The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Fourteen

'Bet that hurts!' Macro grinned as the surgeon spread salve over the blistered skin that ran up Cato's right side from his hip to his shoulder. The blazing look the optio shot back at him was eloquence itself.

'Keep still,' the surgeon tutted. 'It's hard enough working by this light without you twitching all over the place.. Here, Centurion, hold that torch steady.'

'Sorry.' Macro raised the pitch torch higher, and by its flickering orange glare the surgeon dipped his hand in the small jar of salve between his knees and gently smeared it over Cato's shoulder. Cato flinched, and had to clench his teeth as the surgeon continued the application. The cool air of the hour before evening made him shiver, but it provided some small relief from the intensely painful injury that was sending waves of nerve-searing agony up and down his side.

'Is he going to be able to rejoin the unit?' asked Macro.

'Do me a favour, Centurion!' The surgeon shook his head. 'When will you officers learn that you can't expect wounded men to jump up and dash right back into a fight? If the optio here goes off and opens up the blisters, and they get infected, he'll be far worse off than he is now.'

'How long then?'

The surgeon examined the mass of angry blisters and cocked his head on one side. 'A few days for the blisters to come and go. He'll have to keep his side open to the air, and rest as much as possible. So he's excused duties. '

'Excused duties!' Macro scoffed. 'You might not have noticed but there's a bloody battle on the go. He has to return to the unit. I need every man I've got'

The surgeon rose to his full height and confronted the centurion. For the first time Macro realised what a giant of a man the surgeon was, nearly a foot taller than he was, and built like a bull. He was in his mid twenties, with dark features and tightly curled black hair that suggested African origins. Big as he was, there didn't appear to be any fat on his muscled body.

'Centurion, if you value this man he has to be allowed to recover from the burns. He is excused duties – and my decision has the backing of the senior surgeon and the legate.' His tone and expression made it quite clear that he was in no mood to listen to any arguments about his decision. But that didn't change the fact that the Sixth Century was badly undermanned and needed the presence of everyone who could still wield a weapon.

'And I said I want him back with the century. '

The confrontation between the surgeon and the centurion in the flickering pool of torchlight was turning nasty. Cato gritted his teeth and struggled to his feet to intervene.

'I'm sorry, sir. He's right – I can hardly move this arm. I'd be no use to you right now.'

'Who asked you?' Macro glowered at the optio. 'Anyway, what are you taking his side for?'

'I'm not taking sides, sir. I want to get back into action as fast as possible, but I won't be doing any good until I can use this arm.'

'I see.' Macro was not unsympathetic, in principle, to those bearing injuries, but short of having a limb lopped off or being beaten unconscious, he found it difficult to see why a man should not take part in battle. The Britons may have lost their camp but there were still plenty of them milling about outside the earthworks; the injured might well have to fight for their lives before much longer.

'All right then, lad,' he said, relenting slightly. 'But you get back to the century as soon as you can, understand? No malingering.'

'Sir!' Cato was indignant. But Macro had already turned away and was marching off through the lines of Roman injured lying beside the river. Cato's gaze followed the centurion's torch for a while, before it was lost amid the other torches and the flare of campfires.

'Nice one, your centurion,' muttered the surgeon.

'Oh, he's all right. Just a little lacking in empathy and tact at times. But an excellent soldier.'

'And you'd be a good judge of such soldiers, would you?' The surgeon dipped into his pot for some more salve. 'Ready for this?'

Cato nodded, bracing himself for more pain. 'I think I've seen enough.'

'Really? And how long have you served in the Second?'

'Getting on for a year.'

The surgeon paused in his application of salve. 'A year? Is that it? And this is your first legion?' Cato nodded.

'You're hardly more than a boy.' The surgeon shook his head in amused bewilderment, then he noticed Cato's tunic and armour lying on the ground. The dull glow of the phalera on Cato's body harness caught the surgeon's eye. 'Yours?'

'Yes.'

'How'd you come by it?'

'I saved my centurion's life, before we left Germany last year.'

'You mean you're that optio? The one everyone was talking about back at base?' The surgeon looked at Cato with fresh eyes. 'The optio from the palace?'

'That's me.' Cato blushed.

'And you volunteered for the army?'

'No. I was born a slave. I was freed on condition that I joined the eagles. A reward for my father's services to the palace.'

'And he was a slave too?'

'Freedman. He was given his freedom after I was born so I stayed a slave.'

'That's tough.'

'That's the way it is.'

The surgeon laughed, a rich, deep laugh that drew glances from those nearby. 'Well, you really have made your mark, haven't you? From slave to raw recruit to decorated veteran in less than a year. At this rate you'll probably make centurion – no, what am I saying? You'll make legate by this time next year!'

'Can we get on with the salve?' Cato asked, embarrassed by the sudden attention they were attracting.

'Sorry. No offence intended, Optio.'

'None taken. And let's keep it that way, please.'

The surgeon continued with his work, applying the sweet-smelling salve to the raw flesh down the side of the optio's skinny body. Cato tried to occupy his mind, to keep the pain at bay as much as possible. He looked along the rows of injured men, some moaning and crying out as they writhed feebly on the ground. The medical staff of all three legions were busy ferrying the injured back across the river in several small skiffs that had been brought up from the engineers' baggage train. A two-way traffic of wounded men and empty stretchers struggled past each other down towards the river.

'How bad have our casualties been?' Cato asked.

'Bad. Hundreds of dead. We've placed them in the centre of the camp. Word is that the general is going to flatten the earth works when the army moves forward. Should be enough for a sizeable mound over the ashes.'

'And the wounded?'

'Thousands.' The surgeon looked up. 'Mainly from the Ninth, thanks to those bloody slingers. I've never treated so many broken bones. Here, let me find you a souvenir. '

The surgeon scanned the ground for a moment and then pounced on something in the trampled turf. He straightened up and popped it into Cato's hand. It was small and heavy and in the dim light Cato could see an oval lump of lead the size of his thumb, but thickening in the middle.

'Nasty, isn't it?' The surgeon nodded at it. 'You'd be surprised just how much damage one of those can do in the hands of a good slinger. The impact will break bone, even through chain mail, or a helmet. I had to cut one out of a tribune tonight. Went right into his leg, smashing the thigh bone to pieces. Poor sod died from loss of blood before I could finish.'

'From one of these?' Cato tossed the lead shot up and felt the stinging impact as he caught it. Travelling many times faster, he shuddered to think of the damage it would do to a human being. As he rolled the shot in his hand he noticed an irregularity on its surface, and raised it to his eyes for a closer look. Even in the poor light he could see that something had once been stamped on the side of the shot and that someone had tried to erase the markings, rather too hurriedly.

'Can you see some letters there?' he asked, holding up the shot.

The surgeon gazed at it a moment, then frowned. 'Well, it looks like an L, then an E, but that's all I can make out.'

'That's what I thought.' Cata nodded. 'But what is Latin script doing on British shot?'

'Maybe it's one of ours being returned.'

Cato thought for a moment. 'But slings haven't been issued to the legions yet. So where can this have come from?'

'Someplace beginning with LE,' suggested the surgeon.

'Perhaps,' Cato said quietly. 'Or maybe the LE stands for LEGIO, in which case it really is one of ours. You see any more like this?'

'Look around.' The surgeon waved his hand. 'They're all over the place.'

'Really?' Cato tossed the lead shot up in the air again. 'That's interesting… '

'Right! That's you finished.' The surgeon stood up and wiped his hand on a rag tucked into his belt 'Get down to the river and take a boat back to your unit's camp. You're to rest up and keep the arm as still as possible. If there's any sign of pus in the burns, go and see the nearest surgeon immediately. Clear?'

Cato nodded. He tucked his tunic into his belt and picked up his equipment in his good hand. The salve and the cool air on the naked skin of his upper torso combined to take some of the sting out of his bums and he smiled gratefully.

'If you pass our way in the next few days I'll stand you a drink.'

'Thanks, Optio. That's very kind. I don't usually make house calls, but given your offer I'll be happy to make an exception. Who shall I ask for?'

'Cato. Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort of the Second Legion.'

'Well met then, Cato. I'll look forward to it.' The surgeon placed the salve jar into his leather dressing bag and turned to leave.

'Er, might I have your name?' Cato called out.

'Nisus. At least that's my known name.' The surgeon replied bitterly and strode off between the lines of wounded.

The Eagles Conquest