The Legion

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Move!’ the optio bellowed into his face, and raised his staff.

  The centurion hurriedly straightened up and moved on. The optio remained by the fallen officer and gestured for the legionaries to march round the fallen man. ‘Keep moving! Don’t stop and gawp! What, you’ve never seen an officer fall on his face before? Move!’

  The column rippled round the prone man and continued its advance without breaking its step. Macro had slowed so that he was just ahead of Cato and muttered with satisfaction. ‘There goes the first one. Won’t be long before we lose others. Wonder how many more will fall out.’

  Cato licked his lips. ‘Just as long as I don’t.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Like I said, I won’t let you.’

  ‘Thanks, friend.’

  ‘No need to get sarky, sir. This was your idea, remember?’

  ‘Next time I have a good idea, tell me to mind my own business, eh?’

  Macro smiled, but growled, ‘Shut up and save your breath.’

  Late in the morning, the column passed through a long grove of tall date palms and Macro called a halt and ordered the men to down packs. Cato stepped to the side of the road and let the yoke drop into the grass. He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, and panted for breath. Macro, sweating and breathing heavily but otherwise himself, shook his head pityingly. ‘You’re going soft. That’s what promotion does to a man.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Cato reached for his canteen, pulled out the stopper and raised it to his lips.

  ‘Two mouthfuls.’ Macro pointed a finger at him as he strode past to have a word with his instructors. ‘Not a drop more.’

  Cato nodded, and drank what he was allowed, letting the second mouthful swill round his parched mouth before he swallowed. He looked back along the column. Scores of men lay stretched on their backs, gasping. Amongst the officers he noticed a few absences, the faces of men he had hoped would fail to complete the march. The rest looked grim and determined.

  As Macro returned to the front of the column, he stopped beside Cato and took a sip from his canteen. ‘Four officers and eighteen of the men have dropped out so far. Not at all bad considering the heat. But then these men are used to it. Eight miles done, I make it. Time for a short rest and then we’ll turn back towards the camp.’ Macro was silent for a moment before he raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted briefly up at the sun before he took his second sip and capped his canteen. ‘That will be the real test of the men. The heat in the afternoon will be crushing. Can’t say I’m relishing the prospect. How are you holding up, sir?’

  ‘I’m managing.’ In truth Cato’s feet were throbbing with pain from the prolonged march on a hard surface and he felt slightly dizzy from his exertions and the heat. But he forced himself to stand upright and look Macro squarely in the eye.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘No problems,’ Macro replied as he took in his friend’s blanched face. ‘If I were you, I’d sit down and rest your legs while you have the chance.’

  ‘Not before you do.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Suit yourself.’

  He paced slowly along the column, looking down at the officers and men of the First Cohort. They were mostly the product of a blending of the Greek and Egyptian races, darkly featured yet not quite as dark as the natives of the upper Nile. In general they had a somewhat smaller build than the legionaries of the northern frontier of the Empire where Macro had served most of his time. However, they looked tough enough, and they had stayed the distance, so far. But then they should, Macro reflected. The First Cohort was supposed to be the best in every legion. Twice the size of other cohorts, it was entrusted with the defence of the right flank when the legion went into battle. Still, it would be interesting to see how many remained in the column when it returned to camp. The men of the Seventh and Ninth Cohorts had fared as well as their comrades and only a handful had dropped out. Cato had been right to make a point of including the officers, Macro accepted. It had certainly perked the men up—a useful bonus over and above the opportunity to weed out those who were not fit enough for active commands.

  As he made his way back down the line to the small group of officers resting beside the road, Macro saw Hamedes sitting to one side. Macro had always assumed that priests were a soft bunch of wasters and was surprised that Hamedes had kept up with the column.

  ‘How are your feet coping?’

  The priest stood up as he was addressed and smiled infectiously. ‘A most welcome excursion, sir. Though I have to wonder that men who have to carry so much on their backs have any strength left to conquer and hold an empire.’

  Macro smiled back and tapped him on the chest. ‘That’s the secret of our success,’ he responded conspiratorially. ‘It’s because we have the strength left that we win.’ Macro took a step back and glanced over the priest. ‘You’ve done well, lad. I’ll make a legionary of you yet.’

  The young man’s face was still for a moment before his smile returned. ‘An honour, to be sure. Yet I am a man with spiritual, rather than martial, ambitions. When the campaign is over I fully intend to return to the priesthood.’

  ‘We’ll see. My instinct is that you are getting something of a taste for this life. Why else would you stick with us, eh?’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder and returned to the head of the column. He picked up his yoke and heaved it up on to his shoulder with a grunt before turning to face back along the column.

  ‘The rest break’s over! On your feet!’

  There was a chorus of groans and swearing that made Macro smile, then the men stood up and raised their yokes as the optios strode down the line bawling out those who responded too slowly to the order. Each century formed up and stood ready, waiting for the order to resume the march. Macro waited until they were still and silent, then bellowed down the line, ‘Column! Advance!’

  They shuffled forward, gradually picking up the pace. Macro led them a short distance beyond the belt of palms before leaving the road to march round a shrine and then turning back towards the camp, passing down the tail of the column and the covered carts carrying those who had collapsed on the outward leg. Midday passed and the afternoon breeze picked up, bringing with it the lightest of dust from the desert. The grit caught in the men’s mouths and their eyes, adding to the discomfort of the scorching heat that beat down on them. Worse still, the glare made the road ahead shimmer as if a perpetually receding sheet of water lay before them, tormenting them with the prospect of assuaging their growing thirst.

  More men fell out of line, and this time fewer of them could be coaxed back into place by the blows of the optios and were left for the carts to pick up. Cato had slowed a little so that he was now marching amid the other officers, a short distance behind Macro. Most of the centurions were coping with the strain of the march well enough, some struggled, and the last of those officers who had been avoiding the drills soon gave in and slumped to the side of the road to await the carts.

  Cato had never known such heat, not even when he and Macro had crossed the Syrian desert to Palmyra. His tunic, encased in armour, felt tight against him, constricting his breath as he laboured under the weight of the yoke and the broad shield hanging from it. His feet and legs felt leaden and each step became an effort of will. They passed back through the villages near Diospolis Magna and out came the noisy clusters of children again. This time they were met with silence as the soldiers ignored them, unwilling to waste any breath telling the children to go away.

  In the middle of the afternoon Cato looked up to see the pylons and standards of Karnak wavering in the distance. His heart lifted at the sight, and he gritted his teeth and looked down again, concentrating on each step in turn, not wanting to look up and see the temples seeming as far off as ever.

  ‘Step up the pace, lads!’ Macro called out cheerfully. ‘We’re almost home. Let’s show the other cohorts how real soldiers march!’

  His words were met with silence and Macro paused and turned back to face them. ‘What’
s the matter with you? Are we happy?’

  Those centurions who had served in the northern legions, and Cato, answered him in a chorus. ‘Are we fuck!’

  Macro laughed, and turned to lead them the final mile back to the training ground outside the temple complex. The optios hurriedly ordered the men to dress their ranks and raise their chins as they turned off the road and the column trudged on to the open ground, back to the positions they had occupied before they had set off at daybreak.

  ‘Column! Stand to attention!’ Macro’s bellow echoed back off the mud-brick wall. He set his pack down, reached for his canteen and took a long swig before stoppering it. Then he slowly paced along the lines of sweating, panting legionaries, inspecting their ranks. One more man collapsed as he stood waiting for the column to be dismissed. Macro ignored him. He put his hands on his hips and addressed the exhausted men.

  ‘That is but a taste of what is expected of you once the campaign begins. I know that the Jackals are keen to test themselves in battle with the Nubians. You have the spirit of true soldiers, but you must also have the body. It is the army that marches hardest that also fights hardest, and wins.’

  Macro’s words died away with the late afternoon breeze. He stared at them a moment longer and then shouted the order. ‘Column! . . . Fall out!’

  As soon as the order was given the men seemed to sag under the weight of their yokes and then in ones and twos they began to stagger across the training ground towards the north gate of Karnak. Macro watched them for a moment before he caught sight of Hamedes and nodded a greeting to him.

  ‘Well done, lad! Seems you’re as fit as any man here.’

  Hamedes puffed his cheeks. ‘I think I may not take you up on that offer of a place in the legion, sir.’

  ‘Hah!’ Macro jerked his thumb towards the gate. ‘Get in there and have a good night’s rest. When the morning comes you’ll wonder what you were complaining about. And then you’ll try and get up and feel like a complete cripple.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Hamedes said flatly, and walked stiffly away.

  Cato was draining the last drops of his canteen when Macro approached him. ‘You went the distance after all.’

  ‘Did I?’ Cato’s feet burned so much it was an effort to stand up. ‘So this is what being dead on your feet feels like . . .’

  ‘Ah, don’t make such a fuss.’ He nodded towards the carts trundling across the training ground. ‘At least you did it. Some didn’t. I’ve had one of the optios draw up a list of those who dropped out.’ Macro reached into the sling hanging round his neck and fished out a small waxed slate. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cato glanced down at his yoke. ‘I suppose it would be bad form to call over one of the sentries to carry this back to the supplies officer for me.’

  ‘Very bad form.’

  ‘Shit . . . Well, in for a sestertius, in for a denarius.’ Cato reached down and heaved the ponderous weight back on to his shoulder and walked with Macro towards the gate. ‘I’ll drop this off and eat, drink and have a rest. Then there’s one final matter to attend to this evening before I’m done for the day.’

  Aurelius looked down at the list by the light of his oil lamp and shook his head. ‘These are all good men. I’ve known them for years. You can’t have them removed from their posts.’

  ‘Sir, they failed to complete the route march. They’re out of condition. Some of them are so overweight they can’t fit properly into their armour any more. They are a liability to the men under their command. When you lead the army against the enemy, those officers will fail to keep up with the army, as they failed to keep up with today’s marching column. Who will command their men then? They will lack an officer when they most need one.’ He paused. ‘They have to be removed from the battle line.’

  The legate let out a long sigh. ‘It may be true that they are not in peak form but they have other qualities.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, er, experience. They spent many years working their way up through the ranks, as I did. There’s not much that they don’t know about soldiering.’

  ‘How much campaign experience have they had, sir?’

  Aurelius frowned and lowered the list. He stared up at Cato. ‘You’re not going to let this pass, are you?’

  ‘No, sir. You appointed me and Centurion Macro to take charge of the men’s training. It is my professional assessment that these men are unfit for active duty. Of course, it would be a shame to humiliate them through demotion or dismissal from the legion. So why not redeploy them to your headquarters, or leave them here to command the garrison? That way they won’t hinder their men, and you can make use of their experience.’

  ‘And who will replace these men?’

  ‘Centurion Macro has already identified a number of optios who are good enough to promote to the centurionate.’

  ‘I see.’ Aurelius fixed Cato with a cold expression. ‘You have it all worked out, don’t you?’

  ‘I do my duty and serve Rome to the best of my ability, sir. That’s all,’ Cato replied evenly. ‘In any case, you wanted the legion to be ready to march as soon as possible. The sooner these men are replaced, the sooner you will be able to wage war on the Nubians.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose you are right.’ Auelius picked up the waxed tablet. ‘I’ll have these officers reassigned immediately. Let me know who you and Macro have nominated to replace them as soon as you can.’

  Cato nodded.

  ‘Will that be all?’ Aurelius asked.

  The tone of the question caught Cato by surprise. It was almost as if their positions had been reversed and the legate was asking him for permission to end their meeting. For a brief moment Cato felt pity for the man. His responsibilities exceeded his capabilities and yet he was proud and determined enough to insist on retaining command of the legion and the auxiliary cohorts that made up his modest army. That might well become something of a problem, Cato decided. Aurelius would have to be handled carefully if the Nubians were going to be defeated. He had to be treated with a careful balance between deference and direction.

  ‘Yes, sir. If I may have your permission to be dismissed?’

  ‘Of course.’ Aurelius waved his hand towards the far end of the pool. ‘You may go.’

  Cato bowed his head and turned to walk stiffly away. He had just passed through the colonnade into the adjacent courtyard when one of the junior tribunes came running through the entrance, breathing hard. The legion was Caius Junius’s first appointment and he had arrived only a day before Cato and Macro. A study youth, he had the lighter complexion typical of a Roman. Junius was excitable and anxious to please. He hurried towards Cato as soon as he saw him.

  ‘What is it, Junius?’ asked Cato.

  The officer struggled to catch his breath.

  ‘Speak up, man!’ Cato frowned impatiently.

  ‘It’s the enemy, sir . . . They’re here.’

  Cato felt a cold stab of anxiety. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘On the far bank, sir.’ Junius gulped down some more breath. ‘They’ve attacked one of our outposts, sir.’

  Cato glanced towards the inner courtyard. ‘Tell the legate. Then summon the senior officers to headquarters at once. Except you. You’re the duty officer at present?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then once you’ve told the legate, and sent for the officers, have the assembly sounded. Every legionary and auxiliary is to be ready for action as soon as possible. Now go.’

  As the tribune’s boots clattered across the flagstones of the courtyard, Cato tensed his jaw. How the hell had the Nubians managed to move so fast?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ‘As good a fortification as any,’ Ajax decided as he slapped the stone parapet at the top of the pylon. ‘This will serve us well.’

  Karim looked down at the thick walls of the temple, and the tall outer walls of mud brick. He had a good eye for a defensive position, nurtured during the years he had served his Parthian
lord long before he had been captured, sold into slavery and encountered the gladiator. The temple was compact enough to be held by Ajax’s men and the small column of Arab warriors that Prince Talmis had placed under his command. It was also unusual by the standards of most other temples in that there was only one entrance in the outer wall, and that was protected by a strong gatehouse. It was almost as if the place had been designed with a military purpose in mind, he thought. Just as well then that only a handful of priests had been inhabiting the temple when the column had arrived at dusk. Their bodies had been thrown into one of the offering rooms.

  ‘Indeed, my General. The site was well chosen by our spy, Canthus. The Roman dogs will have a hard time taking it from us. Or driving us out.’

  Ajax noted the wary tone in his companion’s voice and smiled. ‘Rest easy, Karim. We are here to act as a diversion for the Prince. It is not my intention to make a last stand. When the time comes, we will make good our escape. In the meantime, our orders are to tie the Romans down for as long as possible.’