Cato 05 - The Eagles Prey (17 page)

There’d been a painful silence before Felix leaned forward and clasped the cohort commander’s arm. ‘It’s been an honour to serve with you, sir.’

‘Thank you, lad. I knew I could count on your loyalty. And the loyalty of the rest of you, eh?’

The centurions had murmured their agreement, all except Macro, who stood stiffly and refused to make a sound. If Maximius noticed, he’d made no mention of it as he clasped the arms of his officers and bid them good night.

‘Remember, I’ll speak for us all . . .’

Before sunrise the trumpets sounded and all across the marching camp men stirred, muscles stiff. Those with injuries winced at the aching and throbbing from under their dressings. Cato, who had finally fallen asleep only a few hours earlier, did not stir with the others and his men let him sleep on, partly out of kindness but mostly because the longer he slept the longer it would be before his orders stirred them into the daily routine. So it was that Macro came to find him after the sun had risen, tutting as he discovered his lanky friend still asleep under his cape, mouth hanging open and an arm stretched out above the shock of dark curls on his head. Macro shoved his boot into Cato’s side and rolled him over.

‘Come on! Wakey, wakey! Sun’s burning your eyes out.’

‘Ohhh . . .’ Cato groaned, squinting up at the clear sky. His gaze drifted across to the grizzled features of his friend and he sat up with a guilty start. ‘Shit!’

‘You fully awake now?’ Macro asked quietly as he glanced around.

Cato nodded, and stretched his shoulders. ‘What’s up?’

‘Plenty. There’s a rumour going round that the general has ordered an inquiry into yesterday’s cock-up.’

‘An inquiry?’

‘Shhh! Not so loud. There’s also talk that they’re going to make an example of whoever is held responsible.’

Cato looked up at him. ‘Where’d you hear all this?’

‘One of the legate’s clerks told me. He had it from someone on the general’s staff.’

‘Oh, it must be true then,’ Cato muttered.

Macro ignored his sarcastic tone. ‘Sounds plausible enough to me. They’re going to need someone to blame, and it happened on our patch. So watch your back.’

‘Maximius went through that last night. He’s carrying the responsibility.’

‘That’s what he said . . .’

‘You don’t believe him?’

Macro shrugged. ‘I don’t trust him.’

‘There’s a difference?’

‘For now. Come on, you’d better get up.’

‘The legion’s on the march again?’ Cato hoped not. His muscles ached terribly, and the prospect of another day’s tramping across the land under a blistering hot sun was almost unbearable.

‘No. General’s sent some mounted cohorts after the enemy. We’re to rest here and wait for the baggage trains to come up.’

‘Good.’ Cato threw back his cape, struggled to his feet and stretched his neck.

Macro nodded over his shoulder. ‘Maximius’ slave has got breakfast on the go. He’s brought some provisions with him. See you over there.’

The centurions of the Third Cohort sat around a small fire over which the slave was frying several thick sausages in olive oil. A jar of warmed mulsum rested close to the fire and a honeyed scent curled up from the spout. The slave had arrived at sunrise and set straight to work, having walked through the night to catch up with his master. The air was filled with the aroma of meat as the pan sizzled and spat. The nearest legionaries looked over with twitching nostrils, knowing that they had several hours to wait before the baggage train arrived with their food.

‘Jupiter’s balls!’ Centurion Tullius growled. ‘Will you hurry up with those sausages? I’ll start chewing my bloody boot leather if I have to wait much longer.’

‘It’s nearly ready, master,’ the slave replied quietly, well used to the impatience of centurions.

While they waited Cato looked across the river. The far bank was covered with bodies, washed in the rosy glow of sunrise. Above them wheeled a swirling cloud of carrion birds, drawn to the ripe stench of death. Scores of them had already settled to plucking shreds of flesh from the bodies. But even that failed to ruin Cato’s appetite when the slave handed him his mess tin, filled with steaming sliced sausage and hunks of bread. The centurions set to the meal and soon the warm food in their bellies had revived their spirits and, mouths full, they began to talk about the battle.

‘How was it on the island, Macro?’ asked Felix. ‘How long did you hold them for?’

Macro thought about it, trying to recall the detail.’An hour or so.’

‘You fought them off for an hour?’ Felix’s jaw dropped in amazement. ‘The whole bloody army?’

‘Not the whole army, you twat!’ Macro jabbed a finger towards the ford. ‘They could only take us on a few at a time. And then only after they cleared away the little surprises we’d prepared for them. I doubt we were in contact for a fraction of that time. And that was more than enough.’

Maximius was watching him closely. ‘Why did you give way?’

‘Once they’d opened a gap in the barricade what else could we do? And I’ll tell you something else.’ Macro wagged a finger at him to emphasise the point. ‘Those bastards are starting to pick up a few tricks from us now.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Tullius.

‘They only went and formed a testudo when they came in for the second attack!’

‘A testudo?’ Tullius shook his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true! Ask any of my men. That’s why we had to fall back. We had no way of stopping that. If we’d stayed they’d have cut us to pieces in short order.’

‘Same as the rest of us on the river bank,’ Maximius said thoughtfully. ‘We had to give ground or fall where we stood. Wouldn’t have taken ‘em long to carve us up.’

The other centurions glanced at each other warily, and ate their food in silence until Antonius looked up.

‘Oi! Slave!’

‘Yes, master?’

‘Any more sausage there?’

‘Yes, master. There’s one left.’ He looked to Maximius, waiting for instruction. ‘Master Maximius . . . sir?’

‘What?’ Maximius looked round irritably. ‘What is it?’

‘The sausage, sir.’ The slave nodded towards Centurion Antonius, who was holding out his mess tin.

Maximius smiled and nodded his assent. ‘Let him have it. He’s a growing boy and needs his food.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Antonius beamed, eyes greedily fixed on the skillet the slave swung towards him. He thrust his mess tin forwards, caught the edge of the pan and the sausage jumped over the rim into the fire.

‘Fucking shit!’ Antonius glared at the sausage spitting in the heart of the fire and everyone else laughed.

‘Consider that a sacrifice!’ Maximius grinned. ‘An offering to . . . which god shall we honour?’

‘Fortuna,’ Macro said seriously.’We need all the luck we can get. Right now.’

He nodded over Maximius’ shoulder and the centurions turned to look at a squad of soldiers marching down the sleeping lines of the men of the Third Cohort.

‘Provosts!’ Felix spat into the fire.’Trust them to go and ruin a decent breakfast.’

They fell silent as the squad marched up, led by an optio from the legate’s personal bodyguard. They halted a short distance from the group sitting round the fire. The optio stepped forward.

‘Centurion Maximius, sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re to come with us. The general wants to question you.’

‘I see.’ Maximius bowed his head for a moment, as if composing himself, then he nodded. ‘All right . . . All right, then. Let’s go.’

He set his mess tin down and rose to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his soiled and bloodied tunic. He forced a smile on to his face. ‘I’ll see you lads a bit later. Tullius?’

‘Sir?’

‘Get the cohort up for me. Ready for duty. I’ll do an inspection as soon as I get back.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The optio nodded towards the small collection of tents in the centre of the camp.

‘I’m coming,’ Maximius responded with a trace of irritation at the optio’s manner.

The centurions silently watched as their cohort commander was marched away between the double file of provosts. Maximius stiffened his back and strode forward as if he was on the parade ground.

‘Poor bastard,’ Cato said softly enough that only Macro heard him. ‘This is the end of the road for him, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Macro muttered. ‘If there’s any justice.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The optio and the provosts returned with Maximius just over an hour later. Tullius had carried out his orders and the legionaries were formed up ready for inspection. In the short time that they had been allowed, the men had struggled to make the best of their appearance. As Tullius caught sight of their commander approaching he bellowed out the order to call them to attention and the men stamped their feet together and stiffened their backs, staring fixedly ahead. The centurions stood to the front of their men, and to each side of them stood their optio and standard-bearer. As Maximius and his escort approached, Cato could see that he looked strained and shaken by his questioning. He acknowledged Tullius’ formal greeting with a nod and then, without even looking at the men, he quietly ordered Tullius to dismiss them.

‘Cohort! Fall out!’

The men turned and filed back towards their sleeping lines and Cato noted their discontented expressions and the faint grumblings of resentment at being roused and rushed into preparing for an inspection. That was the army way, he knew. Moments of frenzied activity, often for no better reason than to keep the men on their toes, ready to respond to any demand on the instant. But right now they were still tired and hungry, and their resentment was understandable. Even so . . .

Cato raised his vine cane towards a pair of soldiers whose complaints had reached his ears. ‘Quiet there!’

The men, tough-looking veterans, fell silent, but briefly eyed their centurion with contempt before turning away. For a moment Cato was filled with cold, bitter rage and was tempted to call them back and punish them for their impudence. Legionaries must always respect the rank, if not the man, and no infraction could be overlooked. But by then the two men had merged with the rest of the century walking away from him and it was too late for Cato to act. He slapped his cane hard into the palm of his left hand, wincing at the pain of this self-inflicted punishment for his hopeless indecision. Macro would have had them by the balls in an instant.

Cato turned and saw that the other centurions were making their way towards Maximius, while behind him the provost escort stood and waited. Cato strolled over to join them, the self-contempt of a moment earlier turning to anxious curiosity. The centurions gathered in a rough semi-circle about their cohort commander. Maximius was still wearing only his tunic and clearly felt uncomfortable about addressing his fully dressed and armed officers.

‘The legate has taken my deposition. Now he wants to speak to the rest of you individually. The optio here will call for us in order of seniority. None of you is to discuss the evidence you give with anyone. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the centurions replied quietly. Tullius raised his hand.

‘Yes?’

‘What about the men, sir?’

‘What about them?’

‘Will any of them be required today?’

‘No. Stand them down. Pass the word that it’s going to be a make-and-mend day.’

Tullius nodded unhappily. Make-and-mend was a rarely granted privilege when the legionaries were permitted time to maintain their equipment, or fashion some trinket, or simply rest and talk or gamble. Much as the men delighted in make and mend, the centurions resented it, grumbling that it softened them and too much of it made the men slack. It did, of course, win a small measure of popularity and good will for the officer who gave the order.

‘Make and mend,’ Tullius nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Shall I tell them now?’

‘No, you’re to go with the optio. I’ll tell them.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tullius switched his gaze to the impassive faces of the provosts. Maximius noted his concerned expression and spoke quietly to his officers.

‘It’s all right. I did as I said I would earlier. None of you has anything to worry about. Just tell the truth.’

‘Centurion Tullius?’ the optio called out, extending his arm towards the provosts. ‘If you please, sir?’

Tullius swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, of course.’

Tullius fumbled with his helmet ties as he strode towards the escort. Then, flanked on either side, he was marched off, crested helmet tucked under his arm. When the escort was out of earshot Centurion Antonius stepped close to his cohort commander.

‘What happened, sir?’

Maximius stared at him, his blank expression giving nothing away. ‘What happened to me is . . . nothing to do with you. Understand?’

Antonius looked down. ‘Sorry, sir. I just . . . it’s just that I’m worried. Never experienced anything like this before.’

Maximius’ lips relaxed into a slight smile. ‘Me neither. Just answer the questions the legate asks you as straight as you can, and remember you’re a centurion of the finest bloody legion in the empire. The only things in life that should worry a centurion are barbarians, plagues, wine droughts and insanely jealous women with access to cutlery. Questions -’ he shook his head - ‘questions will never hurt you.’