Britannia, page 10
‘The men are looking hungry for glory, Crispus.’
‘Yes, sir! Hounds straining at the leash. That’s the men of the Fourth Cohort all right.’
‘Then may the gods show mercy to the enemy, because your men surely won’t!’
Crispus grinned and drew his sword, punching it into the air as he bellowed the legion’s title: ‘Gemina! Gemina!’
His men instantly joined in, giving full throat to their cry, and the other soldiers of the army briefly paused and turned towards the din before continuing to break camp.
Cato smiled at the legionaries, happy to indulge their keen spirits. He gave them a salute and rode on to the head of the column where the Blood Crows sat in their saddles. The two centuries of foot auxiliaries had been assigned to protect the vanguard’s baggage train. An officer in a red military cloak was with them, together with a swarthy-looking servant on a horse laden with saddlebags.
‘You must be Tribune Livonius,’ Cato called out as he trotted up. ‘Come to chart the army’s passage through the hills and mountains.’
The officer nodded. ‘Prefect Cato?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ Livonius smiled. ‘I’ve heard plenty about your exploits and those of the Blood Crows since I joined the legate’s staff. It’s an honour to serve with you.’
‘An honour?’ Cato shook his head, immediately suspicious of easy praise. ‘My men and I only do our duty and carry out our orders. No more or less than any other soldiers of Rome.’
Livonius pursed his lips with an amused expression. ‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I do. Now wipe that foolish smile off your face.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The tribune looked a little crestfallen.
‘And who is this?’ Cato gestured towards the man at Livonius’s side.
‘Hieropates, sir. My private secretary and drafter of maps. He’s the real brains behind our double act.’
‘Is he now?’ Cato looked the man over more closely. Hieropates was clearly from the Eastern Empire, and didn’t look as if he was enjoying being sent to the far end of the emperor’s domain. His dark curly hair was streaked with grey, above a heavily lined face out of which two dark eyes gleamed. His cloak appeared bulky due to the layers of clothing beneath, and his head seemed to hunch into the folds of cloth about his neck, like a bird withdrawing into its nest. ‘You have experience of map-making amid such mountains?’ Cato gestured towards the grey outlines of the ridges stretching away to the west.
Hieropates bowed his head gracefully. ‘Indeed, sir. I and my master Livonius have mapped the eastern frontier from Cappadocia to Nubia, at the command of the Prefect of Syria.’
‘A slave, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And a bloody good teacher,’ Livonius intervened. ‘Old Hieropates has taught me all I know about making maps. And he taught Tribune Plinius before me, on whose recommendation my father bought Hieropates.’
Cato felt a pang of sympathy for the man. He was clearly well educated and might well believe that he deserved to be freed after giving many years of good service to his masters. As it was, he had been passed from one aristocratic family to another to educate the scions of their bloodline. And now here he was in Britannia, far from the warm comforts of the Eastern Empire. Cato smiled faintly at Livonius. ‘Then I am pleased that you are assigned to my column. I trust that you and your maps will serve the army well.’
‘Indeed, sir,’ said Livonius. ‘An army needs good maps just as much as it needs regular supplies, fortitude and the blessings of Fortuna. Between Hieropates and myself, we shall detail every step of the route the army takes in bringing the war to the enemy. We shall measure distances and sketch prominent landmarks so that we can shine a light into the darkest valley of the barbarians’ mountainous lands.’
‘Just as long as you don’t hold my column back in any way. We can’t afford to stop and wait for you to complete your little sketches and pacing-out of distances. You will need to keep up with us. If you don’t, I’ll leave you behind. Is that understood?’
The tribune looked chastened and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well. You’ll ride with the fourth squadron of the Blood Crows. The decurion will remain in command and you will regard yourself as supernumeraries.’
Livonius was clearly struggling to contain his discomfort at being placed under the command of a man several ranks beneath his own, and Cato relented.
‘How long have you been in Britannia, Tribune?’
‘Nearly three months, sir.’
‘Three months . . .’ The prefect sighed. It was unlikely that Livonius had much grasp of conditions in Britannia. While Cato appreciated the need for such young men to get some military experience early on in their careers, they tended to serve for too short a time. Most were attached to legions on garrison duty and merely had to adjust to the daily routine of such a life. Livonius had picked the short straw, thrown into a posting where he would need to learn fast just to stay alive. Still, it might be the making of him, if he survived the experience. And Crispus had vouched for him at least. Cato forced himself to smile encouragingly. ‘Well then, you’ll have something to tell your family when you return to Rome. Observe all that you can, Livonius, and listen to any advice the veterans give you. That’s the best way to learn the craft of soldiering.’
‘Yes, sir . . . Thank you.’
Cato wheeled his mount around and glanced back down the column. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of the men he was about to lead against their adversaries, the vanguard of the entire army launching itself against the enemy warriors and their Druid allies. He had fought and shed blood alongside these men and knew that they shared his pleasure in the hard-fighting reputation that both units had garnered since he had taken command. It was a pity that Macro was not here to share the moment with him, he reflected briefly.
He raised his arm and drew a deep breath. ‘Blood Crows! Fourth Cohort! Prepare to advance!’
The legionaries and auxiliary infantry bent down to lift their shields, while the riders eased their mounts into two columns and adjusted their reins. Cato waited until the last of the men was ready before he turned his horse away from the army’s camp and swept his arm down to point along the track leading towards the hills and mountains. A dull overcast made them seem more distant, and already he could see a broad band of darker clouds rolling in from the north, threatening rain.
‘Column . . . advance!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Centurion Macro was sitting on a camp stool on the grass mound beside the modest training area that had been levelled by his legionaries shortly after they had completed the fort itself. Taking advantage of the nearest expanse of flat ground outside the fort, they had removed rocks and clumps of gorse bushes and scythed down the long grass to clear space for the garrison to conduct its training sessions. At one end stood a line of wooden posts, at which Fortunus’s men stood in files, each auxiliary waiting to take his turn at hacking the target. The steady clatter of their swords striking the posts filled the air, until Optio Diodorus blew his whistle to signal the changeover. Panting men broke away from the stakes and trotted to the rear of each file before the whistle sounded again and the sword drill resumed.
The other Illyrian century was marching around the training ground, breaking into a trot on each of the longer sides of the rough rectangle. They came puffing past Macro, kit clinking as they struggled to keep up with their commander. Centurion Appilus maintained a steady pace, his crest bobbing as he led his men on. Now and then he dropped to the side, marking time as he shouted threats at those lagging behind their comrades.
‘Pick those bloody feet up! Move yourselves! Any man who falls more than a length behind the century is on latrine duty for the next ten days!’
Macro nodded approvingly. Despite his thin frame and the lack of an eye, Appilus was a decent officer who appeared to know his trade, unlike Fortunus, who was at that moment flailing away at one of the stakes, urged on by the optio. When the whistle blew again, the centurion bent forward, gasping for breath, before stumbling to the rear of his file. This was only the second day of training, and Macro was already starting to pick out the more fit and able of the Illyrian auxiliaries. Men who could be depended on if it came to a fight. Of the rest, there were some who merely needed exercise, while others needed to improve their drilling. Only a handful were no-hopers – too old to serve in a front-line capacity. One of those from Appilus’s century had already fallen out of formation, slumping to his knees, shield grounded to one side as he struggled to prop himself up with his javelin shaft. At once the centurion shouted at the rest to keep going before doubling back to stand over the hapless straggler.
‘On your feet!’
The soldier tried to rise, but fell back and shook his head.
‘That was fucking pathetic!’ Appilus bellowed, hefting his vine cane as he glared dangerously with his remaining eye. ‘On your feet, you fat bastard. I won’t tell you again.’
The man on his knees made no effort to obey, and Appilus lashed out with his stick, striking the soldier on the backside. He let out a yelp before scrambling up and staggering after his comrades.
‘That’s more like it! Keep going! You drop out again and I’ll take the bloody hide off you!’
They caught up with the rest of the unit and Appilus increased his pace until he had resumed his position at the head of the column. Macro drummed his fingers on the shaft of the crutch lying across his thighs. The straggler would only be the first of the day. The morning drill was not yet halfway through, and he knew that there would be many more who would fall out of formation before then. It looked like the latrines were going to be kept spotless for the next month or so, he reflected with a wry grin.
He swung the end of the crutch on to the ground and gritted his teeth as he stood. There was the familiar sharp stab of pain as his wounded leg took the load, and he adjusted his balance to favour his other limb. He swore under his breath and waited for the pain to pass. It would be a while yet before he would be able to walk comfortably. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he called over towards the men at the stakes.
‘Diodorus! On me!’
The acting optio hurried across to the reviewing mound and stood panting as he saluted his superior.
‘Give it a little longer and then swap them round,’ Macro ordered. ‘Work ’em hard. I want these layabouts to know what real soldiering feels like.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Give them a short break at midday, then get them in full marching gear and take them round the fort until they’ve covered eight miles. That should sort them out. Anyone who falls out knows what to expect.’
‘Latrines, sir?’
‘Indeed. While I’m in command of this fort, we’ll save shit-shovelling for the layabouts. They’ll get sick of the stink soon enough and put their backs into training. See to it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, I’m off. If you need me, I’m at headquarters.’
They exchanged a salute, and Diodorus turned away and hurried back to his charges. Macro took one last look around the training ground, then hobbled towards the track leading up to the fort’s main gate. As he approached, he saw that the legionaries charged with keeping watch from the ramparts were watching the auxiliaries with the broad smiles soldiers usually wore for less fortunate companions.
‘What the hell are you gawping at?’ Macro shouted at them. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping a lookout for the enemy, not watching those lazy bastards!’
The legionaries immediately returned to their stations and scanned the surrounding landscape intently.
Still wearing a scowl, Macro entered the fort and made his way to headquarters. One of the Blood Crows left behind by Cato was standing guard at the arched entrance and snapped his spear upright as the garrison’s commander passed by. With the departure of Cato and the rest of the fort’s standing garrison, the building was much quieter, and only two clerks remained at the desks just inside the main hall. Macro addressed the nearer of them.
‘I want Optio Pandarus in my office now.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Macro was about to head towards the garrison commander’s quarters at the end of the hall when the clerk cleared his throat and nodded to one side. Following the direction, Macro saw a civilian sitting on a bench, looking at him expectantly.
‘He’s asked to see you, sir.’
‘Really? Who the hell is he?’
‘Venistus, sir. The man assigned to speak for the camp followers.’
Macro gritted his teeth as he considered this uninvited complication to his day. ‘What does he bloody well want?’
‘I don’t know, sir. He said he would only speak to the man in charge.’
‘The man in charge, eh?’ Macro sniffed. ‘This is an army outpost, not an inn on the Appian Way.’ He thought briefly about sending the civilian away with orders never to bother him again, but then he relented a fraction. Regardless of how he felt about the presence of the camp followers in the fort, they were here now, and unless he was prepared to order them to return to Viroconium, then he had better get used to the idea. If he sent them away, they would be easy prey for the enemy war bands that ranged through the borderlands between the mountain tribes and the new Roman province. Neither could he afford to send them back with an escort strong enough to guarantee their safety, not without putting the fort at risk. So for now, at least, he was stuck with them. And Venistus. He approached the man with a surly expression.
‘All right. What is it?’
Venistus stood up and smiled easily. ‘Centurion Macro I believe? We have not yet had the pleasure of making each other’s acquaintance.’
‘Pleasure does not come into it. Speak your mind and make it quick, Venistus.’
Macro’s abruptness barely fazed the civilian, even though he had spent many years in the company of soldiers. His smile did not falter as he bowed his head modestly. ‘I apologise for imposing on you, sir, but there are certain arrangements about our accommodation and living conditions that I fear I must bring to your attention.’
‘Really? Do tell me.’
‘As you know, sir, we were given permission by Legate Quintatus’s headquarters to accompany Centurion Fortunus and his men to this posting, and—’
‘You got this permission from the legate himself, I take it?’
‘Not as such, sir. No. It was authorised by a member of his headquarters staff.’
‘Someone with a greasy palm, I’ll wager.’
Venistus affected dawning realisation and then shock. ‘Sir, are you accusing me of offering a bribe to an imperial official?’
‘Do I really have to accuse you?’ Macro sniffed. ‘We both know it works, so let’s not waste time. What do you have to say?’
Venistus’s cordial expression disappeared and the hardened features of the market trader came to the fore. ‘You’ve put us in the stables, sir. Treating us no better than animals. Worse. We get the run-off from the barracks up the slope from us. The place stinks. Furthermore, you have confined us to that area and your men refuse to let us move freely about the fort, or indeed to leave the fort at any time. Many of the auxiliaries have families amongst the camp followers, sir. They are not being allowed to see them. This was not the arrangement that pertained back at Viroconium with the rest of the Illyrian cohort.’
‘I don’t suppose it was. But that might have more to do with how the prefect of the cohort chose to run things. The Eighth Illyrian is a joke, Venistus. Not fit to take its place in the battle line. Not even fit to be a reserve unit, let alone the garrison of a frontier outpost. That has to change. I will see to it. Those men are going to earn their bloody pay and perform like soldiers of the Roman army. Only then will I cut them some slack and let them enjoy the privileges of real soldiers. And if that means depriving them of their bed rights, then that’s just tough on them. Besides, it’ll give the tarts from the vicus a chance to rest.’
‘But they have to eat, sir. The soldiers are the only customers they have.’
‘They will eat. Food, at least. They get the same rations as the men, for now.’
‘For now?’
Macro nodded. ‘I’ll be asking headquarters for an escort to take you and your people back to Viroconium as soon as possible. I dare say that may take a while, given that there’ll only be a small garrison there now that the legate has taken the army into the mountains. And perhaps your man on the staff might find a way to scupper my plan. But I want you out. As for the accommodation, count yourself fortunate that I haven’t ordered you to set up a vicus outside the fort. At this time of year, shelter from the elements is at something of a premium. The stables may smell, but they are dry and they are safe. You might reflect on that with a bit more gratitude.’
‘Of course we are grateful. But what about the men’s families? What about our livelihoods?’
Macro sighed with irritation at the demanding tone of the civilian. ‘Like I said, this is an army outpost. I set the rules here, and you will abide by them. If any of your people break them, I will have them thrown out of the main gate to fend for themselves. If any of my men try to cross the line into your part of the fort without permission, I’ll have them flogged. If you have any objection to these arrangements, then I suggest you have a word with your friend Fortunus. I’m betting the two of you had a cosy little relationship back at Viroconium. If he can’t deliver on his side of it now that you’re here, then that’s your problem. You are free to leave at any time. However, if you choose to stay, then you live under my authority and there is no more to be said on the matter.’
