‘Too right,’ Macro grumbled. ‘And now that our man’s dead, there’s no future for Crispus either.’
‘What’ll happen to him?’
‘Knifing a fellow soldier?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘No doubt about it. He’ll be condemned to death. And I doubt that Crispus’ execution will be the end of it.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know what soldiers are like for bearing a grudge. It’s bad enough when the men belong to the same unit. But this will lead to a feud between the Second Illyrian and the Tenth, mark my words.’ Macro gave a deep sigh. ‘And now I’ll have to write up a bloody report for the governor and see him first thing in the morning. I’d better be off. Give me a moment, then get our lads moving.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ll see you later, Cato.’
As Macro strode off down the street Cato stared at the body at his feet. The campaign had not even begun and already they’d lost two men. Worse, if Macro was right, the damage done by a single drunken brawl would fester in the hearts of the men. Just when they needed every ounce of their wits about them if they were to defeat the Parthians.
08 Centurion
CHAPTER THREE
The body of the auxiliary had been placed on a bier and carried to the pyre by his comrades just before dawn. The pyre had been constructed a short distance from the camp gates. The dead soldier’s century had mounted the honour guard, but almost every man of the cohort had been there to bear witness. Macro had noted their sullen, vengeful mood while he gave a brief oration for Menathus and then lit the pyre. The men watched the flames catch the oil-drenched wood and then crackle into life, sending up a swirling vortex of smoke and sparks into the clear sky. Then, as the pyre began to collapse in on itself, Macro nodded to Cato to give the order to return to camp and the men turned away quietly and marched off.
‘Not in the happiest of moods, I think,’ Cato muttered.
‘No.You’d better find them something to do. Keep ‘em occupied while I see Longinus.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know,’ Macro said tersely. ‘You’re the smart one. You decide.’
Cato glanced at his companion in surprise but kept his mouth shut. He knew that Macro had spent the whole night dealing with the report and the preparations for the funeral, on top of the previous day’s drinking, and his black mood was inevitable. So Cato simply nodded.
‘Weapons drill. With training swords. That should wear them out.’
A few hours with the double-weighted swords and wicker shields would exhaust even the strongest of men and a thin smile flickered across Macro’s expression.
‘See to it.’
Cato saluted and turned to follow the men heading in through the main gate. Macro watched him for a moment, wondering when Cato would fully master the drill technique that Macro had taken so many years to become familiar with. Where Macro could shout instructions, and not a little invective, loud enough to be heard across the parade ground for hours at a stretch, Cato had not yet developed his lungs to the same degree and tended to come across as more of a schoolteacher than the front-line centurion he had proved himself to be. A few more years under his belt, Macro reflected, and the young man would carry it off as naturally as any other officer. Until then? Macro sighed. Until then, Cato would just have to keep proving himself worthy of the rank that so few men of his age had ever risen to.
Macro turned towards the gates of Antioch. The governor had commandeered one of the finest houses in the city as his headquarters. No rudely constructed praetorium for Cassius Longinus, then. Nor the relative discomfort of a suite of well-appointed marching tents. Macro smiled grimly. If one thing was for certain in the coming campaign, it was that the army’s general would travel in the kind of luxury that most of his men could only ever dream about as they tramped in full armour under the burden of their heavily loaded equipment yokes.
‘I do love a man who leads by example,’ he said softly to himself as he trudged off to his appointment with Longinus.
The governor of Syria looked up from the report and leaned back in his chair. On the other side of the desk sat Macro and Legate Amatius, commander of the Tenth Legion. Longinus regarded them silently for a moment, and then raised his eyebrows.
‘I can’t say I’m terribly happy about the situation, gentlemen. One man dead, and another man facing punishment. I imagine this will cause a lot of bad feeling between your two commands. As if preparing the army for war wasn’t demanding enough, I now have to deal with this.’
Macro felt his anger rise at the accusing tone of his superior. It was hardly his fault that Menathus was dead. If he and Cato hadn’t stepped in to prevent the situation from escalating out of control, then there would have been far more funeral pyres casting their pall across the sky outside the camp that morning. It was hardly likely that Crispus was the only legionary carrying a blade in the crowd outside the bar last night. Or that none of Macro’s men was similarly armed. In an atmosphere of drunken dissent the brawl could easily have become more widespread and far more ugly. Macro bit back on his irritation as he replied.
‘It is unfortunate, sir, but it could have been worse.We have to make sure that the lads settle down and forget the business as soon as possible. My lads, and those of the Tenth, sir.’
‘He’s right.’ Legate Amatius nodded. ‘The, er, matter has to be resolved as swiftly as possible, sir. My man has to be tried and punished.’
‘Punished . . .’ Longinus stroked his chin. ‘And what punishment would be suitable for this man Crispus, I wonder? Clearly an example has to be made, if we are to discourage any more incidents like last night’s.’
Amatius nodded.’Of course, sir. Nothing short of beating will do. That and breaking the man back to the ranks. My men won’t forget that in a hurry.’
‘No.’ Macro shook his head firmly.’That won’t do.A man has died, needlessly, as a result of Crispus’ pulling a knife. He could have fought it out fairly, and he didn’t. Now he must face the full consequences of his actions.The regulations are clear enough. It was in your standing orders, sir. Any man off duty within the walls of the city was forbidden to carry weapons, I imagine with just such an incident as happened last night in mind. Isn’t that so, sir?’
‘Yes, I suppose.’ Longinus opened his hand towards Macro. ‘And how do you think he should be punished?’
Macro steeled his heart. He derived no satisfaction from the thought of sending Crispus to his death, but he knew that the consequences of not doing so would cause a great deal of harm to the army’s discipline. He met the governor’s gaze directly.’Execution, to be carried out by the men of his century, before the rest of his cohort.’
‘Who’s his cohort commander, by the way?’
‘Centurion Castor, as it happens,’ Amatius said sharply. He looked at the governor.’In his absence, I can tell you that the men would not stand for the punishment Prefect Macro suggests. And why should they? After all, the man he killed was a bloody auxiliary. I regret the death every bit as much as Prefect Macro, but the loss of that man’s life hardly compares to the loss of a legionary, and a Roman citizen. Especially since this was simply the result of some drunken fight in the street.’ He turned to Macro. ‘I know what happened, Macro. I’ve made my own enquiries. It seems that your man cheated the legionary during a game of dice.’
‘That’s not what my men say, sir.’
‘Well, they wouldn’t, would they? They want the hide off my man. They’d say anything to have that.’
‘Just as your men would say anything to save his skin,’ Macro replied icily.’I think we have to accept that the men’s accounts will be biased. But I was there. I saw what happened. With respect, sir, you didn’t. Crispus is guilty. He has to be punished according to military law.’
Amatius frowned for a moment before he replied with forced cordiality. ‘Look, Prefect, I understand your feelings on this. It’s only natural that you’d share your men’s desire for reven
ge.’
‘Not revenge, sir. Justice.’
‘Call it what you will. But hear me out. If your man had pulled the knife, you’d want him spared, wouldn’t you?’
‘What I want is irrelevant, sir,’ Macro responded firmly. ‘The punishment for such a crime is clear enough.’
‘Look here,’ Amatius persisted. ‘Macro, you were once a legionary, weren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir. So?’
‘So you must have some loyalty to your comrades in the legions.You would not want a comrade to be executed over the death of some mere provincial levy, surely?’
Macro felt his blood pound through his veins as his rage swelled at this description of his men as provincial levies. They were the Second Illyrian. The men who had fought off a rebel army, backed by Parthia, and crushed the uprising in Judaea the previous year. The men were tough and had guts, and they had proved themselves where it counted, in battle. Macro was proud of them. Proud enough to place his loyalty to them above anything he owed to the brotherhood of the legions.That thought came to him in a rush and took him by surprise. Then he realised it was true. He had taken to his new command more than he had thought. Macro felt a strong sense of responsibility and duty to his men and he was damned if he was going to let a pampered aristocrat like Amatius try to drive a wedge between him and the men of the Second Illyrian.
Macro took a deep breath to calm himself before replying. ‘No legionary I know of would stoop low enough to make that kind of appeal . . . sir.’
There was a sharp intake of breath as Amatius sat bolt upright and glared at Macro. ‘That’s gross insubordination, Prefect. If you were in my legion I’d break you for that.’
Longinus cleared his throat. ‘But he’s not in your legion, Gallus Amatius, so he’s not under your jurisdiction. However,’ Longinus smiled, ‘he is under my command and I will not tolerate such dissension between my officers. So, Prefect, I will ask you to withdraw that last remark and apologise.’
Macro shook his head. ‘Go to Hades, sir.’
‘I’m sure I will. But not on your say-so. Now you will apologise, or I shall have to find someone else to command the Second Illyrian.’
‘I’m sure one of my officers would relish the chance to whip those auxiliaries into shape,’ Amatius added with relish. ‘One of my tribunes perhaps.’
Macro clenched his jaw. This was unbearable. The two aristocrats were using him for their sport, but much as he would like to openly reveal his contempt for them and their kind - politicians playing at soldiers - he dared not let his pride come before the best interests of his men. Some smart-arsed tribune from the Tenth Legion with a taste for glory was the last thing the cohort needed when it went up against the Parthians. Macro swallowed hard and turned to Amatius with a frigid expression.
‘My apologies, sir.’
Amatius smiled. ‘That’s better. A man should know his place.’
‘Indeed,’ Longinus added. ‘But there, that’s settled. We still have to decide what to do about this legionary of yours.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Amatius composed his face. ‘A punishment along the lines I suggested is sufficient, given the circumstances. While I can understand the prefect’s feelings on the matter, we are talking about the life of a Roman citizen after all.’
Macro decided to make one last attempt to reason with the governor and leaned towards him as he spoke. ‘Sir, you cannot allow this man to escape the punishment he is due. You have to think about how it will be seen by the entire army. Unless you make it clear to the men what the consequences will be if they break regulations and carry knives off duty, then they’ll continue doing it, and with things the way they are this won’t be the last death on the streets of Antioch. Believe me, sir, it gives me no pleasure to ask for the man’s death, but you must consider how much damage will be done by sparing him.’
Longinus frowned, then abruptly stood up and strode across the room to the balcony that overlooked the garden courtyard of the house. Beyond the tiled roof of the slave quarters that backed on to the garden he stared out across the city, over the walls to the long palisade that enclosed the army’s camp on rising ground a short distance beyond. A faint cloud of dust to one side of the camp indicated some activity: a patrol, or one of the units training on the expanse of ground that had been cleared and flattened for exercises and the occasional parade. He stared for a moment longer and then turned back to the two officers still seated in front of his desk.
‘Very well, I’ve made my decision.’
Cato slowly made his way down the line of posts set to one side of the huge exercise ground.The infantry contingent of the Second Illyrian stood in lines in front of each post, every man armed with a wooden training sword with a heavy lead weight in the pommel, and another just ahead of the wide rim of the guard. In their left hands they clutched the handles of their wicker shields, also designed to be heavier than their battlefield equivalent. If a man could learn to wield such equipment with ease while training then he would fight with greater strength and confidence against an actual enemy. But for now, the auxiliaries just charged at their practice posts with a roar and set about them with a savage flurry of blows until Cato blew his whistle, and then each man would recover, and retire to the end of the line while the next man charged the post.
They were going at it with a will, Cato noticed, and he could imagine that each one of them had mentally imposed Crispus over their stake. Be that as it may, they had been drilling for the best part of the morning under a hot sun without complaint. He decided to keep them at it until noon before sending them back to their tents to rest. The afternoon would be spent with the mounted contingent, practising attacks against the same stakes while riding at speed in and around them, an altogether trickier proposition for mounted men.Thanks to the relentless training Cato was confident that the Second Illyrian would give a good account of themselves when they marched to war against Parthia. He smiled to himself. He was already taking it for granted that there would be a war.
The coming campaign was never far from his thoughts, and despite his confidence in his men Cato was anxious about fighting the Parthians. He realised well enough the difficulties the Roman soldiers would face in dealing with Parthian tactics. The enemy had developed their skills in mounted warfare over hundreds of years and now fielded one of the most formidable armies in the known world. Their method was simple, and unvarying. The first attack would be made by horse-archers who would pepper their foes with arrows, attempting to break their formation up, and then the small corps of heavily armoured cataphracts would charge home with their lances and shatter their opponents.The tactics had worked well against most of their enemies, and had resulted in the destruction of the army of Crassus several decades earlier. Now a new Roman army was preparing to face the might of the Parthians, and with not a little trepidation.
‘Sir!’ One of the optios assisting Cato with the training called out to him, and thrust his staff towards the hills to the east. Cato turned and scanned the near horizon of rocky slopes studded with clusters of cedar trees. Then something flashed in a shallow ravine leading down towards Antioch. He squinted and raised a hand to shade his eyes as he tried to make out more detail. A column of tiny figures on horseback was emerging from the mouth of the ravine.The optio strode over to join him and both men stared into the distance as the relentless dull thuds of the training continued behind them.
‘Who in Hades are they?’ the optio muttered.
Cato shook his head. ‘No way of telling just yet. Could be a caravan from Chalcis, Beroea, or perhaps even Palmyra.’
‘Caravan? I don’t think so, sir. I can’t make out any camels.’
‘That’s true.’ Cato stared as the distant party of horsemen continued to emerge from the ravine until at least a hundred men had appeared. As sunlight glittered off weapons and armour he felt the first icy trace of fear tingle down the back of his neck. Lowering his hand, he quietly gave his orders to the optio. ‘Get the men back into th
e camp and call out our cavalry. I want them out here ready for action. Send word to the general that we’ve sighted a column of horsemen to the east.’
‘Who shall I say they are?’
Cato shrugged. ‘No way to be sure just yet. But there’s no point in taking any chances. Now go.’
The optio saluted and then turned away, bellowing orders to the auxiliaries to cease their weapons drill and form up. The men wearily tramped into position and when all was ready the small column marched across the parade ground towards the camp gate, leaving Cato to watch the distant horsemen. By the time the last rider had emerged from the ravine he estimated that there must be at least two hundred of them. And at their head the thin red and gold strip of a banner flickered lazily in the shimmering air. The horsemen continued their measured approach towards Antioch, and the army camp sprawled across the landscape before the city’s walls. This was no attempt to surprise any unwary Roman patrols, Cato reasoned. The horsemen fully intended to be seen.
From inside the camp there was the shrill blast of notes from a bucina and a short while later the first of the Second Illyrian’s mounted squadrons trotted out of the gate and formed up in two lines at the edge of the parade ground, waiting for the men of the other three squadrons to take up position on their right. As the last of the cavalrymen edged his beast into line and the cohort’s mounted contingent tightened their grasp of their spears as they scrutinised the distant horsemen, a small party of staff officers emerged from the gates of the city and galloped along the track towards Cato and his men. Cato instantly identified the flamboyant red crest of the leading figure and felt some small comfort that the governor of Syria would take charge of the situation. The party of officers drew up in a flurry of dust and small stones and Cato saw that Macro and the legate of the Tenth were riding with the governor and his staff. Longinus thrust his arm out towards Cato.
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