Britannia

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Hmm, they don’t look up to much,’ Macro grumbled as he surveyed the small column of men entering the fort. ‘As miserable a bunch of miscreants as I have ever seen. Bloody Eighth Illyrian aren’t even fit to scrub out the latrines. The gods know what use they’ll be if the enemy have a go at us while you’re gone.’

He was sitting on a bench outside the headquarters block, his crutch propped against the wall beside him. It was late in the afternoon, and though the sky had been clear all day, the temperature was dropping and both men wore their thick military cloaks. Cato stood in the street that ran across the fort. He shaded his eyes as he made his own first assessment of the garrison’s replacements. The Illyrians were an unprepossessing bunch to be sure. They made no pretence of marching in step, and their armour was dull through lack of polish. Some of the men wore their helmets, but most had them hanging from their sides, or from their marching yokes. At the front of the column was a short, broad officer with flabby cheeks veined and tinged with red. Clearly a man who enjoyed being in his cups, thought Cato.

The prefect was in a foul mood. The replacements had been expected around midday, releasing the garrison to join the rest of the army gathering at Mediolanum, two days’ march away. The Thracians and the legionaries under his command had already carefully prepared their marching yokes, and the garrison’s small baggage train of carts stood in line behind the rampart ready for the mules to be hitched up. In fact, the animals had been placed in harness shortly before noon, ready for a swift departure. When there was no sign of the Illyrians at the appointed hour, nor the two hours that followed, Cato had reluctantly given orders for the mules to be returned to their stables, as well as the horses of his mounted contingent. The men of the garrison had been dismissed too, now that there was no prospect of setting out until the following morning.

Cato paced slowly into the middle of the street to await the auxiliary centurion as the rest of the new arrivals fell out of line and spilled into the open ground between the ramparts and the barracks blocks.

The centurion ambled forward and bowed his head in salute, then gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Fuck me,’ he wheezed. ‘That was some march, sir. Never thought we’d make it before nightfall.’

‘Stand up straight!’ Cato snapped. ‘And make your report properly, man.’

The centurion’s jaw sagged a little before he recovered his wits, grounding his vine cane and drawing back his shoulders. This had the unfortunate effect of pushing out his large stomach, so that Cato was reminded of an egg. The comparison became even more apt as the man’s cheeks seemed to fold into his neck, and the whole angled down to merge seamlessly with his rounded shoulders. Yes, Cato thought. An egg. A very fat egg.

The officer drew a deep breath and introduced himself. ‘Marcus Fortunus, Fifth Century, Eighth Illyrian Cohort, sir! On detachment. Here are my orders, sir.’ He felt inside his side bag and took out a slate. Cato flipped it open and swiftly scanned the comments etched into the wax. The orders followed the standard format, authorising Fortunus to take two centuries to the appointed installation to serve as a temporary garrison until notified of further instructions. They bore the name of the legate’s chief of staff and the impression of the legate’s ring seal. He snapped the slate shut and returned it to the officer.

‘Marcus Licinius Cato, prefect of the Second Thracian Cavalry, and commander of this fort. You’re late. We were expecting you around noon.’

‘The road wasn’t easy, sir, and the camp followers slowed us down.’

‘Camp followers?’ Cato looked past the man towards the gate. Sure enough, the last of the soldiers had entered, and now came an extended throng of women and children, together with a handful of mule-drawn carts.

‘Jupiter give me strength!’ Macro spat. ‘What the hell is all that?’

Fortunus glanced over his shoulder, not without difficulty. ‘Some of the men have families in the vicus at Viroconium. A few of the demobbed veterans are in business with some of my men. No more than a hundred or so in all. The fort has been constructed to accommodate a thousand men, so there’ll be plenty of room. Besides, it’s good for morale.’ He looked curiously at Macro, uncertain if he should defer to him. The latter was in a plain tunic and cloak and had no insignia to indicate his rank.

Macro quickly put an end to his dilemma. ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. I’ll be in command while the prefect is absent.’

‘In command? I was led to believe that I would be . . . sir.’

‘Well you’re not,’ said Cato. ‘Centurion Macro is recovering from a wound and is unable to lead his cohort in the coming campaign. He will be remaining here.’

‘More’s the bloody pity,’ Macro added through clenched teeth.

Fortunus shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But my orders are quite specific. I’ve been appointed to command the fort in your absence. The legate’s chief of staff said so.’ He patted his bag. ‘You saw for yourself.’

Cato gestured towards the dishevelled men of the Illyrian cohort and the last of the civilians trudging in through the gate. ‘I am not leaving a forward outpost in the hands of the man who commands that rabble. I have made my decision. If you have any problem with it, take the matter up with the legate himself.’

‘But . . . but he’s about to set off into the mountains,’ Fortunus protested. ‘It could be months before he responds.’

‘That’s not my problem,’ Cato snapped. ‘Until then, my decision holds. And you will call both me and Centurion Macro “sir” when you address us. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s better.’ Cato glanced at the new arrivals crowding the gate. ‘For now, you can get your men and the camp followers into the stables at the end of the fort.’

‘Stables?’ Fortunus grimaced. ‘Sir, I-’

‘My men need the barracks tonight, thanks to your tardiness. And my horses will have the better of the stables. You will occupy what space is left and be thankful I don’t order you to camp outside the fort until I lead my men out tomorrow. Now get them out of my sight.’ Cato dismissed him.

Fortunus saluted and turned away to join his men as Cato and Macro looked on with grim expressions.

‘Now that,’ Macro said quietly, ‘is the most miserable fucking example of a soldier it has ever been my misfortune to meet.’

Cato cocked an eyebrow and glanced at his friend. ‘Really? What about that skinny recruit that joined the Second Legion back in Germania a while back? “A pointless streak of piss” was the phrase, as I recall.’

Macro shrugged. ‘Oh, that he was. Completely. But he turned out well enough in the end. The army made a decent soldier of him.’

‘I thank you for your faint praise.’

‘You don’t need me to praise you. Your record since then has done the job well enough.’

Cato experienced a ripple of unease. He never felt comfortable with his achievements, as if they were more the result of blind fortune than his own efforts and therefore he was as undeserving of praise as any man who had simply benefited from good luck. He cleared his throat.

‘Now you’ll have the chance to lick Fortunus and his men into shape while I am gone. Should keep you busy.’

‘That lot?’ Macro laughed bitterly. ‘Fat chance. In the case of Fortunus, literally. I’ll be lucky if the fort is still standing and habitable by the time the campaign is over.’

Some of the garrison had emerged from their barracks to inspect the new arrivals, and looked on with bemused smiles, or hurled good-natured insults at the Illyrians, who replied in kind before Fortunus ordered them to fall in, bellowing loudly – more to impress the senior officers at the fort than to encourage his men, Cato guessed. The auxiliaries shuffled into place, grounded their spears and waited for the last of their comrades to join them from amongst the camp followers.

Macro turned his head and spat into the open drain running past the headquarters block. ‘I could train monkeys to drill better than that lot. They’re a fucking disgrace.’

‘Well, now they’re all yours, my friend.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

Cato chuckled. ‘Just keep ’em out of trouble. And look after my fort. And make sure you rest that leg as much as you can. I want you back on your feet and ready to stick it to the enemy as soon as possible. How is it coming on, by the way?’

Macro patted his thigh above the dressing. ‘The scar is healing nicely. But the muscle hurts like buggery and feels like it’s pulled in every direction. Still not good enough to put much weight on, and too stiff to walk without looking like a Subura whore after a double shift.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve had worse, but nothing quite as humiliating as being picked off by some native kid. Still, he had balls, I’ll say that for him.’

‘Him and all the other barbarians in these mountains.’ Cato’s mood soured as his thoughts returned to the coming campaign. It was a bad time of year to commence a large-scale military operation. The army would begin its march with the autumn well advanced, and the frequent rain in these lands would quickly make the ground hard going for the baggage train, not to mention the miserable prospect for the infantry of plodding through the glutinous mud of the native tracks, which would quickly be churned up by the hooves, wheels and nailed boots of the Roman column. The natives would have the advantage of being familiar with the ground, and would no doubt attempt to continue with the harrying tactics that had served them well in earlier campaigns.

However, if the legate’s aim to use brute force and ruthlessness to shatter the Deceanglians and the Druids produced the anticipated results, there was a good chance that the army could return to their winter quarters before the short, cold days of the season settled over Britannia. Already the chill and the damp had begun to make Cato’s hand ache where he had endured his own arrow wound earlier that year. He rubbed the knotted white scar tissue behind his knuckles and on his palm and felt the familiar tingle that shot down to his fingertips and up his arm as far as his elbow.

Macro saw him wince. ‘Hand still troubling you, sir?’

Cato dropped his arms to his sides. ‘Just thinking.’

He glanced round to make certain they would not be overheard. The sentry at the entrance to headquarters was the closest other person, and Cato lowered his voice to be safe. ‘Have you had a chance to consider what I told you?’

‘About Quintatus? Yes, I’ve thought about it. Can’t say I’m happy to throw my lot in with another schemer after all we’ve been through with Narcissus.’

‘Me neither. But I don’t think we’ve got much choice in the matter. It’s true what he says. Narcissus’s star is waning. He won’t be able to offer us any protection soon. He won’t even be able to protect himself.’

‘Well I shan’t be grieving for him when the snake has to fall on his sword. Shit, I’d be more than happy to lend him my blade to do the job. Or stick it in him if he lacked the guts to see it through.’ Macro smiled grimly at the thought of providing the necessary service to the imperial secretary.

‘It’s not him I’m worried about,’ Cato continued. ‘It’s us. And those who depend on us.’

‘You need not worry about Julia. Her father would look after her. Sempronius is popular enough in the Senate to make Pallas think twice before making an enemy of him.’

‘I hope so. But I don’t think Pallas is the kind of man who would baulk at the thought of making enemies in the Senate. Not while he has the ear of the emperor’s wife, and the chance to put Nero on the throne. Much as I despise the idea of becoming followers of Quintatus, it would be the sensible thing to do. For now, at least. If for any reason Pallas falls from favour, then we can cut our ties to the legate.’

Macro sighed deeply. ‘We shouldn’t have to live like this, Cato. We’re soldiers. Not spies. Not assassins. Certainly not servants of some bloody freedman with ideas above his station in life. I am bloody sick of living under the threat of being knocked on the head, right here at the arse-end of the world, about as far away from Rome as you can get, just because I have pissed off some flunkey back in Rome.’

‘Believe me, Macro, I share your feeling. But wishes are cheap, and no help to us right now. I don’t see that we have any real choice. Not if we don’t want to spend every day guarding our backs. We’ve got enough to worry about dealing with the enemy. Much of Britannia is a province in name only. There’s plenty of work for us here.’ He paused and ran a hand over his dark curls. ‘Time enough to demonstrate that we’re more use to the empire alive than dead.’

‘Fuck that!’ Macro’s expression darkened. ‘We don’t have anything to prove to anyone, Cato. Not us. We’ve shed our blood time and again for Rome. And sweated our guts out on long marches through hostile lands. Not to mention wading through all the shit of Narcissus’s dark little schemes. We’ve earned the right to be left alone to get on with our lives. We’ve earned it a thousand times over.’

‘Macro-’

The centurion shook his head. ‘I won’t do it. I’m not going to trade Narcissus for Pallas. I’m not going to be the lackey of a scheming aristocrat like Quintatus. No! Never again. From now on, my only loyalty is going to be to my comrades, and Rome. If you want to continue playing games with the likes of Quintatus and Pallas then that’s up to you. But I’ll have no part of it, see?’

Cato recognised that his friend was determined in his desire to escape from the lethal world of politics and plotting. This was not the occasion to try and reason with him. There was not enough time, or privacy, in which to talk it through. Besides, he sympathised with the principles behind Macro’s position, dangerous though they might be. Neither of them deserved to be treated as the tool of self-regarding men whose only care was the pursuit of power. But such men paid scant regard to the idea of principle, and were unlikely to be impressed by the stand that Macro was taking. Worse, they might even regard it as an act of defiance. One thing that Cato had learned about the likes of Pallas was that they did not tolerate defiance. To be seen to do so would imply weakness. An example had to be provided to all others who might be tempted to similar acts. Macro was playing with fire. In doing so, he was placing not only himself in grave danger, but Cato as well.

As night fell over the fort, the usual routines of posting the first watch and distributing the watchword continued with little regard for the unaccustomed presence of women and children. The shrill cries of the latter as they played in the lanes between the barracks and the other buildings lent the fort the ambience of a small village rather than an outpost of empire on a hostile and dangerous frontier.

At headquarters, Cato was hosting a meal for the officers of the garrison. He had not intended to, but the delay in marching meant remaining in the fort an additional night, and since all preparations had been made, there was little for the officers to do. Thraxis had slaughtered the last of the suckling pigs owned by the prefect, and roasted it with a honey glaze. Macro rubbed his hands in glee as the glistening side of pork was brought out on a large wooden platter and set down on the long table in the main hall of the headquarters block. The meat was accompanied by bread, cheese and the best of the remaining wine. Aside from Macro, Cato had invited Crispus and the centurions from the legionary cohort, as well as the decurions of his own auxiliary cohort.

Cato was not accustomed to entertaining his subordinates, as other men of his rank were wont to do in such outposts. He did not have an inherited fortune to subsidise any more lavish entertainment than what was on offer, and secretly he was anxious that it would give his officers, Macro excepted, reason to regard him with the quiet disdain usually reserved for ‘new men’, as those climbing Rome’s social hierarchy were referred to. Even though the pay of a prefect was of an order of magnitude greater than that of lesser ranks, Cato had family obligations to consider: his home in the capital, with a wife and child to support in a style befitting the equestrian status he had won through his promotion. Before leaving Rome he had arranged for most of his pay to be made over to Julia. What was left, together with the meagre savings he had from his service to date, barely sufficed. Particularly as his pay had been coming through in dribs and drabs since he had arrived in Britannia, and no amount of cajoling had spurred the imperial officials charged with paying the empire’s soldiers to bring it up to date.

Consequently, he made do with the same limited issue of clothing as he had done while a centurion, his armour was functional rather than decorative, and while a prefect from an aristocratic background might afford a small retinue of servants and slaves, Cato was served by Thraxis alone. As he looked on the meagre fare spread along the table, he winced and wished he had not decided to entertain his subordinates after all. More than likely they were already regarding him with something like pity, and his heart smouldered with shame even as he tried to affect the calm, easy-going air of a good host.

Fortunus and the other centurion from the Illyrian cohort were the last to arrive, wary of taking their places after the prefect’s cold reception that afternoon. Cato gestured to the end of the table.

‘Gentlemen, I present Centurion Fortunus of the Eighth Illyrian Cohort.’ He turned his attention to the other officer, a man as thin as his comrade was fat. His bald head was fringed with cropped grey hair and he wore a patch over one eye. ‘And you are?’

The man bowed his head briefly. ‘Centurion Gaius Appilus, sir. Sixth Century.’

‘Then sit down, Appilus.’ Cato introduced the other officers around the table in turn. ‘Centurion Macro, who will command in my absence. Centurion Crispus, temporarily taking over the Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. The others are Centurions Festinus, Portillus, Lentulus and Macer, and that’s Optio Croton, filling in for Macro. On the other side of the table are the Blood Crows. My mounted squadrons, led by Decurions Miro, Themistocles, Corvinus and Aristophanes. Lastly, those in charge of my foot centuries, Harpex and Plato – no relation.’

Fortunus stared at him blankly for a moment. ‘No relation to who, sir?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Never mind. Tuck in, gentlemen, tuck in! This all needs consuming, or else it will be left to Macro to work his way through what remains of my private stores. I suspect he will be less inclined to share such spoils even with the few officers that will remain after the garrison marches to war.’

‘Damn right!’ Macro nodded vigorously, then drained his goblet, picked up the wine jug and refilled to the brim.

Around the table, the other officers reached in with their knives to cut themselves meat and heap it on their platters, together with hunks of bread and cheese. They ate, talked and joked in the high spirits of men on the eve of a new venture. Fortunus and Appilus soon joined in the convivial mood, and the former’s heavy jowls quivered as he chewed vigorously on his meat, juice dripping from the corner of his mouth. Thraxis stood to one side, keeping an eye on the wine jug and taking it out to the scullery to top it up whenever it was in danger of being emptied. In the same manner he added to the bread and cheese baskets, and threw fuel on the fire that crackled and hissed in the hearth at the side of the hall, the flames adding their glow to the wan flicker of rush torches in the wall brackets. As the evening drew on, the wine flowed and the faces of the officers grew flushed with the warmth of the fire and the effects of the drink. All except Cato’s. He tried to appear as if he was sharing the comradely ambience while at the same time shrewdly weighing up the men he commanded.

Portillus, Lentulus and Croton had served under Macro for less than a month, arriving with the replacements from Rutupiae. The first two were freshly promoted to the centurionate, proven men of at least ten years’ standing, while Croton was somewhat younger, and had only been an optio following a promising performance against the Brigantes the previous summer. As for the officers of the Thracian cohort, Miro and Themistocles were the only decurions remaining from the time when Cato had taken command of the unit. Miro was competent but lacked imagination and initiative, and occasionally allowed his nervous disposition to get the better of him. He would hold his place in the battle line well enough, but could not be trusted with any independent command. Themistocles was a different proposition. Tough and experienced, he would carry out any order given to him without thought of the consequences. For that reason he could not be trusted to act alone either.

These were the men Cato was tasked with commanding and fighting alongside, and it was vital that he understood their strengths and weaknesses. Now more than ever, given that he would not have Macro with him. His closest friend was irreplaceable. Tough and fearless, and utterly loyal, Macro had over twenty years’ experience of the army, along with a finely judged understanding of the men around him and how to train them and make them ready for battle. When the time for war came, few men were his equal. Cato would sorely miss his friend in the months to come.

In any case, Macro’s enlistment would soon be at an end. He had given the best years of his life in the service of Rome and would be entitled to retire with the generous bounty that came with an honourable discharge. Most of the centurions who left the army returned to Italia and bought modest farming estates, or set up in business in provincial towns, joining the small circle of influential men who ran local affairs, largely for their own benefit. However, Cato found it hard to imagine Macro willingly settling into either role. They had occasionally discussed life after the army, in those moments soldiers were prone to in order to distract them from the discomforts of the present. Macro played the game as well as any legionary, conjuring up fantasies of endless drinking and whoring, or, as the mood took him, more bucolic notions of a quiet life in the serene landscape of Campania. But such moments soon passed, and it was clear that there would only ever be one true home for Macro: in the ranks of the Roman legions. He was born to it, and likely as not it would be where his life ended, through sickness, injury or death in battle. Natural causes, as he himself wryly commented from time to time.

Cato smiled fondly at his friend’s military stoicism, before his thoughts turned to his own fate. Promotion to his present rank had come rapidly due to the number of campaigns he had fought in since joining the army. Without the benefit of an aristocratic background, there was a limit to any further progress he might achieve. He was denied the most senior posts of legate, consul or governor. If he was extremely fortunate, he might secure one of the two positions still entrusted to men of equestrian rank: commander of the Praetorian Guard, or Prefect of Egypt – neither of which any emperor was prepared to entrust to potential rivals. If Nero succeeded the ailing Claudius, then it would be vital to obtain the patronage of Pallas to stand any chance of winning either post. In the short term, that meant offering his loyalty to Quintatus, distasteful as that might be.

Looking around the table, Cato saw that the officers had finished their meal and shoved their platters to one side as they concentrated on their wine. He beckoned to Thraxis and indicated that he wanted him to clear the table.

Thraxis took up his commander’s platter and knife first, leaning in as he muttered, ‘Sir, we’re down to the last amphora of wine. Do you wish me to open it? There will be next to no chance of picking up any more while we’re on the march.’

‘Maybe so, but I can live without wine, and besides, I’ll need a clear head. Which is more than the others will have come the morning. But let them enjoy the moment . . . Yes, bring them wine.’

Thraxis clicked his tongue. ‘As you wish, sir.’

Once the table was cleared and the wine jug was replenished, Macro took a set of carved ivory dice from a small box. ‘Now for some sport with my lucky dice, eh, boys? A chance for me to clean you out. You won’t need much silver where you’re going.’

Crispus leaned his elbows on the table and grinned. ‘I’m game.’

‘Who else?’ asked Macro, glancing round. ‘How about you, Fortunus?’

The new arrival nodded and set down a surprisingly heavy-looking purse. ‘Why not? Always good to supplement my army pay.’

Macro’s eyebrows rose. ‘I admire your confidence. What about you, sir?’

Cato hesitated. He did not like playing dice on principle. There was no skill, just random luck, no matter what those who loved the game said. It seemed ludicrous to hazard the small fortunes that were routinely gambled by soldiers. It often caused as much bad feeling as enjoyment, and dice games were the cause of frequent fights, and not a few deaths. However, it was a long-established tradition, and any commander who attempted to curb his men’s urge to gamble risked causing considerable bad feeling in the ranks. Sometimes, Cato reasoned, it was better to overlook such vices and take part, in order to better understand those around him.

Stifling a sigh, he sent Thraxis to bring him fifty denarii from the strongbox in his quarters, a sum he could barely afford to lose but one that did not appear unduly parsimonious to his guests. He had no wish to be shown up by Centurion Fortunus.

Once everyone’s stake money lay on the table, Macro called for a spare beaker for the dice as his companions placed their bets. Cato examined the circles Macro had chalked on the table and placed a coin on number 7, then, steeling himself, added a second. He watched as the others placed their bets, some going for the higher odds, others spreading their bets. Cato noted each man’s strategy, and wondered how much it revealed of their personality; whether they were risk-takers, or whether they played safe. He watched curiously as Fortunus placed a coin on 12 and then three more beside Cato’s stake. Macro was the last to bet. He sized up the others’ positions and then slid five coins on to the circle marked 6.

‘All ready?’

He covered the beaker and shook it hard so the dice rattled noisily inside. Then, with a muttered plea to Fortuna, he tossed the dice on to the table. They bounced and settled and the officers leaned forward to inspect the result.

‘Six!’ Macro shouted with glee. ‘Lucky six for Fortune’s centurion!’

The others muttered curses, save Croton, who had placed a bet on an even number and smiled broadly. Macro flicked a coin across to him and drew all the others to one side to form the pot, from which he extracted his winnings. Then he looked up eagerly. ‘Tough luck, lads. Time to go again.’

While the others reached for fresh coins, Centurion Fortunus reached out a puffy-fingered hand. He picked up the dice and held them up to the light as he inspected them, rolling them in his palm to test their weight and balance. Macro’s smiled faded.

‘Something wrong, Fortunus?’

‘No. Not at all. Just admiring these. A very fine set, if I may say so, sir. Must have cost you. Where did you get them?’

‘Syria.’

‘Ah, Syria . . .’ Fortunus nodded sagely. ‘Of course.’

Macro’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’

‘Just that that would explain their quality, sir.’ Fortunus placed the dice back on the table. He waited until the last of the others had placed their bets, then slid a coin on to 6 and sat back on his stool. Cato sensed his suspicion, but thought it misplaced. Macro was not the kind of player who cheated. He preferred the honest excitement of the game over the prospect of winning under a cloud of dishonest guilt.

Cato played for the odds again and bet on 7. Once again the dice rattled and rapped sharply on the table before yielding their result.

‘Two! Castor and Pollux!’ Macro exclaimed. ‘Fuck my luck . . .’

As the game continued, punctuated by expectant silence, uproar and excited exchanges, each man took his turn at throwing the dice for a few rounds. Cato saw that some muttered prayers, some closed their eyes as their lips moved soundlessly, while others were more matter-of-fact and gave a quick shake before casting. None of which seemed to divert the inexorable good fortune of Macro and Fortunus, whose piles of coins grew steadily while the others shrank. At the sound of the trumpet announcing the change of the watch, Cato decided it was time to put an end to proceedings.

‘Last round, gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘We have a long day ahead of us.’

The others nodded blearily and prepared for the final cast of the dice. Looking down, Cato saw that he had eight coins left. With as much good humour as he could muster, he slid them on to the circle marked with a 10. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

The final bets were placed and then Macro passed him the dice in the beaker. ‘The honour is yours, sir.’

Cato took the beaker with a grateful nod and held it up. ‘Best of luck to you all.’

He shook it hard, the dice beating a shrill tempo close to his ear. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw them on to the table, where they bounced high, then again, and rattled to a stop. There was the briefest of pauses before Fortunus snorted with disgust.

‘Ten! Of all the luck . . .’ He puffed his cheeks and shook his head. ‘Never mind. I’ve done all right. Well done, sir. A skilful throw.’

Cato was disappointed by the glib flattery. ‘There is no skill in this game. You can only play the odds.’

Macro’s brow creased. ‘Then how do you explain why some men win more than others, sir?’

‘That’s life, Macro,’ Cato replied patiently. ‘Just life.’

‘If you say so.’ Macro counted out some coins and slid the small heap over to Cato. ‘I’d say you have come out about even, sir.’

‘Like I said. Nothing gained.’ He swept the coins into the purse that Thraxis had brought from his chest, and the others likewise gathered up what they had left. ‘That concludes the occasion. I thank you all for your company. We’ve made a fine night of it.’

The officers mumbled their thanks, more or less coherently, as stools scraped on the flagstone floor and they rose to their feet, making for the door leading out to the small courtyard of the headquarters block. Macro remained seated, gently rubbing the skin around his dressing.

‘Giving you some grief?’

Macro sniffed. ‘Just itches from time to time, like a bastard.’

‘It won’t be for much longer.’

Macro looked up with a sober expression. ‘Long enough . . . Long enough to have to sit on my arse and watch you lead my cohort out to battle.’

‘Not all of the cohort. I’ve decided to leave you two sections of legionaries, to provide some backbone to the garrison. And ten of the mounted contingent from the Blood Crows. You’ll need them for patrolling and dispatches.’

‘Fair enough. Thanks . . . Take care, my friend.’

‘I’ll be fine. It’s time I learned how to stand on my own two feet,’ Cato replied lightly.

‘You’ve been doing that for many years. You don’t need me. The fact is that I’m the one who needs to be in the thick of the action. I can’t fucking stand to miss out.’

‘There will be other campaigns, Macro.’

‘I know.’ The veteran was silent for a moment. ‘There’s something I want you to do for me, sir.’

‘Name it.’

Macro replaced his dice in their box and held it out to Cato. ‘Take this with you.’

Cato looked puzzled. ‘Why? What for?’

‘For good luck. I was told they would bring me luck when I bought them. You saw how well I did at the table tonight. They’ve worked for me. Now they’ll do the same for you.’

‘Macro, I-’

‘Just take them, please. I’d be happier knowing you had them with you.’

Cato hesitated, until he saw the concerned look on Macro’s face. He smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll keep them close. You can have them back when I return.’

‘Good.’ Macro took up his crutch and struggled to his feet. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, sir. Good night.’

‘Good night, Centurion Macro.’

Macro limped off and closed the door behind him, leaving Cato alone in the dying light of the fire and the two rush torches still burning. He stared down at the box in his hand, then closed his fist over it and walked slowly towards his private quarters. Despite his misgivings about the workings of fate, he might just need all the luck he could get in the days to come.