital in Calleva. Chances are he knows next to nothing about me.'
Macro prodded one of Cato's medallions.'These should tell him all he needs to know. Now come on, we've got to post our watches. Wouldn't want to be late for Maximius' briefing, would we?'
05 The Eagles Prey
CHAPTER FIVE
Once Cato was satisfied that his optio had the watch organised, he marched through two rows of tents to Macro's century and stuck his head through the flap of the largest tent at the end of the line. Macro was sitting at a small trestle table, examining some tablets by the wan glow of an oil lamp.
'Ready?'
Macro looked up, and then pushed the wax tablets to one side. He rose from his chair and strode over to Cato. 'Yes. I've had enough of this. Bloody pay records. Sometimes I wish you were still my optio. Made the record-keeping side of things a lot easier. I could get on with the real job then.'
Cato nodded in sympathy. Life had indeed been easier before, for both of them. With Macro as his centurion Cato's introduction to army life had been unclouded by the need to take much responsibility on his own shoulders. There had been times when circumstances had forced command on him, and he had coped with such duties, but had always been relieved to hand the burden back to Macro afterwards. That was all gone, now that he was a centurion. Not only did Cato feel constantly judged by others, he sat in judgement of himself. Cato was not impressed by the image of the thin and boyish figure in a centurion's uniform he knew he presented.
'How's Figulus coping?' Macro asked as they made for the large square tent that marked the headquarters of the Third Cohort.'Can't see why you chose him to be your optio. Outside of a straight fight the lad's a bloody nuisance.'
'He's coping well enough.'
'Oh, really?' Macro said with a trace of amusement. 'Handling the pay records on his own then? That, and all the other clerical crap?'
'I'm… instructing him at the moment.'
'Instructing him? As in showing him how to read and write, perhaps?'
Cato lowered his head to hide the dark expression on his face. Macro was right in his implication. Figulus was a poor choice for the job, in many respects – barely able to write his own name and completely out of his depth when required to calculate any sums larger than the small amount of savings he had scraped together in his first year of service with the legion. Yet Cato had offered the position to him immediately. Figulus was almost the same age and Cato desperately needed a familiar face amongst the men under his command. Most of the men he had known when he had first joined Macro's old century were dead, or discharged as invalids. The survivors had been distributed to the other centuries in the understrength cohort. So Figulus it had been.
He was not without redeeming features, Cato reflected in a self-justifying moment. Figulus was from Gallic stock; tall and broad, he was a match for any man in the legion, and any enemy outside it. Moreover, he was good with the men, with his easy-going and guileless nature. That made him a useful bridge between Cato and his century. And Figulus, like Cato, was anxious to prove himself worthy of his new rank. However, Cato's attempt to teach him the basics of record-keeping had quickly exhausted the centurion's patience. If things didn't improve soon it looked as if Cato would have to take on most of the optio's job as well.
'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.'
&nb
sp; '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.'
05 The Eagles Prey
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.
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