‘Really?’ Septimus fixed him with a cold stare. ‘Frankly, the reason why you are not an imperial agent might have more to do with you lacking the necessary acumen.’
Macro gritted his teeth. ‘Acumen? What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? You calling me thick or something?’
Cato edged between them. ‘That’s enough! Jupiter’s balls, we’ve got enough to worry about without you two kicking off. Keep your bloody feelings to yourselves, understand? I don’t care if you hate each other’s guts, we’ve got to find this traitor and put an end to Pallas’s schemes. Macro?’
The centurion made a faint growling noise in his throat, then nodded. ‘All right. But I’m telling you. Once this is over, I’m through with you and your kind.’ He jabbed his finger at Septimus. ‘You come near me and I’ll break your neck.’
The imperial agent smiled coldly. ‘Assuming you see me coming.’
Cato was utterly exhausted and his patience finally snapped. ‘For fuck’s sake! Enough!’
Around them heads turned towards the outburst and Cato abruptly stood up. He looked down at the imperial agent and spoke in a low voice. ‘I’ll report back to the general what you said, but not that they spoke in Latin. If he wants to question you himself, stick to that story.’
Septimus nodded.
‘We’ll talk more, when you’re out of the infirmary. Come on, Macro.’ Cato waved his friend towards the entrance of the long tent. ‘Let’s go.’
Once they were outside, back in the warm comfort of the sunshine, Cato rounded on his friend. ‘I know what you think of Narcissus and his kind but how do you think it helps us to bring it up all the time?’
Macro clenched his fists. ‘They’ve fucked us about for years, Cato. One stinking job after another. Narcissus said he was done with us. When he left Rome he said he was sending us to Britannia and back to the army and our spying days were over. That’s what he said. Fucking liar.’
‘You think I don’t feel the same?’ Cato shot back bitterly. ‘You think I enjoy playing the spy? We’re in this, Macro, whether we like it or not. We can’t avoid it. We can’t decide to opt out. Septimus was right about there being a spy. And that means he was telling the truth about someone coming after us. Someone wants us dead. You really want to ignore that danger?’
Macro struggled to regain control of his temper and at length he shook his head. ‘Of course not.’
‘Then help me, Macro. Help me get through this so we find the traitor and make him disappear. So we can get back to being soldiers. Help me so that one day I can return to Julia. Well?’ He held out his hand.
They clasped arms and Macro let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I’m just thoroughly pissed off with Septimus and his kind.’
‘Me too.’ Cato flashed a tired smile.
Macro withdrew his arm. ‘So what now?’
Cato puffed his cheeks and looked out over the camp. ‘Caratacus is on the run. We’re not likely to catch him. The general’s about to turn the only friendly natives for miles around against him. There’s a traitor in the camp who is prepared to go to any length to unseat the Emperor, and kill us the moment he gets the chance. What am I going to do now? I’ll tell you. I’m going back to my tent and I am going to sleep the sleep of the dead. And when I wake up, I’m not going to rest until I find the bastard that set Caratacus free and murdered two of our men.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
By the time the army returned to its base at Viroconium the men’s spirits had fully recovered and there was a jaunty swagger to their step as they marched through the gates of the fortress behind their standards. General Ostorius and his staff rode at the head of the column, in gleaming breastplates and armour, in clean scarlet tunics. The garrison of the fortress had been forewarned of the general’s return and lined the walls to cheer their victorious comrades. The men on the march returned the cheer with interest and looked forward to the comforts of their barracks, regular meals and a long anticipated visit to the bathhouse in the sprawling vicus a short distance from the wall and ditch of the great fortress.
The legionary units who had been involved in the battle had pride of place at the front of the column. Behind them came the auxiliary units who had been responsible for mopping up the remnants of the enemy army. The faint cheers from far ahead reached their ears and they smiled grudgingly at the celebrations of their legionary comrades, and shared their longing for the comforts of Viroconium.
Behind the auxiliaries came the long column of prisoners, chained and bound together, a shuffling tide of despairing misery, mostly men, but women and children too, the latter condemned to a life of slavery before they had any chance to savour the freedom that was the birthright of the offspring of the warriors of their tribe. A cohort of Batavian cavalry rode either side of the prisoners, watching over them and ensuring that they kept up the pace and did not cause the column to spread out too far. A thrust of a spear butt or prick of its point was sufficient to spur on any who began to lag.
Behind the prisoners came the baggage train, some miles back from the head of the column, and beyond earshot of the triumphant entry of the general and his legions. The army’s wagons and carts came first, the latter carrying the dismantled artillery, a mix of ballistas and the larger catapults. The heavy wagons carried the grain and spare kit needed to feed and supply the army while on the march. Then came the wagons allocated to the legions’ surgeons, filled with the men still recovering from the wounds they had suffered on the battlefield.
Those who had died from their wounds had been added to the huge funeral pyres that had burned outside the camp, while a handful who died later were buried outside the marching camps. Their graves were marked with simple stones hurriedly engraved with their names and units, and a brief request to the gods to look after their spirits. Even though they were wounded, the men in the wagons were in good humour, thanks to a generous issue of wine on the order of General Ostorius. Many were soon drunk and the warm country air resounded to tuneless marching songs, toasts and laughter.
At the rear of the column came the camp followers, several hundred merchants, traders, pimps, whores, entertainers, slave dealers and the long-suffering unofficial families of the soldiers. By law any man of the rank of centurion or below was not allowed to enter into a marriage. Nevertheless soldiers are creatures of flesh and blood and some had formed attachments with the women who lived outside the fortresses of the empire, and had children by them. These poor creatures, Cato reflected, were destined to trudge along in the wake of the army, wholly reliant on the meagre pay of the soldier to whom they were attached. If he fell in battle they might be left a small sum in the soldier’s will, provided that he had written one. Otherwise they would be without support, until the mother could find another man. Around these small family groups trundled the carts of the commercial camp followers, piled high with the trinkets, drink and little luxuries that soldiers craved when they were off duty.
In the distance, behind the tail end of the camp followers, marched the auxiliary cohort of the rearguard. At the start of the march the ground had still been wet and the men of the Segovian Cohort had had to negotiate the churned ground left by the passage of thousands of boots, hoofs and wheels ahead of them. But the sun had now dried the ground and had yet to reach the almost as annoying point where the ground was so dry that the passage of a large army disturbed a cloud of dust that clung to every surface and filled mouths and eyes with a fine grit.
Macro and Cato were marching a short distance to one side of the baggage train, their men strung out in an extended screen on either side of the line of march. Having decided he could do with a break from the saddle, Cato had handed his mount to Thraxis and was walking the remainder of the way to Viroconium. So reduced were the escort’s numbers that even a small raiding party could have caused mayhem and fled with their spoils long before Cato could have gathered
a sufficient number of men to repel them. But there was no sign of any enemy on the march back to Viroconium.
From time to time they had passed a small village or settlement whose remaining inhabitants had run to hide as the army passed by. A few times Cato had seen distant figures on the tops of hills watching them. Never more than a handful. Hunting parties more than likely; rather than war bands. They had never ventured any closer and fled the moment any Roman horseman turned in their direction. The defeat of Caratatacus’s army seemed to have broken the will to fight of the Silurian and Ordovician nations. But Cato knew that if Caratacus raised his standard again there would still be many who would rally to him, as they had in the past after previous defeats.
‘I shan’t be sorry to trade a tent and sleeping roll for a nice dry barracks and a proper bed,’ said Macro, straining his eyes to scan the landscape ahead for the first sign of Viroconium.
‘I wouldn’t say no to that,’ Cato agreed absently. He was preoccupied with the disappearance of Caratacus and the need to discover the identity of the agent Pallas had sent to kill them. The only advantage they had at the moment was that the agent was unaware that he was being hunted by Septimus. That was the only reason that he had been permitted to live when they took his cart, Cato reasoned. If Pallas’s man had known Septimus for what he was, he would have been discovered with a knife in his back instead of a knock on the head. With luck, they would find and eliminate the enemy agent before he had a chance to do any more mischief.
‘And there’s the prospect of reinforcements,’ Macro tried to get the conversation going again. ‘Be good to flesh out our ranks. There’s hardly any of us left. Let’s hope the general’s sent for some fresh draughts from the Second.’
At the mention of their old legion Cato recalled that the elite unit that Vespasian had once commanded was now stationed down at Isca Dumnoniorum. Apart from keeping a watchful eye on the local tribes, the legion was mainly a training establishment these days. It took in the convoys of recruits shipped over from Gaul and completed their basic training on British soil before sending them on to the other units of the army in Britannia. Cato decided that he would leave their induction into the Blood Crows to a veteran cavalryman like Miro. Yes, let Decurion Miro handle it, he decided. He had more important matters to deal with.
Conscious that he had not immediately replied to his friend, Cato quickly replayed their last exchange in his mind and cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Macro. The baggage train escort, and its commanding officers, are still very much in the general’s black book. If there are any reinforcements available I rather fear that you and I are going to be at the back of a very long queue.’
‘My, you are full of the joys of life, aren’t you?’
‘Can you blame me? Ostorius has pinned the blame for Caratacus’s escape on us and you can be sure he’ll make that known back in Rome. If his version of events is accepted, I’d be surprised if we were entrusted with any command larger than a latrine block in future.’
‘Back in the shit again, eh?’ Macro quipped.
Cato could not help a chuckle and Macro slapped him lightly on the back. ‘There you go, lad! The boy can be taught to smile.’
‘Seriously though, Macro, I don’t see much to smile about at the moment. Our return to soldiering has hardly been a glorious success.’
‘Oh, we haven’t done so badly. We held Bruccium against Caratacus’s army and we did for him back on the hill. No one can take that away from us. The lads here on the ground know what we did.’
Cato sighed. ‘I suppose so. But that won’t count for much back in Rome. We’re in the lap of the gods now, Macro. And the gods tend to have an odd sense of humour at the best of times.’
‘Then you’d get on well with them. Time for a sacrifice to Fortuna, I’d say. Look here, Cato. There’s nothing we can do about the situation at the moment, right?’
‘True.’
‘Then what’s the point in spending all your time fretting about it? Tell you what. Tonight, once we’re back in barracks, let’s go into the vicus and get totally rat-arsed. The drinks are on me.’
Cato thought a moment and nodded. ‘All right then. Rat-arsed it is.’
Two days later Cato and Macro were standing in front of the review platform outside Viroconium. The fortress had been extended to accommodate a second legion and a series of smaller forts had been constructed for the auxiliary units attached to the army for the campaigns against the mountain tribes. In front of the two officers lay the training ground, a vast rectangle cleared by the army’s engineers when the fortress was first built two years earlier. The men of the escort detachment, their ranks bolstered by replacements, stood formed up facing their commanders.
With Caratacus still at large, the general had not yet issued orders for his forces to disperse and the vexillation from the Ninth Legion had added to the crowded barracks in the fortress. Despite the casualties from the recent battle, the arrival of a column of replacements had meant that some of the legionary cohorts had been assigned to the smaller forts. For that reason, and the faint possibility that the army might have to march to war again, the baggage train escort was retained and the legionaries and Thracians shared a fort on the far side of the training ground from the main fortress.
That suited Cato, who was keen to distance himself from General Ostorius. The arrangement also suited the men, who had plenty of space within the fort due to their losses. However, the luxury of space was short-lived when the two units received new recruits to bolster their depleted ranks. Just over two hundred men for Macro and a hundred and fifty Batavians for Cato, together with two hundred remounts. Not enough to bring them up to full strength but welcome nonetheless. As was the custom, the senior centurions of the First Cohorts of each legion had first pick of the replacements, then by order of declining seniority the commanders of the remaining cohorts took their pick. Macro was none too pleased by the men that had been left when his time came.
‘Not quite so impressive as they looked at Bruccium,’ he commented.
Cato scanned the ranks before he responded. The new legionaries were well turned out in their new kit. Their helmets gleamed and were not yet marked by the scores of small dents, scratches and other imperfections that characterised the helmets of the veterans just returned from a campaign. The same was true of their shields. Nor had they customised their sword belts and scabbards like their more experienced comrades, and the plain leather and brass trims were all fresh from the armouries back in Gaul. Most of the men had already received their basic training after they landed at Isca Dumnoniorum, but they would need much more before they would be fit to stand alongside the veterans of the two cohorts.
‘Let’s have a closer look,’ Cato decided.
They paced to the end of the front rank of the legionaries and began to walk slowly down the line. Macro had intended to allow the veterans to remain in their existing sections of eight and add to them from the new men. From his days as a ranker he knew the value of a close-knit team of men accustomed to living together and fighting alongside each other. But Cato had disagreed and instructed that the existing men were to form the kernels of the reconstituted centuries of the Fourth Cohort. They would be able to pass on their knowledge to the new men. There were six centuries in the cohort once again, albeit understrength, and it had been necessary to promote a number of men to the rank of optio, as well as promoting four existing optios to the centurionate. The dilution of experience through the cohort meant that Macro would have to train them hard to bring the unit to battle readiness, a task he was looking forward to. Today’s parade was the first formal introduction of the recruits to their new commanders and Macro’s experienced eye scrutinised each man they passed. Every so often the two officers would stop and examine one of the fresh-faced recruits in detail.
‘You!’ Macro barked, thrusting the tip of his
vine cane at one man. ‘Name?’
The tall, slender legionary presented his javelin and snapped to attention. It was neatly done, Cato noted approvingly.
‘Legionary Gnaeus Lorenus, sir!’
‘Where are you from?’ Macro demanded.
‘Massilia, sir.’
‘Age?’
‘Nineteen, sir.’
‘Bollocks! You don’t look old enough to shave.’
The recruit made the mistake of turning his face towards Macro in surprise.
‘Don’t fucking look at me! Look straight ahead!’
‘Yes, sir! Sorry, sir.’
‘And don’t fucking apologise neither! You’re on parade, not at some poncey actor’s garden party!’
‘Yes, sir.’ The recruit committed his second offence by failing to stifle a smile at Macro’s remark.
Quick as a flash Macro stepped closer to the man so that their faces were inches apart. The difference in height meant that the centurion had to tilt his head back to stare up at the recruit.
‘Do I make you laugh, Legionary Lorenus?’ he bawled.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then are you saying I haven’t got a fucking sense of humour? Are you?
‘No, sir.’
‘Then you must be laughing at me, Lorenus! Is that it? Are you bloody making fun of me, you great big streak of piss?’
Again, the man’s gaze wavered towards his superior and Macro jammed the head of his vine cane hard into the mail vest of the recruit. ‘EYES FRONT! I asked if you are making fun of me?’
‘N-no, sir,’ the recruit gasped.
‘I don’t believe you. Optio!’ Macro turned to the recruit’s superior. ‘Legionary Lorenus. Fatigues. Five days!’
‘Yes, sir!’ The optio inscribed a hurried note on his waxed tablet.
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