The sun was close to the horizon and the roof tiles and domes of Antioch were gleaming in the brilliant hue of the fading light. The centre of the city, like most of those that had fallen under Roman control, and before that to the Greek heirs of Alexander the Great’s conquests, was filled with the kind of public buildings that were to be found right across the Empire. Beyond the lofty columns of the temples and porticoes, the city gave way to a jumble of fine townhouses and sprawling slums of grimy flat-roofed buildings. In those streets the air was ripe with the smells of densely packed humanity. That was where most of the off-duty soldiers spent their time. But Cato and Macro preferred the relative comfort of the Bountiful Amphora where its slightly elevated position took advantage of any breeze that wafted over the city.
They had been drinking for most of the afternoon and Cato began to doze off into the warm embrace of weary contentment. For the last month they had been relentlessly drilling their auxiliary cohort, the Second Illyrian, in the huge army camp outside the walls of Antioch. The cohort was Macro’s first command as prefect and he was determined that his men would turn out smartly and march faster and fight harder than any other cohort in the army of the eastern Empire. Macro’s task had been made more difficult by the fact that nearly a third of the men were raw recruits - replacements for those lost in the fight at Fort Bushir. As the army had been placed on a war footing every cohort commander had been scouring the region for men to bring their units up to full strength.
While Cato had taken charge of the cohort’s training and set about ordering the necessary equipment and supplies, Macro had tramped up and down the coast from Pieria to Caesarea in search of recruits. He took ten of the toughest soldiers with him, and the cohort’s standard. In each town and port Macro had set up a stall in the forum and delivered his pitch to an audience of the idle and restless men who were to be found in every town square across the Empire. In a booming parade-ground voice he promised them an enlistment bounty, decent pay, regular meals, a life of adventure and, if they should live to see it, the award of Roman citizenship when they were demobbed after the small formality of twenty-five years’ service. With a bit of training they would look every bit as impressive and manly as the soldiers standing behind Macro.When he had finished a motley crowd of hopefuls would approach the stall and Macro took the healthiest specimens and turned away all those who were unfit or witless or too old. In the first few towns he was able to pick and choose, but as the recruitment tour wore on he found that other officers had been before him and had already taken the best men. Even so, by the time he returned to the cohort, he had enough men to bring it up to full strength, and sufficient time to train them before any campaign could begin.
Macro spent the long winter months drilling the new recruits while Cato put the rest of the men through gruelling route marches and weapons practice. As the Second Illyrian trained, a steady stream of other units arrived at Antioch and joined the growing camp outside the fortress of the Tenth Legion. With them came throngs of camp-followers and the avenues and markets of Antioch resounded with the cries of street vendors. Every inn was filled with soldiers and queues of men waited outside the brightly painted brothels which reeked of cheap incense and sweat.
As the sun set over the city, Cato’s gaze took all this in without any sense of judgement. Although he was barely in his twenties he had already served four and half years in the army and had grown used to the ways of soldiers and the effect they had on the towns they passed through. Despite an unpromising start Cato had turned out to be a good soldier, as even he was prepared to admit. Quick wits and courage had played their part in transforming him from a pampered product of the imperial household into a commander of men. Luck had played its part too. He had been fortunate to find himself appointed to Macro’s century when he had joined the Second Legion, he reflected. If Centurion Macro had not recognised some potential in the thin, nervous-looking recruit from Rome, and taken him under his wing, then Cato had little doubt that he would not have survived for long on the German frontier, and the campaign that followed in Britain. Since then the two of them had left the Second Legion and had served briefly in the navy before being sent east to join Macro’s present command. In the coming campaign they would be fighting as part of an army again and Cato felt some small relief that the burdens of independent command would be lifted from their shoulders: relief tempered by instinctive concerns about the realities of entering a new campaign.
Far better soldiers than Cato had been struck down by an arrow, slingshot or sword thrust they had not seen coming. So far he had been spared, and he hoped that his good luck would continue if there was a war against Parthia. He had fought the Parthians briefly the year before and well knew their accuracy with a bow, and the speed with which they could mount a sudden attack and then melt away before the Romans could respond. It was a style of fighting that would sorely test the men of the legions, let alone those of the Second Illyrian cohort.
Or perhaps that was not fair, Cato reflected.The men of his cohort actually had a better chance against the Parthians than the legionaries. They wore lighter armour and a quarter of them were mounted, so that the Parthians would have to be far more wary in attacking the cohort than in any assault they mounted on the slow-marching heavy infantry of the legions. Cassius Longinus would have to proceed cautiously against the Parthians if he were to avoid the fate of Marcus Crassus and his six legions nearly a hundred years earlier. Crassus had blundered into the desert and after several days of harassing attacks under the pitiless glare of the sun his army had been cut to pieces, along with its general.
As the sun finally sank below the horizon there was a distant blare of bucinas from the army camp announcing the first watch of the night. Macro stirred and eased himself away from the rough plaster of the wall.
‘Better get back to the camp. I’m taking the new boys out into the desert tomorrow. Their first time. It’ll be interesting to see how they cope.’
‘Best to go easy on them,’ Cato suggested. ‘We can’t afford to lose any before the campaign begins.’
‘Go easy on ‘em?’ Macro frowned. ‘Will I fuck. If they can’t hack it now, then they never will when the real fighting starts.’
Cato shrugged. ‘I thought we needed every man.’
‘Every man, yes. But not one makeweight.’
Cato was silent for a moment. ‘This is not the Second Legion, Macro. We can’t expect too much from the men of an auxiliary cohort.’
‘Really?’ Macro’s expression hardened. ‘The Second Illyrian ain’t just any cohort. It’s my cohort. And if I want the men to march, fight and die as hard as the men of the legions, then they will do it. Understand?’
Cato nodded.
‘And you will do your part in making that happen.’
Cato’s back stiffened.’Of course I will, sir. Have I ever let you down?’
They stared at each other for a moment before Macro suddenly laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Not yet! You’ve got balls of solid iron, boy. I just hope the rest of the men can match you.’
‘So do I,’ Cato replied evenly.
Macro rose to his feet and rubbed his buttocks, which had lost a little feeling after some hours on the hard wooden bench of the inn. He picked up his centurion’s vine stick. ‘Let’s go.’
They set off through the forum, already filling with brothel touts and sellers of trinkets and the first of the off-duty soldiers from the camp. Fresh-faced recruits hung together in loud packs as they made for the nearest bars, where they would be fleeced by experienced conmen and swindlers who knew them for what they were and had all manner of petty rackets at their fingertips. Cato felt a twinge of pity for the recruits but knew that only experience would teach them what they needed to know.A few sore heads and the loss of their purses would ensure they kept their wits about them in the future, if they lived long enough.
As ever, there was a strict division between the men of the legions and those of the
auxiliary cohorts. The legionaries were paid far more and tended to regard the non-citizen soldiers of the Empire with a degree of professional disdain - a sentiment which Cato could understand, and Macro wholly agreed with. The feeling extended beyond the camp and into the streets of Antioch where the men from the cohorts generally kept a respectful distance from the legionaries. But not all of them, it seemed. As Cato and Macro turned on to one of the streets leading from the forum they heard an angry exchange of shouts a short distance ahead. Beneath the glow of a large copper lamp hanging over the entrance to a bar a small crowd had gathered round two men who had tumbled out into the street and now rolled in the gutter in a mad flurry of blows.
‘There’s trouble,’ Macro grumbled.
‘Want to give it a miss?’
Macro watched the fight for a moment as they approached and then shrugged. ‘Don’t see why we should get involved. Let ‘em sort it out amongst themselves.’
Just then there was a brief fiery glimmer in the hand of one of the fighting men and someone cried out, ‘He’s got a knife!’
‘Shit,’ Macro growled. ‘Now we’re involved. Come on!’
He increased his pace, and thrust aside some of the other men who had come out of the bar to investigate the commotion.
‘Oi!’A burly man in a red tunic turned on Macro.’Watch where you’re going there!’
‘Hold your tongue!’ Macro raised his vine stick so that the man, and all the others, could see it, and pushed his way through to the men fighting in the gutter. ‘Break it up, you two! That’s an order.’
There was one final scuffle and a deep explosive grunt and then the men rolled apart. One, a thin wiry man in a legionary tunic, moved like a cat on to his feet and rose in a crouch, ready to continue the fight in an instant. Macro rounded on him, brandishing his vine stick.
‘It’s over, I said.’
Then Cato saw the small blade in the man’s hand. It no longer glittered, but was obscured by a dark film that dripped from the point. On the ground the second man had risen up on his elbow while his other hand clutched at his side. He gasped for breath and winced in agony.
‘Fuck . . . Oh, shit it hurts . . . Bastard’s stuck me.’
He glared at the legionary for an instant, then groaned in pain and slumped back on the ground in the wan glow of the lamp overhead.
‘I know him,’ Cato said softly. ‘He’s one of ours. Caius Menathus, from one of the cavalry squadrons.’ He knelt down beside the man and felt for the wound.The auxiliary’s tunic was sodden with the warm gush of blood when the knife had been withdrawn and Cato glanced up at the men clustered round.
‘Get back!’ he ordered. ‘Give me some room!’
Cato had left his vine cane at the camp, and his youth caused some of the veterans to hesitate to obey his command. But the men from the Second Illyrian, Menathus’ companions, recognised their officer and drew back at once. After a brief moment the others followed suit and Cato turned again to the injured man. The tear in the cloth was small but the blood was flowing freely, and Cato quickly pulled the tunic up to expose the red-smeared flesh of the man’s torso. A faintly puckered wound, like a small mouth, glistened in the glow of the lamp and disgorged a steady pulse of blood. Cato clamped his hand over the wound and pressed hard as he glanced up at the nearest men.
‘Get a board of wood, something to carry him on, now! And you, run back to the camp and get hold of a surgeon and send him to the hospital. He’s to be ready for us the moment this man arrives. Tell him Menathus has been stabbed.’
‘Yes, sir!’The auxiliary saluted and turned away, running down the street towards the town gates.
As Cato turned back to Menathus, Macro stepped cautiously towards the legionary holding the knife.The man had backed away from the crowd towards the opposite side of the street and was still in a crouch, eyes staring wildly as Macro approached him.
Macro smiled and held out his hand. ‘That’s enough trouble for tonight, son. Give me the knife, before you do any more damage.’
The legionary shook his head. ‘Bastard had it coming to him.’
‘I’m sure he did. We’ll sort it all out later. Now give me the knife.’
‘No. You’ll have me arrested.’ The man’s voice was slurred with drink.
‘Arrested?’ Macro snorted. ‘That’s the least of your troubles. Drop the knife before you make it worse for yourself.’
‘You don’t understand.’ The legionary waved the knife towards the man on the ground. ‘He cheated me. In a game of dice.’
‘Bollocks!’ a voice cried out. ‘He won fair and square.’
There was a chorus of angry agreement, matched a moment later by furious denials.
‘SILENCE!’ Macro roared.
At once the men stilled their tongues. Macro glared round at them and then returned his attention to the man with the knife.’What’s your name, rank and unit, legionary?’
‘Marcus Metellus Crispus, optio, fourth century, second cohort,Tenth Legion, sir!’ the man rattled out automatically. He even attempted to stiffen to attention as he said it, but staggered drunkenly to one side after a moment.
‘Optio, give me the knife. That’s an order.’
Crispus shook his head. ‘I ain’t going in the guardhouse for that cheating bastard.’
Macro pursed his lips thoughtfully and then nodded. ‘Very well then, but we’ll have to deal with this matter first thing in the morning. I shall have to speak to your centurion.’
He started to turn away, and Crispus relaxed a moment and let his guard down for the first time. Then there was a blur. Macro’s cane swept up and out and arced round viciously as he swirled back towards Crispus. There was a sharp crack as the blow connected with the man’s head and Crispus collapsed. His knife clattered on to the street a short distance away. Macro stood over him, arm raised, but there was no movement - the man was out cold. Macro nodded with satisfaction and lowered his cane.
‘You four.’ He gestured to some men from the Second Illyrian. ‘Scrape this piece of shit up and take him back to our guardhouse. He can stew there while I sort this out with his commander.’
‘Wait.’ A man stepped from the crowd and loomed over Macro. He was a head taller and broad to match and in the orange light of the lamp his face looked hard and weathered. ‘I’ll take this man back to the Tenth. We’ll deal with it.’
Macro stood his ground and sized the man up.’I've given my orders. I’m placing this man under arrest.’
‘No, he’ll go with me.’
Macro smiled faintly. ‘And who might you be?’
‘The centurion from the Tenth Legion who’s telling you what’s going to happen,’ the man smiled back.’Not a pissing little centurion from an auxiliary cohort. Now, if you auxiliary boys wouldn’t mind moving along . . .’
‘Small world,’ Macro replied. ‘I’m not a centurion from an auxiliary cohort either. I’m the prefect of the Second Illyrian, as it happens. I keep my vine cane for old times’ sake. From my days as a centurion of the Second Legion.’
The other officer stared at Macro for a moment before stiffening and saluting.
‘That’s better.’ Macro nodded. ‘And who the fuck are you?’
‘Centurion Porcius Cimber, sir. Second century, third cohort.’
‘Right then, Cimber. This man’s in my custody.You find your legate and explain the situation to him. His man will be disciplined for taking a knife to one of mine.’
Macro was interrupted by a deep groan from the ground as Menathus suddenly writhed, breaking free of Cato’s hold. The blood pumped out at once.
‘Where the hell’s that carrying board?’ Cato yelled, then pressed his hands on the wound again and leaned over Menathus. ‘Keep still!’
‘Shit . . . I’m cold,’ Menathus muttered and his eyes rolled aimlessly as the lids flickered. ‘Oh . . . shit, shit . . . it hurts.’
‘Hold on, Menathus,’ Cato said firmly. ‘We’ll get the wound seen to.You’ll be all ri
ght.’
The crowd of soldiers, and the handful of townspeople who had joined them, stood and gazed on the scene in silence as Menathus groaned, his breath coming in sharp ragged hisses. Then he started trembling violently and his body spasmed, every fibre tense as rock for an instant, before he slumped back on to the street, his breath escaping from his lips in a long last sigh. Cato pressed his ear to the man’s bloodied chest for a while and then drew back, withdrawing his hand from the knife wound.
‘He’s gone.’
For a moment the crowd was still. Then one of the auxiliaries growled, ‘Bastard murdered him. He’s going to die.’
There was an angry chorus of agreement and at once the crowd shuffled into two groups, as auxiliaries and legionaries confronted each other. Cato saw hands bunch into fists, men crouching slightly as they braced their legs to charge, and then Macro strode between them and raised his arms into the air.
‘That will do! Enough! Keep your distance there!’ His expression was furious as he stared from side to side, daring the men to defy him. Then he nodded to Centurion Cimber. ‘Take your men back to the camp. Now.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Cimber saluted and thrust the nearest of them down the street towards the gate. ‘Move, you bastards! Show’s over.’
He continued to push and shove the angry legionaries away from the bar and the body lying in the street. One of the auxiliaries called after them.’You ain’t seen the last of us! There’s a score to settle for Menathus!’
‘Silence!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Shut your mouths! Centurion Cato?’
‘Yes, sir?’ Cato stood up, wiping his bloodied hands on the sides of his tunic.
‘Give Cimber a head start and then get our men back to camp. Make sure that the prisoner doesn’t come to any harm.’
‘What about Menathus?’
‘Take him as well. Get the hospital orderlies to prepare the body for a funeral.’
As they waited for the legionaries to reach a safe distance Cato edged closer to his commander and spoke softly. ‘Not a good situation. Last thing we need is for the men to enter a campaign with bad blood between them and the boys from the Tenth.’
08 Centurion Page 3
