Under The Eagle c-1

by Simon Scarrow

  '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.'

  'Because 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 said, 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 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.

  'Wh
at 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 chuckled 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, dumb as ever. Well, these may look like horticultural tools but they're 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 fortifications – 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 feet 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.

  'War hero? You?' he growled. 'Un-fucking-likely. Who'd you have to be buggered by to get the commendation?'

  Cato did not answer, did not even look up from his digging.

  'Hey, I'm talking to you!'

  Cato ignored him.

  'What's this? No manners? And I thought you were so well brought up. I suppose you're too good to speak to the likes of us.' He laughed to the recruit on his other side. 'Seems the war hero's got ideas above his station.'

  'Quiet there!' an instructor called out. 'Silence when you work.'

  Pulcher fell back to work with exaggerated effort until he was sure that he was no longer being paid any attention. Then he flicked a shovel full of soil at Cato's face.

  'You fucking ignore me again, boy and I'll…'

  'You'll what?' Cato turned angrily, with his pick half raised. 'You tell me what you'll do! C'mon, you bastard!'

  Pulcher's hands tightened on his shovel, but some sixth sense warned him to turn back to his ditch just as Bestia strode up to them.

  'What's this? Taking a break without orders are we, war hero?'

  'No, sir.'

  'And why are you covered in dirt, boy?'

  'Sir, I…'

  'Answer my fucking question!'

  'I slipped, sir. While I was tossing the soil up into the camp.'

  'You tired then, boy?' Bestia asked with an expression of feigned concern.

  'Yes, sir, but I…'

  'Well then, it seems you need a bit more fitness training. You're on latrine fatigues for the next five evenings.'

  'But, sir. I'm to attend the legate's party after the investiture.'

  'You'll have to shovel shit twice as quick then if you're going to be there on time.' Bestia smiled sweetly. 'And do make sure you're smartly turned out, or Vespasian'll have you on a charge.'

  Bestia laughed as he allowed himself to imagine the scene. Then with a hearty clap on Cato's shoulder he wandered back down the line.

  'And fuck you, sir,' Cato swore softly at the man's back and then started in horror as the centurion whipped round and pointed a finger at him accusingly.

  'Did you say something?' Did you?'

  'Just "thank you", sir.'

  'You being sarky to me, son?'

  'No, sir,' Cato replied, deadpan. 'I'm just grateful that you are offering me an opportunity to improve myself so I can be a legionary you can be proud of, sir.'

  Bestia glared at him a moment then whirled round abruptly and strode away, leaving Cato to his digging. Next to him, Pulcher's shoulders rocked with silent laughter.

  'I'll remember this,' Cato said quietly.

  'Oooh, I'm so scared of you! I'm just pissing my pants,' Pulcher whispered.

  Cato stared at him a moment, no longer as terrified of the man as he used to be, only worn down by the anxiety of looking out for Pulcher, wondering when and how the bastard would next find a way to get at him. With an angry sigh he swung the pick back into the ground as hard as possible, then grunted with effort to dislodge the clump of earth. Something had to be done about Pulcher, and soon.

  At midday Bestia called for a halt and the men stood at attention as he examined their efforts. The abrupt halt to work allowed the sweat to run cold and clammy beneath their tunics and, in the enforced stillness, most of them were shivering as the drill team strode along tutting at their crude technique. The ditch ran unevenly along its inner side as a number of recruits had forgotten the two-spades-width rule. Others had not yet managed to dig the required amount out of the frozen ground and their sections did not match up to their neighbours. Only a few dozen had performed to Bestia's grudging satisfaction, Pulcher and Cato amongst them.

  'Frankly, ladies, I don't think the barbarians out there have much to fear from Rome as long as useless shit
s like you are manning its legions. If you call this a defensive ditch then I'm a cheap Greek tart. The only thing this'll keep out is the cold. So, ladies, let's fill it in, stop for a quick bite, and then we'll have another go this afternoon.'

  Chapter Sixteen

  The entrance to the legate's house was brightly lit when Cato arrived, after a fast run from the barracks. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath and place the grass crown back on his head. For the moment, the phalera hung from a ribbon around his neck over the front of his tunic. Later it would be fixed to his harness where it would remain for the rest of his life and be buried with him. Composed, he strode up to the gate where a household steward sat at a desk in the porch behind the two guards. The guards crossed spears to indicate Cato was to halt.

  'Name, please?' the steward asked.

  'Quintus Licinius Cato.'

  'Cato,' murmured the steward as he made a mark on a wax slate with his stylus. 'You're late, Cato, very late. Admit him.'

  The spears parted and Cato passed through the gateway to the interior courtyard.

  'Straight ahead.' The steward pointed to the main hall, wrinkling his nose and frowning as Cato went by. From the windows above the colonnade came the glow of a brightly lit interior, and the sounds of music and laughter spilled out above the hubbub of general conversation. It was bad form to arrive so late to a party but it would have been unthinkable to have ignored the invitation, just as it was impossible to disobey Bestia's orders to sluice and scrub the latrine channels. Tonight's fatigues had taken longer than usual due to a stomach bug that was going through the Legion at a ferocious rate. Cato had been left with little time to change into his best tunic and run through the fortress to arrive even at this late hour. With a bitter sense of dread for the inevitable interrogation about his tardiness, Cato walked over to the hall at a condemned man's pace. He rapped the door. Instantly the latch leapt up and the door swung inwards to reveal the household's majordomo, hardly able to conceal his irritation.

  'There you are at last! You'd better have a good explanation for the legate.'

  'I'll apologise as soon as there's a quiet moment,' Cato promised. 'Is there any way I can get to my place unobtrusively?'