‘Come on, you bastard!’ Macro growled at the two ears rising stiffly at the end of his horse’s neck. ‘Run! Or we’re both food for the jackals.’
The horse sensed his urgency and struggled on, as fast as its trembling limbs could carry it, towards the line of infantry striding towards them. Then it seemed to miss a step, and staggered on for an instant before its front legs began to buckle. Macro released the reins and grabbed the saddle horns with all his might to stop himself being thrown forward. The beast slowed and then collapsed, thudding belly first on to the ground. At once Macro heaved himself off, and sprinted towards the oncoming infantry. Behind him he heard the exultant cry of the brigands as they scented his blood. He glanced back and saw them only a short distance behind, blades drawn, the leading man leaning out to one side, sword rising up ready to strike. Just beyond the line of infantrymen the decurion suddenly wheeled his horse round, drew his weapon and spurred his mount back down the track, knocking aside one of the infantry as he charged towards Macro. At the last moment, he cried out, ‘Get down!’
Macro’s ears were filled with the pounding rhythm of hooves as he threw himself to one side, off the track, and rolled heavily, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. A large shadow danced across the ground beside him and he heard the swish of a blade cutting through the air. Then the legs of horses were all about him and Macro curled into a ball, shielding his head in his burly arms as he was sprayed with gravel. Blades clashed with a shrill ring and the decurion shouted, ‘No you don’t, you bastard!’ Each time Macro tried to glance up, he was blinded by grit and dust, and only heard the fight going on around him.Then something spattered down on him, hot and wet, and a voice grunted in triumph.
‘Get ‘em!’ a voice shouted. ‘Stick it to ‘em, Second Illyrian!’
Then there were booted feet all round Macro, more shadows, and someone grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up.
‘You all right, mate?’ A man’s face loomed in front of him. Then the soldier saw Macro’s mail vest and the medallions on his harness. ‘Sorry, sir.You all right?’
Macro was dazed. ‘Yes, fine.’
Then he noticed the doubtful look on the man’s face and glanced down and saw that a great streak of bood splashed across his shoulders and down his left arm. His fingers fumbled over the blood, but found no injury.’Not mine.’
The soldier puffed out his cheeks in relief, nodded and turned away, hurrying after his comrades as they drove the brigands back. Macro closed his eyes and wiped the grit from his face on the back of a hairy forearm, then looked around.The men from the fort were chasing after the surviving brigands, thrusting at them and their mounts with spears. On the ground close to Macro lay the bodies of three of the brigands, and the decurion.The latter lay sprawled on his back, eyes staring up at the sun, mouth hanging open. A sword blade had opened his throat to the spine and the ground about him was drenched with blood.
‘Poor bastard . . .’ Macro mumbled, before he realised that the decurion had sacrificed himself to save the man he had been charged with escorting safely to Bushir. ‘Poor brave bastard,’ Macro corrected himself.
‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded.
Macro turned and saw an officer approaching him. At the sight of the plumed feathers in the man’s helmet crest, Macro instinctively stiffened to attention before what he assumed was a superior.
‘Centurion Macro!’ he snapped, and saluted.
The officer saluted back, then frowned. ‘Mind explaining what’s going on, sir?’
‘Sir?’ Then it dawned on Macro that the officer was a centurion like himself, and only a freshly minted one at that. He regarded the man anew. ‘Who are you?’
‘Centurion Gaius Larius Postumus, adjutant at the fort, sir.’
‘Where’s Scrofa?’
‘Prefect Scrofa? He’s in the fort, sir. Sent me out to cover your force.’
‘Leads from the front, eh?’ Macro couldn’t help sneering for a moment. ‘Never mind. I’ve been sent to take command of the Second Illyrian.These men are my escort. We were ambushed several miles back.’
Macro glanced round and saw that the fight was over. Most of the brigands had pulled back and were staring silently at the fort from a small rise some distance away. The officers of the Illyrian troops had recalled their men and were forming them up beside the survivors of the cavalry squadron.Two of their men lifted the decurion off the ground and gently placed his body across the saddle of his horse before leading it towards the gate. Macro shook his head. It had been a close thing. But even though he had escaped this time he didn’t suppose that Bannus would abandon his design on Macro’s life. And Cato’s.At that thought Macro stared back along the track.
‘Sir?’ Postumus tilted his head and looked questioningly at Macro. ‘Anything the matter?’
‘Yes. My friend’s out there. We need to go and find him as soon as possible. I want you to give orders for the cavalry contingent to mount up.’
‘With respect, sir, that is a decision for Prefect Scrofa to make.’
Macro rounded on the man. ‘I told you. I’m in command now.’
‘Not until the appointment has been properly authenticated, sir.’
‘Authenticated?’ Macro shook his head. ‘We can deal with that later. Right now, what matters is Centurion Cato.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I take my orders from Prefect Scrofa. If you want to help your friend, you’ll have to speak to the commanding officer.’
Macro fumed for a moment, balling his hands into fists as he glared at the young centurion. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he nodded. ‘Very well. There’s no time to waste. Take me to Scrofa.’
They made their way back into the fort with the last of the troops who had been sent out and Macro was able to take a closer look at the men as he made his way through them.Their kit was only adequately maintained, but they looked tough enough. Certainly, they had moved to engage the enemy horsemen willingly. That was always something of a test of any unit. The men in the legions could be counted on to hold their ground against any kind of attack. It was different with auxiliaries since they were more lightly armoured and not so well trained. But these lads had faced the enemy horsemen without any trouble. Macro nodded approvingly. The men of his new command – the Second Illyrian – seemed to have some potential and Macro was determined to build on that. Then he stepped through the gateway and saw the poorly maintained barrack blocks stretching out in rows on either side of the gate. There would be plenty of work to do before the cohort came up to Macro’s standards. Opposite the barracks were the grain stores, infirmary, stables, headquarters building, officers’ quarters and the cohort commander’s house.
The Second Illyrian was a mixed cohort. Of over nine hundred men who served in the unit, a hundred and forty were mounted. There were cohorts like this on every frontier, where the mixture of cavalry and infantry allowed for greatest flexibility for those officers charged with policing the local tribes and keeping watch for any attempt by barbarians to cross the border. A strong force of cavalry allowed the cohort commander to scout a wide area, chase down any barbarian raiding parties, and when necessary, launch quick punitive raids into enemy territory.
Such cohorts were usually commanded by centurions who had transferred from the legions, a process regarded as a promotion for those who were judged ready to hold independent commands. Despite his earlier reservations, Macro realised that Scrofa had to have shown some promise to be selected for this command. Macro did not fool himself that he too must be a cut above the rest. His own command of the cohort was to be a temporary affair; little more than a cover until the present crisis had been resolved.
Once the last man had passed through the gates, Centurion Postumus ordered them closed and the locking bar replaced in its sockets. Macro indicated the survivors of the cavalry squadron, leading their exhausted mounts away from the gateway. ‘You had better organise some stabling and quarters for the men.’
‘Yes, sir. After I’ve shown you to the prefect.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In his quarters, sir.’
‘Right, I can find him. You see to these men, all right?’
‘Very well, sir,’ Postumus responded reluctantly. ‘I’ll join you as soon as they have been taken care of.’
Macro entered the prefect’s house, which was guarded by two well-turned-out men in full equipment. Even though they stood under a sun shelter, they were sweating profusely in the heat. They snapped to attention at Macro’s approach and as he passed between them he noticed, with wry amusement, a bead of sweat suspended on the tip of one man’s nose. Inside he paused momentarily to adjust to the shaded environment. An orderly was sweeping the hall and Macro turned to him.
‘You there!’
‘Yes, sir?’ The man stiffened his back at once and saluted.
‘Show me to Prefect Scrofa’s office.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ the orderly responded with a deferential bow of his head, and led Macro through the hall to a staircase at the rear. They climbed to the next floor where the rooms were spacious and designed to allow any available breeze to be channelled through them by well-placed windows.
‘This way, sir.’ The orderly indicated an open door at the end of the landing. Macro strode past him and entered the commander’s office, and paused in surprise at the luxurious appointments. The walls were richly painted with mythic scenes of a heroic nature. The furniture was well crafted and finished with neat decorative flourishes, and there was a couch to one side covered in comfortable cushions. A glass bowl stood on a small side table, filled with dates and figs. Prefect Scrofa, wearing a light tunic, sat behind a large wooden desk. To one side of him stood a huge red-haired slave, steadily directing air at his master with a fan. Scrofa was a wiry man in his early thirties with pale skin and dark hair that had receded on either side of his central fringe. On his left hand he wore the ring signifying that he came from the equestrian social class. He looked up irritably as Macro marched into the room, covered in dust and stained with the decurion’s blood.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Centurion Macro. Sent from Rome to assume command of the Second Illyrian.You are hereby relieved, Prefect Scrofa. Please send for your senior officers at once, so they can be told of my appointment.’
Scrofa’s mouth sagged open. The slave continued fanning without any change in his expression.
‘What did you say?’
‘You’re relieved.’ Macro leaned back and popped his head round the door frame. The clerk was heading back to the top of the stairs. ‘Hey!’
The clerk turned round and stared at Macro for a moment, then glanced past him towards Scrofa with a questioning expression. ‘Sir?
‘Centurion Scrofa is no longer in command.’ Macro stepped between them and continued, ‘I want to see all the centurions and decurions in here straight away.’
‘Even the duty officers, sir?’
Macro paused. With Bannus and his men still in the area, that would not be wise. ‘No. Not them. I’ll meet them later. Now go!’
When he turned back into the office Scrofa had recovered some composure and was sitting back in his chair. He looked at Macro with an angry frown. ‘Explain yourself. What in Hades is going on here?’
Macro, conscious of his pressing need to collect a strong force of men and go in search of Cato and Symeon, strode across the room and stood in front of the table.’It’s simple.Your appointment was temporary. I have been given orders by the imperial staff to take command of the Second Illyrian. There’s no time for any changeover ceremony, Scrofa. I need the mounted contingent ready for action immediately.’
Scrofa shook his head. ‘Impossible! Cassius Longinus assured me that he would send to Rome to have my appointment made permanent.’
‘Look,’ Macro said in a gentler tone, desperate to take command as soon as possible, ‘I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that I was sent to Bushir with orders to take command.’
The sound of footsteps came from the landing and a moment later Centurion Postumus strode into the room. Scrofa raised an arm and pointed at Macro.’This man says he has been sent from Rome to take command of the cohort.’
Postumus shrugged.’He was with the auxiliary cavalry being pursued to the fort, sir.’
‘There is another officer, and a guide, still out there, hiding,’ Macro said urgently. ‘I must take some men out to find them.’
‘I’ll deal with that in a moment,’ said Scrofa. ‘Once we’ve sorted the situation out.’
‘There’s nothing to sort out!’ Macro shouted, his temper finally snapping. ‘I’m in command! You have been replaced. Now stand aside. I’m meeting the cohort’s officers in here. Take your slave and return to your quarters.’
‘I’ll do no such thing! How dare you come in here and treat me like this? Who sent you from Rome?’
‘I told you. I’m acting on the orders of the imperial office.’
Centurion Postumus coughed loudly and stepped up to the table to confront Macro. ‘Excuse me, sir. If you’re acting on orders, might we see them?’
‘What?’ Macro stared at him.
‘Your orders, sir. The confirmation of your appointment. ‘
‘Bloody hell! All right then. I’ll get them. They’re in my saddlebag . . .’
Abruptly, Macro’s lips froze as his mind flashed back to the morning ride up towards the plateau, the sudden appearance of Bannus and his brigands, and then the dumping of all the baggage as the cavalry squadron desperately prepared to fight its way through to the fort.
Macro’s lips moved again. ‘Oh, shit.’
Once again Cato faced the druid, but this time his foe was far taller than Cato, dwarfing him so that he felt like a child.The druid’s eyes were jet black and his teeth were needle sharp, as if they had been filed. In his hand he held the scythe, and as Cato’s eyes fixed on the glinting edge the druid raised it high. For an instant the blade glittered as it caught the moon’s silvery rays. Then it slashed down, slicing towards Cato’s throat.
He woke with a cry, and jerked up on to his elbows. His eyes were wide open, darting from side to side as he took in his surroundings. A small, darkened room, unfurnished apart from the bedroll he was lying on. He made to move, but there was a sudden pounding in his skull as if a heavy mallet was rhythmically beating the side of his head. Nausea welled up from the pit of his stomach and he quickly turned on one side and retched.The door opened, and light flowed into the small room.