The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Thirty-Four

Although only two months had passed since the Second Legion had landed at Rutupiae, the hurriedly constructed fort guarding the landing beach had been transformed into a vast supply depot. Scores of ships were anchored in the Channel waiting for their turn at the jetty to unload their cargoes. Over a dozen vessels were tied up alongside, and hundreds of auxiliary troops were carrying sacks and amphorae from the deep holds of the broad-beamed cargo ships to stack them on carts for bulk transport into the depot.

Up the short rise from the shore stood a heavily fortified gate, and beyond that the earth ramp and palisade stretched across the landscape. Granary sheds built on low brick piles stretched out in long ranks to one side of the depot. Next to them stood neatly demarcated stacks of stopper amphorae filled with oils, wine and beer. There were other areas set aside for military stores of javelins, swords, boots, tunics and shields.

A small stockade held a dense mass of British prisoners who had been squatting in the glare of the sun for days. In due course they would be herded into the hold of a ship returning to Gaul, and after a long journey they would end up at the great slave market in Rome.

A short distance beyond the walls of the great depot stood the field abattoir, where skilled butchers slaughtered pigs and oxen. To one side of the facility stood a vast mound of intestines, organs and other unusable parts of the butchered animals. The mound glistened in the bright sunlight, and a swarm of seagulls and other carrion gorged themselves amid a frenzy of flapping wings and shrill cries. The sound carried clearly across the Channel, borne on a light breeze that unfortunately carried the stench of the mound with it.

The foul odour strengthened as the transport approached the jetty, and more than one of Macro' s men felt their stomachs turn. But a hundred feet or so from the jetty the ship was no longer directly downwind of the offal mound and the air became more breathable. Cato gripped the wooden rail and gulped down some deep breaths to flush his lungs. With a well practised hand the steersman twisted the broad steering paddle suspended over the quarter, and the transport glided round to present its beam to the jetty.

'Ship oars!' the captain roared through cupped hands and the crewmen quickly pulled the sweeps in hand over hand and stowed them on the deck. Fore and aft stood men with coils of mooring ropes, and as the transport slowly approached the jetty, they cast the lines to men waiting by the mooring posts. They heaved and drew the transport up against the timber piles with a gentle bump before tying the mooring lines off.

Immediately a hinged gangway was placed over the side and a junior tribune ran across from the slope beyond the jetty where scores of men were lying on litters and stretchers. Some Spanish auxiliaries squatted nearby. The tribune looked around the deck, caught sight of Macro and hurried over.

'Centurion! What cargo do you have?'

'My century and some medical discharges, sir.' Macro saluted and took out a folded wax board from the forage bag hanging on his belt. 'There's my orders, sir. We're to pick up replacements for the Second Legion and march them up to the Tamesis.'

The tribune glanced over the tablet and nodded at the imprint of the Second Legion's seal in the wax.

'Very well, get your men landed and go up to headquarters. They'll sort you out with some tents and rations for the night. Right, off you go.' He waved impatiently and stood at the side of the gangway, drumming his fingers on the rail, until the last of Macro's century had tramped ashore. Cato watched as the tribune shouted out an order, and the auxiliaries began carrying the long line of stretchers aboard the transport. Many had bandaged stumps where arms and legs should have been, while one man, his head wrapped in stained cloth, ranted at the top of his voice, meaningless words hurled at all those around him. Cato stared at the man and shuddered.

'There'll be more like him before this campaign's over,' said Macro quietly.

'I think I'd rather die.'

Macro watched as the man suddenly thrashed about violently, threatening to topple himself and his stretcher bearers off the gangway and into the water between the transport and the jetty. 'Me too, lad.'

Picking up his yoke, Macro shouted out the order to march, and the men marched up the hill and through the main gate of the depot. At the headquarters a smarmy civilian clerk grudgingly accepted the requests for replacement equipment Macro had been given by the Second's quartermaster

The clerk did a quick head count of the century and assigned them some tents in the furthest corner.

'and rations?'

You can draw some hard tack from the Eighth's stores.'

Hard tack! I don't want hard tack! My men and I want some fresh meat and bread. You see to it'

The clerk laid down his pen, leaned back and crossed his arms. 'Fresh meat and bread aren't available. They're for the men at the front. Now then, Centurion, if you don't mind I've got some real work to be getting on with.'

'That fucking does it!' Macro exploded, dropping his yoke and reaching across to grab the clerk's tunic, With one powerful tug he jerked the clerk across his table, scattering his paperwork and knocking his over.

'Now listen, you little shit,' Macro hissed through clenched teeth. 'See these men? They're all that's left of my century. The rest died at the front. You got that? And where the fuck were you when they were killed?' He breathed heavily, then slowly untwisted his fists from the clerk's tunic. 'Now, I'll only say this once, I want fresh meat and bread for my men. I want it taken to our tents. If it's not there by the time the evening watch is called, I'll come back here and gut you personally. Got that?'

The clerk nodded his head, eyes wide with terror. 'Can't hear you, Speak up, and make it loud.' 'Yes, Centurion.'

'Yes what?'

'Yes, I'll see to your men's food and would you like some wine?' Behind Macro, the men shouted their approval. Macro allowed himself a thin-lipped smile and nodded. 'That's very thoughtful of you. I think we might just get along after all.'

He turned back to his men and they gave a ragged cheer before he led them off to the tents. Cato smiled triumphantly at the clerk then turned and joined his centurion.

While he took some pleasure in the cheers of his men, Macro knew he should watch his temper. Assaulting a mere clerk in no way enhanced his authority. Weariness and the remains of his hangover were responsible, and he made a mental note to be careful how much wine he drank that evening. Then he recalled that the wine was free; it would be both churlish and foolish to pass by such an opportunity. He'd compensate by drinking less wine another night, he decided.

It was not long before Macro was chewing contentedly on a tender piece of beef, grilled rare over the glowing embers of a fire. Opposite him sat Cato. He carefully dabbed away meat juices from around his lips and tucked the rag back into his belt.

'These replacements we're going to get tomorrow, sir.'

'What about 'em?'

'How do we go about it?'

'Old army custom.' Macro swallowed before he continued. 'We get first pick. The very best we keep for our century. Once we're up to strength, the next best go to the other centuries of the cohort, then the other cohorts, and what's left we give to the other legions.'

'That's not very fair, sir.'

'No it isn't,' agreed Macro. 'Not fair at all, but right now that's bloody wonderful. About time our century got a break, and this is it. So let's just cheer up and make the most of it, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

The thought of making good the losses of his sadly depleted century was most gratifying, and Macro downed the dregs of wine in his battered cup, poured himself another and downed that. Then he paused to let out a gut-wrenching belch that turned heads from the men nearby, and lay back on the ground, arms crossed under his head. He smiled, yawned and closed his eyes.

Moments later, familiar deep snores rumbled from the shadows beyond the glow of the cooking fire, and Cato cursed his fate at not being able to get to sleep first. The rest of the century had also eaten their fill, and drunk more wine than was good for them since there would be no sentry duties for them tonight at least. Nearly all were asleep, and for a while Cato sat hugging his knees, close to the fire. In its wavering heart the orange glow curled and flowed in a hypnotic fashion and he found his wine-befuddled mind drifting off to Elysian reveries. A vision of Lavinia effortlessly interposed itself before the flames, and he allowed himself to contemplate the loveliness of the image before he laid his head down on his folded cape and drifted off to sleep.