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.’
Venistus opened his mouth to remonstrate, but had the wit to still his tongue. Macro glared at him, defying him to protest. The civilian’s gaze slipped away and he stared meekly at the floor between them.
‘That’s better,’ said Macro. ‘Now you take care of your people and keep them out of my way and out of trouble and we shall get on well enough. Once I have the Illyrians in hand, then perhaps we can arrange for them to have access to the stables once in a while as a reward.’
Venistus looked up hopefully.
‘But only if everyone keeps to the rules,’ Macro said firmly.
A figure entered the hall and Macro glanced aside to see Optio Pandarus turn towards his quarters and pause as he caught sight of his superior in conversation with the civilian. Macro waved him on. ‘I’ll join you in a moment.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He turned back to Venistus. ‘You know where you stand. In future, if you wish to speak with me, then wait until evening watch is sounded. I will not have you interrupt the day-to-day running of the fort, is that understood?’
‘Yes, Centurion.’
‘Then you may go.’
Venistus bowed his head again and backed away respectfully before turning to leave the hall. Macro watched him depart, gratified that he had put the man in his place, but still frustrated that he had had to deal with the matter at all. It was outside the remit of soldiering as he understood it, and he wondered briefly how Cato might have handled the matter. Perhaps this was precisely the kind of thing that was part and parcel of being a senior officer, he mused. An ability to deal with a range of unexpected and unwanted situations that had little to do with the everyday routines of commanding a line unit. If this was what promotion brought with it, then he wanted none of it, he concluded bitterly.
He let out a deep sigh and turned to limp across the hall to the door leading through to his office and the modest quarters that lay beyond. Pandarus was standing at ease in front of the desk as Macro entered and shuffled round to the chair before slumping down with a grunt. He leaned his crutch against the edge of the table as he addressed the optio.
‘It seems you are now the senior cavalry officer in the fort, but don’t let it go to your head.’
Pandarus grinned. He was an amiable type, one of the shrinking number of men from the first draft of Thracians who had made up the cohort when it had been formed a few years earlier in a small town on the north shore of the Aegean Sea. The campaigns in Britannia had whittled their ranks down, and the replacements had been drawn mostly from Gaul, from tribes skilled at horse-riding. The recent losses of so many experienced men had helped Pandarus to achieve his recent promotion to optio. When Macro had first encountered the unit, they had resembled wild hill men, wrapped in furs and dark cloaks and wearing their hair long and unkempt. Thanks to the dilution of the original Thracians, the troopers of the cohort now tended to look more like the longer-established auxiliary units. The cloaks and furs remained, but they had braided their hair and favoured long Celtic moustaches instead of beards. As far as the enemy knew, however, this was the same cavalry unit that had terrorised the lands of the Silures, and they dreaded the very sight of the red crow on the black background of the cohort’s standard.
‘Your ten men are all that I have to do the work of a cohort,’ Macro continued. ‘We still need to mount patrols of the surrounding area. The difference now is that you’re going to have to behave like the prey rather than the hunter. I want you to lead each patrol in person, and take five men with you. The others will stay here in case I need to send a message to Viroconium in a hurry. When you are out in the hills, stay out of sight of the locals. On no account are you to get into any kind of contact with the enemy, no matter how tempting. I cannot afford to lose a single trooper. I just want you to observe and report back. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Pandarus nodded and then pursed his lips. ‘Are we really expecting trouble, sir? The enemy will have their hands full dealing with Quintatus.’
‘You should know how it goes by now, Optio. You’ve been here long enough. Every time the army pushes forward, it needs to disperse its troops to garrison the territory we’ve gained. That keeps things under control as long as the enemy does not concentrate its forces so they are strong enough to pick off our outposts. If they do mass their warriors, then we have to pull our forces together to confront them, and that means stripping out every available man from forts like this. Which makes us vulnerable. I hope you’re right about the legate, but I’m not taking any risks. If the enemy intends to give us a kicking, then I want to be warned about it in good time.’ He looked at the optio frankly. ‘You are the eyes and ears of the garrison, Pandarus.’
‘You can count on me, sir.’
‘I didn’t doubt it. Pick the best of your men to ride with you, and make sure they know the score. I don’t want heroes, I want information. Starting from tomorrow, you will conduct a daily sweep of the hills to the west. Any settlement you encounter, or any band of hunters or armed men, take down their number and location and report back.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s all. You’re dismissed . . . Wait! One more thing.’
‘Sir?
‘I’ll need a servant.’ Macro patted his thigh. ‘While I’m getting over this bastard wound. One of yours will do. Who can you spare?’
The optio thought quickly. ‘Bortamis, sir. He’s the strongest of us, but also the largest, and he’ll slow me down. He’ll be remaining at the fort.’
‘Bortamis, then. You’d better tell him the good news. I’ll need him first thing in the morning. He’s to bring his kit and use the storeroom of the main hall. You can go.’
They swapped a salute and Pandarus left the office. Macro eased himself back and gently rubbed the dressing above his knee. It itched badly, but the surgeon had told him not to worry it for fear of reopening the wound. So he had to content himself with gentle pressure that only seemed to make it worse.
‘Fuck . . .’ he growled bitterly as he allowed himself to dwell on his situation. ‘Sitting here nursemaiding those soft Illyrian slackers while the army goes off to fight. It ain’t right. It ain’t right at all.’ He cleared his throat and spat into the corner of the room. ‘I bet Cato’s having a right old time of it.’