Under the Eagle

by Simon Scarrow

  The same couldn’t be said for the settlement outside the fortress, which was now swollen with the survivors from the village. The lucky ones had managed to beg for shelter from distant relatives and friends who now repaid the smug disdain they had suffered for adapting to Roman ways. The unlucky ones would be forced to spend the winter in an ugly sprawl of crude huts that sprang up on the fringes of the settlement. Many of them would not survive the harsh northern winter but there would be little sympathy for them from either the Romans or those who lived in the settlement and now bore the weight of the legionaries’ rekindled suspicion of all things German.

  The bell rang again, more loudly this time, and the orderly slowed his pace as he walked down the corridor towards the better-ventilated end rooms reserved for officers.

  ‘Get a bloody move on, man!’ Macro bellowed. ‘I’ve been waving this fucking bell about for ages!’

  ‘So sorry to keep you waiting, sir,’ the orderly apologised. ‘But I’m afraid one of the other patients was dying and I wanted to make sure his effects went to the right friends before he popped off.’

  ‘And will they get them?’

  ‘The lads and I will do our best to see that the leftovers are sent on.’

  ‘After you’ve had your pickings.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Bloody vultures.’

  ‘Vultures?’ The orderly frowned. ‘Just a perk of the job, sir. Now what is it you wanted?’

  ‘Get rid of this.’ Macro shoved a bedpan at him. ‘And make the fire up. It’s freezing in here.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The orderly nodded as he carefully carried the bedpan over to a low table and set it down. ‘Nice day out, sir. Clear blue sky and still air.’

  ‘Oh, is it? Thanks for letting me know. But it’s still freezing in here.’

  ‘Not freezing, sir. Just well ventilated. It’s good for you.’

  ‘How can it be good? If the wound doesn’t get me, the cold will.’

  The orderly smiled at that comforting thought as he placed more fuel on the glowing embers in the brazier and blew gently on them to encourage some flames.

  ‘Right, that’s fine. Now take the bedpan and piss off.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The orderly collected the chamber pot and, holding it carefully, made for the door to the corridor. Without any warning, Cato strode into the room and the orderly nimbly stepped to one side without spilling a drop. He tutted at the optio as Cato closed the door behind him.

  The optio stood over the bed and smiled down. ‘It’s good to see you, sir.’

  ‘For the first time in three days.’

  ‘It’s been busy without you, sir. I’ve been trying to keep the century in good order while you recover. How’s the leg?’

  ‘Stiff, and it hurts like buggery whenever I try to move it. But the quacks seem to think I’m well on the mend.’

  ‘You look better than the last time I saw you.’

  ‘That was nothing, just some minor infection. The surgeon reckons it’s almost gone.’

  ‘When will you be back on duty, sir?’

  The non sequitur and the anxiety behind it were not lost on the centurion. He regarded Cato silently while the wood in the brazier hissed softly.

  ‘I’d have thought a young optio might be enjoying the opportunity of having his first command.’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘But . . .’ Macro coaxed.

  ‘I had no idea how much there was to do. There’s the drilling to organise, barracks inspections, equipment checks, and then there’s all the paperwork.’

  ‘You should leave that to Piso. I do.’

  ‘Yes, he’s been very helpful, sir. He insisted on handling it. But we’ve just had orders to conduct a full inventory of equipment and non-portable personal items. And, to make matters worse, headquarters has ordered all money above ten sestertii to be banked by the end of the week. Is it always as hectic as this, sir?’ Cato asked helplessly.

  ‘No.’

  So the Legion was to be moved in the near future then. The order restricting personal holdings of coinage was to limit the marching load of a legionary, and all non-portable goods would be inventoried for storage or sale. If the latter, then the Legion’s transfer was likely to be long term. Interesting. But then, Macro considered, it was likely that the wounded would have to travel in carts and the prospect of the uncomfortable bumps and jolts that that implied filled him with dread. Marching might be tiring, but it was all good exercise and far more comfortable than jolting around on the flat bed of a legionary transport wagon.

  ‘Any word on where we’re being sent?’

  ‘Nothing official, sir, but I’ve heard rumours that we’re going to join an army being assembled to invade Britain.’

  ‘Britain! What emperor in his right mind would want to add that dump to the Empire? Wild, savage and filled with bogs – if what I hear is true. Britain! That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘That’s what I heard,’ Cato said defensively. ‘And in any case, what emperor is in his right mind these days?’

  ‘Fair point!’ Macro lightened up. ‘Look, all this admin you’re complaining about. It’s what running a century is all about. You’re just going to have to cope with it, or get Piso to.’

  ‘It’s not really the paperwork that’s getting me down, sir,’ Cato said uncomfortably.

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Well, it’s the command side of things. I just can’t seem to carry off the business of giving people orders.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Cato shuffled his feet, shamefaced, as he attempted to formulate the problem. ‘I know I’m an optio and that means the men have to obey me, but that doesn’t mean that they take kindly to having a – well, if I’m honest – a kid telling them what to do. It’s not that they don’t obey me, they do. Nobody’s calling me a coward any more, but they haven’t got much respect for me.’

  ‘I’m sure they haven’t. It doesn’t come automatically – it has to be earned. It’s the same for every new officer. The men will obey because they are accustomed to. The trick is to get them to obey willingly and to do that you need to earn their trust. Then they’ll respect you.’

  ‘But how do I do that, sir?’

  ‘You stop whining for a start. Then you begin to act like an optio.’

  ‘I can’t, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean can’t? Can! Fucking will!’ Macro propped himself up on his elbows, wincing as he shifted his leg to a more comfortable position.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now then, put some more wood on that fire – some dry stuff – before the bloody thing goes out. And shut the window.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir? Fresh air’s supposed to speed recovery.’

  ‘Maybe air that’s not quite so fresh. The only thing that window’s speeding is exposure, so shut it now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato quickly obeyed the order and then carefully selected the driest wood he could find for the brazier.

  ‘Did you notice?’ Macro asked.

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘How you instantly did what I said?’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘That’s what I’m talking about. It’s the tone of voice. You need to practise giving orders a while before it feels natural. But once you’re there it’s a doddle – comes as easy as breathing.’

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I do. Now then, what’s the news?’ Macro eased himself back on the bed so that he was propped up against the bolster. With the window closed the red glow of the brazier added to what little light there was filtering through the shutters. ‘Pull up the stool and fill me in. What else have you been up to?’

  Cato shifted uneasily. ‘I was summoned to headquarters this morning by the legate.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Macro smiled. ‘And what did Vespasian have to say?’

  ‘Not much . . . He’s investing me with a decoration, a grass crown. I’m not quite sure why.’

  ‘Becau
se I recommended it,’ smiled Macro. ‘You saved my life, remember? Even if you did nearly lose the standard while you were at it. You deserve it, and once you get the phalera attached to your harness I think you’ll find the men will go easier on you. All good soldiers respect well-earned decorations. How’s it feel to be a hero?’

  Cato blushed, grateful that the uncomfortable glow in his cheeks was lost in the flickering orange of the brazier. ‘Frankly, I feel a bit of a fraud.’

  ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘I can’t be a hero on the strength of one battle.’

  ‘Hardly a battle. More of a skirmish actually.’

  ‘Precisely, sir. A skirmish, and one in which I only managed to injure an enemy by accident. Hardly the stuff of heroes.’

  ‘Killing men in battle doesn’t necessarily make you a hero,’ Macro gently reassured him. ‘Admittedly it does help and the more bodies you pile up the better. But there are other ways to be heroic. All the same, I wouldn’t go around blabbing about not having knocked a few Germans on the head if I were you. Look, you didn’t have to come back for me but you chose to – against the odds. In my book that takes guts and I’m glad you’re with us.’

  Cato stared at him, searching for the least sign of irony in his superior’s face. ‘Do you really mean that, sir?’

  ‘Of course. Have I yet said anything to you I didn’t mean?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There you are then. So take it at face value and don’t get sentimental on me. I take it there’ll be an investiture?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The legate’s holding a parade two days from now. There are a number of decorations to hand out, including one for Vitellius.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Macro interrupted sourly. ‘I’m sure that’ll look good on his CV when he gets back to Rome.’

  ‘Then there’s a private dinner in the evening. He’s invited all officers who served with the Third cohort that day in the village, those of us who survived, that is.’

  ‘Should be rather cosy and intimate then. Typical of Vespasian; always the grand gesture on the cheap.’

  ‘He insisted that you be there as well, sir.’

  ‘Me?’ Macro shrugged and pointed at his leg. ‘And how am I supposed to attend?’

  ‘That’s what I asked the legate, sir.’

  ‘You did? What did he say?’

  ‘He’ll send a litter for you.’

  ‘A litter? That’s great. I get to play the invalid all night long and have to chase up some social conversation. It’ll be a bloody nightmare.’

  ‘Then don’t go, sir.’

  ‘Don’t go?’ Macro raised his eyebrows. ‘My lad, a polite invitation from a commander of a legion carries somewhat more weight than a writ issued by Jupiter himself.’

  Cato smiled and rose to his feet. ‘I’d better go now. Is there anything I can get you for next time? Some reading matter perhaps?’

  ‘No thanks. Need to give my eyes a break. You might bring me a jar of wine and a dice set. I need to improve my technique.’

  ‘Dice.’ Cato was vaguely disappointed as he disapproved of those who refused to accept that dice fell randomly – straight dice at least. He nodded and made to leave.

  ‘One more thing!’ Macro called after him as he strode out of the ward.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Remind Piso he owes me five sestertii.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Centurion Bestia glared into each face as he marched steadily along the ranks. In many ways inspection was the most onerous aspect of training to most recruits. Marching, drilling and weapons practice required no more than effort and the minimum of thought. Preparing for inspection, on the other hand, required a kind of genius that almost elevated it to the level of art. Every item of kit had to be cleaned, polished – where possible rather than where necessary – and in a perfect state of repair. There were few short-cuts, and since they were all known by Bestia it was a foolish or desperate recruit who resorted to them. Thus it was that Cato stood nervously at attention and prayed to every god remotely relevant to the situation that Bestia would miss the varnish he had applied to his belt and straps. The visit to the hospital had left him no time to buff the weathered leather up into a shine and he had simply painted the varnish on instead, on the advice of Pyrax. Standing stiffly with spear grounded to his right and left hand resting on the rim of his shield Cato was acutely aware of the faint smell of varnish wafting around him. If Bestia touched the tacky leather then Cato’s deception would be uncovered and he would be up on charges.

  Four men down the line Bestia suddenly caught sight of his prey and skimmed past the intervening men with barely a sidelong glance.

  ‘Ah! Optio.’ He laboured the word. ‘So very good of you to join us this morning.’

  As always the sarcastic greeting was unfair, since Cato had no choice in the matter and was excused drill on alternate days on orders from the Legion’s headquarters.

  ‘So then, it appears that you are something of a war hero, Master Cato?’

  Cato kept his mouth shut and continued staring straight ahead, eyes unwavering.

  ‘I believe I asked you a fucking question,’ Bestia asked, then turned to the optio who accompanied him on inspections through the ranks. ‘Didn’t I just ask him a fucking question?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the drill optio replied. ‘You asked him a fucking question, sir!’

  ‘So answer me!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Cato shouted.

  ‘Yes, sir what?’

  ‘Yes, I am something of a war hero, sir,’ Cato replied in a low voice.

  ‘I do beg your fucking pardon, son!’ Bestia shouted. ‘But I must be deaf. I can’t hear you. Again! Louder!’

  ‘Yes, I am something of a war hero, sir!’

  ‘Oh really? Young lad like you must have really scared the shit out of the Germans. I mean, just looking at you right now is making me bloody nervous. Next thing you know they’ll be chucking fucking foetuses into the front line.’

  A ripple of laughter spread across the other recruits.

  ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP!’ Bestia bellowed. ‘I did not give the rest of you ladies permission to laugh, did I? Well, did I?’

  ‘NO, SIR!’ the recruits chorused.

  ‘Well then, war hero, now you’ve really got something to live up to.’ Bestia leaned in very close to Cato’s face, so that the latter could see every wrinkle and scar of the veteran’s face, as well as the red rim of his nostrils. Cato almost smiled with relief as the centurion stepped back a pace, drew out a dirty piece of linen and sneezed into it.

  ‘What you smiling at, boy? Haven’t seen a man with a cold before?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on you, optio, make any mistakes from now on and I’ll show you no mercy,’ Bestia snarled, and then abruptly strode away.

  ‘So what’s new?’ Cato muttered once the centurion was out of earshot. The drill optio sniffed as he went by and Cato blanched. But the man just winked and hurried to catch up with Bestia.

  That morning Bestia changed the routine. Instead of the scheduled weapons-training the recruits were introduced to the rudiments of camp construction, and were marched outside the walls of the fortress to a prepared area where lines of coloured flags marked out a large square with numerous subdivisions. A supply wagon waited at the side of the track; a brace of oxen grazed with dull expressions as they watched the recruits assemble around Bestia. The centurion had taken a pick and shovel from the back of the wagon and was holding them aloft.

  ‘Any of you ladies care to tell me what I’m holding in my hands?’

  The recruits remained silent, not willing to risk the obvious.

  ‘Just as I thought, as dumb as ever. Well, these may look like horticultural tools but they are the army’s secret weapon. In fact, they are the most important weapon you are ever likely to handle. With these, you can build the most formidable fortifications in the known world. Roman armies get defeated from time to time, Roman fo
rtifications – never! Some of you may have heard on the grapevine that the Legion is about to be relocated.’

  A low key buzz of excitement greeted the announcement – the first official confirmation of what had been doing the rounds of the Legion’s mess rooms for the last ten days. Bestia let it run its course before continuing.

  ‘Now, you ladies will of course be ignorant of our final destination, unlike senior officers such as myself. Suffice to say we’re in for an interesting time. But before you can be let loose outside the base, you’re going to need to know how to build everything from a marching camp right up to bicircumvallations.’

  Now he had really lost them, only the handful who were familiar with Caesar’s account of the siege of Alesia had the remotest idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Ladies, we’re going to start small, since you – barring our war hero there – will have problems grasping the tactical defensive potential of anything larger than a ditch. So we begin with the marching camp.

  ‘When the Legion manoeuvres through non-hostile territory it excavates a defensive ditch and turf-mounted palisade. Each legionary, and you ladies, will be issued with one pick and one spade. The yellow flags over there need not concern you – they mark out the tent lines for each century. These red flags mark out the boundary defences. You will dig from that line inwards. You will dig a ditch six feel wide and three feet deep – that’s two spades wide by one spade deep – the spoil of which is to be heaped on the inner side of the ditch and then compacted down. Each man digs six feet of ditch, starting with the war hero at the first marker flag. You ladies understand? Then get the equipment issue and get to work.’

  Once each man had been issued a pick and spade, for which deductions would be made from their pay, as Cato now knew, and had taken up position along the red-flagged line, Bestia gave the order to dig. A short distance beneath the grass the soil was freezing, if not frozen, and the recruits used their picks to hammer into it with all their might, piling the cold lumps of clay soil immediately beside the ditch. As the morning wore on, the men became oblivious to the chill and sweat poured freely, woollen inner tunics sticking to their backs. Hardened by months of exercise, the recruits nevertheless found the entrenching exhausting, but Bestia allowed them no break from their toils, reminding them that while on the march the Legion would need to make such fortifications every day. Sore hands turned into blistered hands and, when the blisters burst, the palms were rubbed raw by the coarse wood of the wooden handles which would not become smooth through heavy use for some months yet. Cato suffered the agony in tight-lipped silence while those who had joined the Legion from a farming family barely noticed the wood in their calloused hands. As bad luck would have it, Cato was placed immediately next to Pulcher and, while they were out of earshot of the drill instructors, Pulcher resumed his campaign of intimidation.