‘Shame he has only got one life,’ Macro muttered to himself. ‘And I’ll be taking that.’
‘Sir?’ One of his men looked at him curiously.
‘What?’
‘Sir, I didn’t quite hear the order.’
Macro cleared his dry throat. ‘I said keep a good watch, or those bastards will cut your throat before you know it.’
Macro turned and made his way back towards the heart of the village.
Cato was sitting on the edge of a stone trough, watching the casualties being brought in from the dyke. Most had run on to the concealed stakes when Rufus had given the order to charge. A number had been struck by arrows as well and Cato realised that the ambush had cost the Romans dearly. Centurion Rufus came limping in, clutching a hand to his thigh. Blood seeped through his fingers. He saw that the wounds of his men were tended to and made his way over to report to the prefect.
Cato stood aside to let Hamedes bend down and examine the centurion’s injury. The priest took out his canteen to wash the wound and then reached for a strip of linen from his shoulder bag. ‘What happened?’ asked Cato.
‘The bastards set a line of sharpened stakes from the dyke to the village,’ Rufus told his superior. ‘They were hidden in the long grass. First we knew about it was when one of the men stumbled on to one. The fool couldn’t keep his mouth shut and I wasn’t close enough to see what had happened, so I gave the order to charge, while there was still some chance of surprising them.’ He winced. ‘Before I knew it we had run right into the stakes. I got one in the leg almost at once. By the time the men stopped, most of us had been injured. That’s when they hit us with arrows.’ Rufus paused briefly and shook his head. ‘There was nothing we could do, sir. Some men tried to get out of the way of the arrows, and ran into more stakes. I told the boys to stay put and shelter behind their shields as best they could. I figured our best chance was to wait for the enemy to cease shooting and then work our way out of the stakes.’
Cato frowned, furious with himself for underestimating Ajax. Rufus misinterpreted his expression.
‘There was nothing else I could do, sir. I swear it.’
‘I understand.’ Cato quickly ran a hand through the matted locks of his hair. ‘What is the butcher’s bill?’
‘Eight dead, and sixteen wounded. Three of those won’t last the night. Eight are walking wounded. The others will need to be carried out of here.’
Cato looked down at his boots to hide his face. He had led his men into the trap. He had been too keen to get to grips with the enemy. Men were dead because of him and he felt shame at their loss.
‘Very well,’ he said quietly as he composed himself and looked up. ‘Make sure you have that leg wound properly seen to. Then have the village searched for food and water. The men can eat their fill and rest. We’ll continue the pursuit at first light.’
‘Yes, sir. And what about the wounded? We can’t leave them here.’
‘I’ll detail some of the men to bring them up behind us. Hamedes here can help out. That’s all for now, Rufus.’
It was a curt dismissal and Cato sensed the man’s resentment as he saluted and turned to limp back to join the rest of his men. Cato looked at Hamedes. ‘Ajax killed the people of this village. Are there any rites that you need to perform for the dead?’
Hamedes stared blankly back at Cato. ‘Sir?’
‘You’re a priest. Do what is necessary for them. Once you’ve finished treating the injured.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hamedes bowed his head. ‘I’ll offer the prayers. There’s no time for the full funeral rites. But we must burn the dead.’
‘I thought you people believed in burial.’
Hamedes smiled uncertainly before he replied. ‘Depends how much time you have.’
‘Very well, tell Macro to lend you a few men to get the job done.’
Hamedes nodded and turned to follow in the footsteps of Rufus, making for the wounded lying in the street.
As he stared at the legionaries, Cato wondered how many of them would realise that he was to blame. How many would resent him and be wary of following him into the next fight?
He turned at the sound of approaching boots and saw the unmistakable stocky bulk of Macro emerging from the darkness.
‘Sentries are posted, sir. I’ve told them to keep a good watch. Don’t want anyone catching us unawares. The lads are clapped out so I’ll be changing the watch regularly during the night.’
Cato forced a smile. ‘So you won’t be getting much rest then.’
‘I suppose.’ Macro shrugged. ‘Nothing I’m not used to.’
‘And you didn’t sleep last night either.’
‘True, but I’ve put up with worse before. Many times.’ He gestured towards Cato. ‘As have you.’
‘I don’t think I’ll be sleeping much tonight either.’
‘You get some rest,’ said Macro. ‘I’d feel better knowing your mind was fresh when we continue the pursuit tomorrow.’
‘Why?’ Cato asked bitterly. ‘So that I can lead us into another ambush?’
‘What is this?’ Macro frowned and placed his hands on his hips. ‘Do you think to blame yourself?’
Cato looked at him squarely. ‘It was my fault, Macro. I should have known that Ajax would anticipate our attempt to flank him . . . I made a bloody mess of it. I was too keen to put an end to him and rushed in.’ Cato shook his head at the memory of it. ‘Ajax was waiting for us. He had it all worked out.’
‘What did you expect? He’s no fool.’ Macro glanced at his friend and tried to offer a crumb of comfort. ‘Still, I expect I would have done the same if I had been in your place.’
‘I wonder.’
‘Mind if I sit?’
‘Be my guest.’
Macro unfastened the straps under his chin and removed the bulky helmet with a sigh of relief. Then he eased himself down on the edge of the trough next to Cato and leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees. He was silent for a moment and then pursed his lips before speaking quietly so that they were not overheard. ‘Could you take a little advice? From a friend?’
Cato looked at him. ‘From a friend, yes.’
‘Right . . . Look here, Cato, you’re a bloody prefect now. You can’t afford self-pity.’
‘Self-pity? No, you have me wrong. This isn’t self-pity. It’s a question of poor judgement. I led these men badly.’
‘And what? You want to take some form of punishment for it?’
‘That’s what I deserve,’ Cato admitted.
‘Bullshit. You think you are the first officer to make a mistake?’
‘Mistake is hardly the term I’d use for this.’ Cato waved a hand towards the casualties. ‘Bloodbath, more like.’
‘Shedding blood is our stock in trade,’ Macro responded. ‘When there’s a fight, soldiers get hurt and killed. That’s the way of it.’
‘But if men die needlessly, then their commander should be called to account.’
Macro puffed his cheeks in frustration. ‘For fuck’s sake, Cato, I’ve seen worse cock-ups. So have you. Sometimes a fight goes your way and sometimes it doesn’t. The enemy gets the better of every commander from time to time, even the very best of them. You have to accept that.’
‘So you agree that I failed my men.’
‘Sure, you screwed up,’ Macro said frankly.
‘Thanks . . .’
‘Cato, I respect you well enough to tell you the truth. If you don’t want to hear it then say so.’
‘I’m sorry. Speak on.’
‘All right.’ Macro collected his thoughts. ‘The truth is that you are a fine officer. As good as any I have met. I’ve watched you rise from optio, to centurion and now prefect. I’d wager you’ll go further still. You’ve got the brains for it, and the guts, and though you look like a long streak of piss, you’re as tough as old boots. But you lack something.’ Macro frowned as he tried to clarify his explanation. ‘Not experience - you’ve had plenty of
that, no question about it. No, it’s something else . . . Perspective, perhaps. That sense a soldier has once he has served long enough to see generals come and go. Maybe you have been too successful. You’ve won promotion before you’ve developed the right temperament for the job, if you see what I mean. You need to learn to accept that making mistakes from time to time - failing - is part of the job. How a soldier copes with failure is every bit as important as how he deals with success.’ Macro smiled fondly. ‘Do you remember Centurion Bestia?’
Cato nodded as he recalled the scarred veteran in charge of training the recruits when Cato had joined the Second Legion nearly seven years before. Bestia had died during the invasion of Britannia, fatally wounded in an ambush.
‘He was a tough one, and he’d served in just about every corner of the Empire. After I was promoted to the centurionate I had a drinking session with him in the mess. He had a right skinful and, as old soldiers will in the company of their own kind, he fell to reminiscing. Anyway, I remember the most impressive story he told me was about some messed-up campaign in Pannonia. Some of the mountain tribes had decided they’d had enough of Roman tax collectors so they rebelled. The Second was sent in to put down the revolt. But the governor had no idea quite how many rebels there were, nor much about the conditions in the mountains during the winter. So the commander of the legion gets caught in a trap, loses a quarter of his men and has to retreat two hundred miles to the nearest fortified town. Took them twenty days and cost nearly half the men. But Bestia reckoned it was the legate’s finest hour. He led his men to safety. That’s the point, Cato. The real test of a commander is how he deals with adversity.’ Macro looked at Cato and nodded earnestly. ‘That’s the truth of it. So you’d better get a grip on yourself, right?’
‘Yes. I understand.’ Cato forced a slight smile. ‘And thanks.’
‘Think nothing of it.’ Macro punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘I’d far rather you were in charge and fucked it up than me.’
‘Oh, great . . .’
Macro raised his canteen and took a series of swigs before he set it down. ‘Ahh! That’s better.’ He decided to change the subject and glanced quickly round at the ruined village. ‘So what’s the story here? Where are all the locals?’
‘Dead.’ Cato pointed towards the pen, a short distance down the street. ‘Ajax had them all killed.’
‘Why? Why the hell would he do that?’
‘Maybe they refused to help him. Or maybe he just wanted to keep on destabilising the province. I don’t know the reason.’ Cato picked up a pebble and rolled it between his fingers for a moment before flinging it away into the darkness. ‘Anyway, they’re dead. All of them. And that’s why we’ve got to track that bastard down and kill him.’
‘There you go. That’s the spirit. Put this day behind you, and concentrate on what you must do on the morrow.’
Cato nodded. Macro rose stiffly to his feet. ‘I need to speak to Rufus and the optios about the watch-keeping schedule. You get some rest, sir.’
‘I’ll try.’
Macro slapped his cheek as a high-pitched whine sounded close to his ear. ‘If you can manage it with all these little bastards then you’re a better man than me.’
He stooped to pick up his helmet and turned to make his way over to the other centurion, sitting propped up against a mud wall. Cato stared fondly at his friend for a moment, then got up and entered the nearest building. He searched around in the rooms that had suffered least from the fire damage and found a bedroll tucked in a corner. He took it outside, where the stench of burning was less overpowering, unrolled it and lay down on his side, trying to ignore the insects that filled the night. For a while he thought of Ajax, and the moment when his death seemed unavoidable. Then the dreadful exhaustion of the day’s march through the mangroves and swamps carried him off into a deep sleep.
Cato woke shortly before dawn, immediately feeling guilty that he had slept while Macro had tended to the watch-keeping. The months aboard the ships had left him in poor condition for a difficult march and his legs ached abominably. Cato rose to his feet with a groan and stretched his back, feeling the joints crack.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, then rubbed his eyes and looked about. Some of the men had already stirred and a handful were busy constructing litters for the wounded out of wood salvaged from the ruins. The air was delightfully cool and a thin mist lay across the low-lying land around the village. The sight of the mist immediately made Cato uneasy. Here was yet more cover for Ajax, and the men under his own command would not be safe until the morning heat drove the mist away. Cato made his way across to the wounded and stood over Centurion Rufus. He nodded at his bandaged leg.
‘How does it feel?’
‘It hurts. Not enough to prevent me joining the main column.’
‘I want you to take charge of the wounded,’ Cato said firmly. ‘I need a good man to ensure their safety.’
A brief look of disappointment crossed Rufus’s face before he nodded. ‘As you wish, sir.’
‘You can rejoin us once the wounded are seen to safety.’ Cato looked round. ‘Where’s Macro?’
‘He went forward to the picket line a bit earlier, sir.’
Cato nodded and then turned to stride up the street to the far end of the village. As he passed the animal pen he saw that it had burned to the ground during the night and a large tangled pile of charred remains stood within the damaged wall. The air around was still warm and filled with the stench of burned flesh. Cato quickened his pace and strode out of the village. A short distance along the path he saw the first two men keeping watch. At the sound of his footsteps one of them turned to challenge him.
‘Who goes there?’
‘Prefect Cato. Where’s Centurion Macro?’
‘Walking the line, sir. He went to the right, should be back any moment.’
‘Any sign of the enemy on your watch?’
‘No, sir. Nothing. Been as quiet as the grave.’
Cato stared into the mist shrouding the palms that grew alongside the path a short distance off. The long curved fronds of the trees made them look like stooped giants reaching out with their arms. His ears presently heard the sound of boots swishing through the grass beside the path and Macro strode out of the gloom.
‘Morning, sir. Rested?’
‘Yes, thank you. Anything to report?’
Macro shook his head. ‘Nothing. Not a peep out of the renegades. Either they’re inhumanly quiet, or they decided to put some distance between us before stopping for the night. I left the optios with orders to rouse the men at first light. Not long now.’
‘Very good.’
‘Oh, the only other thing is, Hamedes has taken a jar filled with ashes down to the dyke. Seems he had to place the ashes in an irrigation ditch, so they could eventually join the Nile. He said he had your permission.’
‘That’s right, as long as he doesn’t go too far, with Ajax’s men about.’
‘He said he’d be careful, sir.’
‘It’s his funeral,’ Cato replied and then shook his head. ‘Not quite what I meant to say.’
Macro laughed briefly before he responded. ‘You don’t need to worry about him. He was game for a fight yesterday morning and he kept up with us across that swamp. Pretty good going for a priest. Not like those idle tossers back in Rome, or on the army staffs. He’s all right, is Hamedes. I’ll make a soldier of him yet.’
‘I’m not quite sure that’s what he has in mind.’
‘You’re wrong, sir. After what Ajax did at his temple that lad isn’t going to rest easy until he’s had his revenge.’
‘Revenge?’ Cato sighed. ‘Seems to be the only thing that motivates us all. Hamedes, Ajax, you and me.’
Macro’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you’re thinking that somehow we’re all the same when it comes down to it, then you’re wrong. Dead wrong. We executed Ajax’s father because he was a bloody pirate. Ajax was condemned to slavery for the same reason. I’m telling you,
that bastard deserves everything that’s coming to him. The only question is which of us gets the chance to kill him. You, me, or even Hamedes.’
The Legion Page 15
