Britannia

CHAPTER FIVE

‘I expect to see that you have worked your usual magic on Fortunus and his mob by the time I return,’ said Cato as he took one last look around the fort.

The garrison was formed up along the main thoroughfare that stretched across the fort, passing the arched entrance of the headquarters block. The riders of the mounted squadrons stood by their horses at the head of the column. Each mount was laden with hay netting and bags of oats. Behind them came the colour party with the collected standards of the two units under Cato’s command, followed by the legionaries, standing beside their laden marching yokes. At the rear was the small baggage train: fourteen carts carrying spare kit and marching rations, as well as four of the fort’s complement of bolt-throwers. The foot soldiers of the Thracian cohort, organised into two centuries, were assigned to protect the vehicles as well as forming the rearguard. It was the least-regarded duty for those on the march, since they had to endure the choking dust kicked up by those ahead of them during the summer, and negotiate the churned mud of winter.

It was the first hour of the day and the sun had not yet risen above the eastern rampart, though its light bathed the men of the replacement garrison in its rosy glow as they paced along the ramparts and stood watch on the platforms above the four gatehouses. In the shadow of the rampart the air seemed tinged with blue and felt chilly, so that the men were thankful for their thick military cloaks.

Macro leaned his crutch against the wall beside the entrance to headquarters and rubbed his hands together vigorously. ‘Don’t you worry. You’ll hardly recognise the Illyrians. Especially that tub of lard Fortunus. I see him as my personal challenge. He will shed the fat and get fit, or I’ll see that he dies in the process.’

‘No need to go that far,’ Cato responded. ‘Just make sure he can actually get into his armour. That will do.’

They shared a quick laugh and then Cato held out his hand. They clasped forearms.

‘Take care, sir.’

Cato detected the anxious tone behind his friend’s words. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Macro spoke earnestly. ‘Just watch yourself around that bastard Quintatus. Whatever he says, he’s still one of them devious bastards out for whatever he can get.’

‘I know. I’ll be careful.’

‘All right . . .’ Macro smiled self-consciously and quickly changed the subject. ‘And while you’re at it, take good care of my lads.’

Cato nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Crispus and make sure your cohort doesn’t come to grief.’

They both glanced towards the head of the legionary column and saw the tall figure of the centurion tapping his vine cane impatiently against his palm.

‘They’re in good hands,’ said Macro. ‘Crispus is a fine soldier. Reminds me of myself in younger days.’

‘Really? Then he’s grown some.’

Macro growled deep in his throat and gently pushed Cato’s arm away. ‘And fuck you too, sir,’ he muttered lightly. ‘Get going, and let me get on with sorting these Illyrian bastards out.’

Cato shot him a final smile and turned away to stride towards the head of the column, where Thraxis was holding his horse. As Centurion Crispus became aware of his approach, he quickly grounded his cane and drew a deep breath.

‘Column! Form line of march!’

The infantry instantly broke off their muted conversations and took up their yokes, shuffling the sturdy shafts into as comfortable a position as possible on their shoulders. The four squadrons of Thracians took the reins of their mounts and steadied them as Miro glanced round to make sure they were ready for the next order.

‘Second Thracian Cavalry! Prepare to mount . . . Mount!’

The riders grasped their saddle horns to lift themselves up and used the momentum to help them swing their legs over the backs of their horses before settling into the saddle and taking up the reins. With the tightly packed hay in nets fastened over the rumps of the horses, together with the bags of oats, it was no easy feat, and it took a moment before the lines were dressed and the cavalry stood ready. Cato was glad that his horse was simply saddled and free of such encumbrances. Thraxis handed him the reins and bent over to make a step with his hands. Once Cato’s boot was in place, the sturdy Thracian heaved the prefect up and Cato landed in his saddle with a modicum of grace. He adjusted his grip on the reins and sat as erect as he could as he looked back down the column and saw that every man was ready and waiting.

He drew a deep breath. ‘Open the gates!’

Fortunus snapped an order to the section of Illyrians standing by the gatehouse, and they rushed forward to remove the locking bar and draw the timber gates inwards, releasing a flood of dazzling sunlight that streamed into the fort. Cato was forced to squint as he raised his arm and swept it forward. ‘Column! Advance!’

He urged his horse into a walk and felt the familiar swaying motion as his mount clopped forward. Behind him rode Thraxis, carrying the prefect’s personal standard, then two of the headquarters clerks, followed by Decurion Miro and the first of the squadrons of Thracian cavalry, beneath their black banner with its depiction of a red crow, hanging limply from the crosspiece in the still morning air. As soon as they had cleared the ditch surrounding the fort, Miro ordered his squadron forward and they cantered past on either side of Cato and took up their place quarter of a mile ahead of the rest of the column, watching for any sign of the enemy.

As the last of the Thracian auxiliaries tramped out of the fort, Macro eased himself up on to his feet and took up his crutch. He picked his way towards the gatehouse as Fortunus shouted the order for the gates to be closed and barred, pausing at the foot of the wooden stairs rising up the rampart to the palisade.

‘You!’ He addressed the nearest of the Illyrians. ‘Help me up here.’

With the soldier supporting him on one side while using the crutch on the other, Macro hopped awkwardly from step to step until he reached the palisade, then clutched the roughly hewn logs as he stared down at the column snaking slowly along the valley. The sun had crested the rim of the hills to the east and the shadows rapidly began to shrink away as the day began. Macro stood and watched for a while longer, catching the twinkle of light on polished metal and squinting slightly as he strained to pick out the red cloak of the prefect close to the head of the column. He was worried for his friend. Over the years, they had become so accustomed to guarding each other’s backs, from enemies on all sides, that it felt unnatural to be watching helplessly as Cato marched to war.

No, not helplessly, Macro corrected himself. He had a job to do. Cato had left him in command of the fort and the replacement garrison. That would keep him occupied and give him something useful to do. He smiled to himself at the prospect of what he had in store for Fortunus and his Illyrians. It would be like old times.

The head of the column crested a small hill at the mouth of the valley and began to disappear from view, like a shimmering insect. Given the season, and the recent rain, there was none of the usual dust that was kicked up in the wake of soldiers, horses and carts on the move, and Macro was clearly able to see the last of the men reach the top of the hill and disappear from sight. Then the valley was still, and the quiet landscape stretched out around the fort nestling between the two forested ridges that led into the mountainous land of the Ordovices. Autumn was well advanced, and the branches of many of the trees were almost bare, while the ground beneath lay covered in brown and yellow leaves. Macro sniffed the air. He liked the dank, musty odour at this time of year, and the way the sunlight seemed to bring out the richness of the colours of nature.

He stood erect quite suddenly and frowned with irritation.

‘What the fuck am I thinking?’ he muttered. ‘Poncing around like a bloody poet.’

Taking up his crutch, he turned to look over the fort, and soon spied Fortunus sitting with his optio on stools outside the barrack block his century had been assigned. Macro filled his lungs and bellowed down from the rampart, loudly enough to be heard easily throughout the fort.

‘Centurion Fortunus! I want you and your officers at headquarters as soon as the morning watch is changed. Hear me?’

Fortunus struggled to his feet and saluted. Macro nodded curtly and beckoned to the auxiliary to help him back down the steps, his heart warmed by the thought that he would no longer be subject to the fussy care of the surgeon, who had marched off with Cato.

It felt unusual to be sitting the other side of the desk. Fortunus, Appilus and their optios stood facing Macro, together with the senior legionary of the section Cato had left behind. Lucius Diodorus had served over ten years in the Fourteenth, nearly all of that time in Britannia. He had mousy hair, left rather too long and unkempt for Macro’s taste, and a puckered white scar on his cheek. Tall and well built, and with a good record, he seemed a sensible choice for the role of drill instructor. The auxiliary optios, by contrast, looked as useless as the two centurions. Saphros was a small, wiry man in his late thirties with a cunning expression, while Mago was heavily built and dull-looking. The kind of man who might have had a brief career in the arena, where his brute strength would have seen him through until he met an opponent with even a grain of guile.

Macro sighed softly. Such was the stuff of which his new command was made. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table as he addressed Fortunus. ‘Have the men moved into their barracks?’

‘Yes, sir. Just about.’

Cato had assigned them to the blocks closest to the stables, where the camp followers had been lodged, but Macro had a different view of arrangements.

‘Then herd ’em up to the barracks opposite headquarters. I want them moved there as soon as you are dismissed.’

Fortunus looked puzzled. ‘Move them? Again?’

‘That’s what I said. I want them where I can see ’em. And I don’t want them anywhere near that rabble in the stables until they are off duty. Even then, the men will sleep in their barracks. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir. But is it necessary?’

‘Are you questioning my orders, Centurion Fortunus?’

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘Then you will do as I say. This is an army outpost, not a bloody veterans’ colony. I want your men to act like proper soldiers, even if they fall rather short of being proper soldiers. That’s where Diodorus comes in. I have chosen him to help me knock them into shape.’

Fortunus bridled. ‘The Eighth Illyrian are a good unit, sir. We’re not raw recruits. You saw the battle honours on our standards.’

‘I did. So tell me, how recently were those awarded?’

Fortunus shifted his weight on to the other foot. ‘Before my time, sir.’

‘I see. Then when were you and your unit last in a fight?’

‘Back in Pannonia, sir. A few years before we were ordered to Britannia.’

Macro’s brow creased briefly in concentration. ‘I don’t recall hearing about any war in Pannonia.’

‘It was not a war as such. The cohort was ordered to quash an uprising, sir.’

‘Oh? Tell me more.’

‘There were some villages who refused to pay their taxes. We were sent in to restore order.’

‘So you knocked a few heads together, razed the odd building and so on, right?’

Fortunus flushed. ‘You could put it that way, sir. But as I recall, the locals were very hostile indeed.’

‘I dare say they were. Let me guess. They shouted insults at you and followed up with lobbing a few stones, or turds, and you chased them off.’

Fortunus opened his mouth to protest, then paused, thought a moment and pressed his lips together in a thin line.

Macro nodded. ‘Thought so. This is no place for a glorified town watch. We’re right on the frontier, facing an enemy who will fight to the last breath. And they’re wily buggers too. Somewhat more of a challenge than a bunch of surly taxpayers. The gods only know why some idiot at the imperial palace selected your unit to be sent to Britannia. Though it does explain why you’ve been kept back with the reserves. But you’re here now, and you have to be fit and ready to fight properly. I’ll see to that.

‘First thing you need to know is that I am far from happy that you’ve arrived with camp followers in tow. In different circumstances I wouldn’t have let them inside the fort. But being where we are, that would be tantamount to leaving them to the mercy of the enemy. So I am stuck with them. But that doesn’t mean they won’t be subject to the same discipline as the garrison. I want you to appoint a leader of the civilians. Someone reliable and preferably trustworthy. He will be responsible for seeing that they abide by the fort’s rules and regulations. Do you know any likely candidates?’

Fortunus and Appilus exchanged a look before the latter spoke.

‘What about Venistus? Most people look up to him.’

Fortunus nodded. ‘He’s the best man.’

‘Venistus it is, then,’ Macro announced. ‘You can break the good news to him and tell him to come and see me at once, so I can explain his duties.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I want a barrier set up across the fort to keep the civilians in their area. No one is to move to or from the civilian blocks unless they are on duty or have authorisation.’

‘Sir, some of the men have families . . .’

‘Not according to military regulations they don’t. The army does not allow marriage, or families, for rankers. Your men might need reminding of that.’

‘That may be true, sir, but it’s a long-established custom.’

‘Not in my fort it isn’t,’ Macro responded tersely. ‘And if they don’t like it, then they’re free to make their own way back to Viroconium.’ He sat up. ‘That’s all for now, gentlemen. You’re dismissed. Diodorus, stay behind.’

Fortunus and the others saluted, then left the office. When the door closed behind them, Macro turned his attention to Diodorus.

‘What do you think?’

The legionary’s expression remained neutral. ‘Sir?’

‘You’ve seen the officers and the men of the Illyrian cohort. Thoughts?’

‘If I may speak freely, sir?’

‘Please do.’

‘They’re a useless shower. They don’t march in step, they don’t look after their kit and they don’t look after themselves. Some of them are old enough to be my grandad, and others are young enough to be my son. Gods forbid, but if it comes to a fight, the only danger they pose is that the enemy may die laughing at the fucking spectacle presented by Centurion Fortunus and his men. Other than that, they’re a fine body of men who do the emperor proud, sir.’

Macro smiled. ‘My thoughts, more or less. They’re shockers right enough. But now they’re your problem, Optio Diodorus.’ He saw the brief flicker of confusion in the legionary’s eyes before the sestertius dropped. ‘That’s right, I’m giving you a field promotion. You know the drills. I want you to begin working the Illyrians from tomorrow. Get ’em fit first. Then move on to weapons training. I want Fortunus and his layabouts ready for action as soon as possible.’

‘You think we’re likely to be attacked, sir?’

‘More likely than ever, Diodorus. You can count on it that the enemy will know about the change in the garrison here. They’ll be aware that the fort’s strength has been reduced. Once the legate opens his campaign, they’ll also know that there will be no relief column marching to our aid from Viroconium in the event of an attack. It’ll be as good a time as any to try to take the fort.’

The optio nodded. ‘I see, sir.’

‘Then you’ll also see why we have to toughen the Illyrians up as soon as possible. Much as I like training soldiers, I’m not just doing it to keep myself entertained. If it comes to a fight, we need to know that Fortunus and his men can be relied upon. And that goes for the civilians, too. Any man there who is fit enough to train is to join the auxiliaries. Pray that we don’t need them. But if the enemy does try to seize the opportunity, then they’ll face as many swords as we can find to man the fort’s walls.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll do what I can to help, but until I can get rid of this bloody crutch, it’s up to you to train those bastards. I think you’re the right man for the job, Diodorus, but do you?’

The legionary drew himself up to his full height. ‘I won’t let you down, sir.’

‘Glad to hear it. Dismissed!’

They exchanged a salute, and the newly appointed optio turned on his heel and marched out of the room. As Macro listened to his steps echoing through the main hall of the headquarters block, he smiled. This was what proper soldiering was about. Training men for war, and then, if need be, putting that training into practice. It was what he was born to do.

More footsteps approached the office, and one of the handful of clerks Cato had left behind knocked on the door frame and entered. He was carrying an armful of waxed tablets.

‘What’s that lot?’ Macro demanded.

‘Report on the damage to the granary, sir. One of the piles collapsed and the rats got into the grain. Ruined ten modii of barley. Then there’s the promotion authority for Diodorus, sir. The rest are the strength returns and records for the Illyrians. I assumed you’d want to see them.’

‘Of course. On the desk.’

The clerk unloaded his burden and left Macro staring at the pile of tablets. He let out a frustrated hiss. So much for proper soldiering. If Cato had still been here, he would have been dealing with all the paperwork. ‘The lucky bastard,’ muttered the centurion sourly.Then, for the first time, he saw the small dice box near the edge of the desk, half hidden beneath a waxed slate, and felt his guts lurch. His friend had forgotten to take the lucky dice with him. Macro could not help thinking it was a bad omen. A bad omen indeed.