Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest (31 page)

‘Good! Very good.’ Macro handed the weapon back. ‘You’ll get your unit assignment by the end of the day. Dismissed!’

The legionary saluted, turned and marched away, a little too stiffly for Macro’s liking.

‘Shall I put him down for the Second, sir?’ asked Cato, sitting at Macro’s side, four scrolls unrolled in front of him. He dabbed his pen in the ink and held it poised above the Second’s scroll.

Macro shook his head. ‘No. Can’t use him. Look at the left leg.’ Cato saw a vivid white line running down from thigh to calf, the tightness of the scar tissue causing the man to drag his leg slightly. ‘He’d be a liability to himself, and more importantly to us, on a forced march. Put him down for the Twentieth. He’s only fit for reserve duties.’

Macro raised his eyes to the line of legionaries waiting to be assigned. ‘Next man!’

As the day wore on, the long line of replacements was slowly whittled down, and the lists of names on Cato’s scrolls grew longer. The process was not completed until late in the evening, when Cato checked his lists by lamplight against the tally sent from the Eighth Legion’s headquarters to ensure that no names had been missed out. To his credit, Macro had balanced out the numbers so that each legion got replacements in proportion to their losses. But the best men went to the Second Legion.

The next morning Cato rose at first light and had four men from his century round up each legion’s replacements and quarter them according to their allocated units so that they got used to their new identity as soon as possible. Macro busied himself at headquarters chasing up the Second’s replacement equipment. Somehow the requests had been misplaced, and a clerk had gone off to look for them, leaving the centurion sitting on one of the benches lined up outside the headquarters entrance. As he sat waiting, Macro began to feel like some cheap client awaiting his patron back in Rome, and shifted about angrily on the bench until finally he could stomach it no more. Storming into the tent he found the clerk back at his desk with the requests lying on one side of the desk.

‘Found ‘em then? Good. Now I’ll come with you while we get things sorted.’

‘I’m busy. You’ll have to wait.’ ‘No. I won’t. On your feet, laddie.’

‘You can’t order me around,’ the clerk responded sniffily. ‘I’m not army. I’m part of the imperial service.’

‘Oh really? Must be a cushy number. Now let’s go, before you delay the war effort any longer.’

‘How dare you? If we were in Rome I’d report you to the prefect of the Praetorian Guard.’

‘But we’re not in Rome,’ Macro growled, leaning across the desk. ‘Are we?’

The clerk saw the prospect of imminent violence in the centurion’s glowering expression.

‘Very well then, sir,’ he conceded. ‘But let’s make this quick.’

‘Quick as you like. I’m not being paid by the hour.’

With Macro in tow, the clerk scurried round the depot and authorised the provision of all the requested weapons and equipment, as well as carts to carry them on the march back to the Tamesis.

‘I can’t believe you don’t have any transports available,’ Macro challenged him.

‘Afraid not, sir. All available shipping has been sent to Gesoriacum for the Emperor and his reinforcements. That’s why we’ve been sent ahead. To help out with the admin.’

‘I wondered what your lot was doing at headquarters.’

‘When something needs organising properly,’ the clerk puffed out his chest, ‘the experts have to be called in.’

‘Oh, really?’ Macro sniffed. ‘How reassuring.’

After the midday meal Macro assembled the new recruits for his century and had them parade in front of his tent. They were all good men; fit, experienced and with exemplary records. When he led the Sixth Century against the Britons again, they would cleave a path right through the heart of the enemy ranks. Satisfied with his selection, he turned to smile at Cato.

‘Right then, Optio. You’d better introduce this lot to the Second Legion.’

‘Me, sir?’

‘Yes, you. Good practice for command.’

‘But, sir!’

‘And make it inspiring.’ Macro nudged him. ‘Get on with it.’ He stepped back into his tent and, sitting on a stool, calmly began to sharpen the blade of his dagger.

Cato was left standing alone in front of two ranks of the hardest looking men he had ever seen. He cleared his throat nervously and then stiffened his spine and stood as tall as he could, hands clasped behind his back as his mind raced for suitable words.

‘Well then, I’d just like to welcome you to the Second Legion. We’ve had a pretty successful campaign so far and I’m sure that soon you will all be as proud of your new legion as you were of the Eighth.’ He glanced along the lines of expressionless faces and his self-confidence withered.

‘I-I think you’ll find that the lads of the Sixth Century will make you feel welcome enough; in a way, we’re like one big family.’ Cato gritted his teeth, aware that he was wallowing in a mire of cliches. ‘If you have any problems you ever want to talk over with anyone then the flap of my tent is always open.’

Someone snorted derisively.

‘My name’s Cato, and I’m sure I’ll get to know all your names quickly enough as we make our way back to the legion… Erm. Anybody want to raise any questions at this stage?’

‘Optio!’ A man at the end of the line raised a hand. His features were strikingly rugged and fortunately Cato managed to recall his name. ‘Cicero, isn’t it? What can I do for you?’

‘Just wondered if the centurion’s having us on. Are you really our optio?’

‘Yes. Of course I am!’ Cato coloured.

‘How long have you been in the army, Optio?’

A series of chuckles rolled lightly down the line of men.

‘Long enough. Now then, anything else? No? Right then, roll call at first light in full marching order. Dismissed!’

As the replacements ambled off, Cato clenched his fists angrily behind his back, ashamed of his performance. Behind him in the tent he could hear the regular rasp of Macro’s blade on the whetstone. He could not face the inevitable ridicule of his centurion. At length the noise stopped.

‘Cato, old son.’

‘Sir?’

‘You might well be one of the brightest and bravest lads I’ve served with.’

Cato blushed. ‘Well, thank you, sir.’

‘But that was about the most dismal welcome address I’ve ever witnessed. I’ve heard more inspiring speeches at accounts clerks’ retirement bashes. I thought you knew all about this sort of thing.’

‘I’ve read about it, sir.’

‘I see. Then you’d better supplement the theory with a bit more practice.’ This sounded rather good to Macro, and he smiled at the happy turn of phrase. He felt more than a little gratified by his subordinate’s failure to do the job properly, in spite of his privileged palace education. As was so often the case, evidence of a weak chink in another man’s accomplishments produced a warm, affectionate feeling in him and he grinned at his optio.

‘Never mind, lad. You’ve proved yourself often enough up to now.’ As Cato struggled to find a face-saving response, he became aware of a ripple of excitement sweeping across the depot. Over in the direction of the jetty, men were scrambling up the reverse slope to the palisade where they crowded along the sentry walk.

‘Hello. What’s going on?’ Macro came out of the tent and stood at his optio’s side.

‘Must be something coming in from the sea,’ suggested Cato.

As they watched, more men crowded the palisade, and still more men flowed between the tent lines to join them. There were shouts now, just audible above a swelling din of excited chatter. ‘The Emperor! The Emperor!’

‘Come on!’ said Marco and he trotted towards the far side of the depot, with Cato close behind him.

Soon they merged with the others hurrying towards the Channel. After much jostling and panting they squeezed their way up onto the sentry walk and pushed through to the palisade.

‘Make way there!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Make way! Centurion coming through:’

The men grudgingly deferred to his rank, and moments later Macro was hard up against the wooden stakes, with Cato by his side, both staring out across the Channel at the spectacle serenely making its way in from the sea. A few miles off, caught in the full glare of the afternoon sun, the imperial squadron was making its way towards them. Flanked by four triremes, which it utterly dwarfed, was the Emperor’s flagship. It was a massive vessel of great length and breadth, with two towering masts mounted between the elaborately crenellated bow and stern. Two huge purple sails hung from their spars, tightly sheeted home to ensure that the gold eagles emblazoned on them were displayed to best effect. Cato had seen the vessel once before, at Ostia, and had marvelled at its huge dimensions. Great oars rose from the water, swept forward in shimmering unison, and sank back smoothly into the sea. Behind the flagship a line of warships entered the Channel, followed by transports, and then by the navy afterguard, by which time the flagship was drawing close to the shore with all the stately grace that its highly trained crew could muster. The draught of the flagship was such that it would have run aground had it attempted to make for the jetty. Instead, the vessel heaved to a quarter of a mile from the shore, and anchors were run out fore and aft. The triremes swept past and headed for the jetty, decks crowded with the white uniforms of the Praetorian Guard. Once the warships had moored, the Praetorians filed ashore and formed up along the slope outside the depot.

‘Can you see the Emperor?’ Macro asked. ‘Your eyes are younger than mine.’

Cato scanned the deck of the flagship, running his eyes over the milling ranks of the Emperor’s entourage. But there was no sign of any obvious deference, and Cato shook his head.

The legionaries waited excitedly for a sign of Claudius. Someone started a chant of ‘We want the Emperor! We want Claudius!’ that quickly caught on. It rippled along the palisade and echoed out across the Channel to the flagship. But there was still no sign of the Emperor, despite a number of false alarms, and slowly the mood changed from excitement to frustration, and then apathy as the Praetorian cohorts were marched off to the side of the depot furthest from the field abattoir and began making camp for the night.

‘Why’s the Emperor not landing?’ asked Macro.

From his childhood in the imperial palace Cato recalled the lengthy protocols that accompanied the official movements of the Emperor, and could guess at the reason for the delay easily enough. ‘I expect he’ll land tomorrow, when the full ceremony for welcoming an emperor can be laid on.’

‘Oh.’ Macro was disappointed. ‘Nothing worth seeing tonight then?’

‘I doubt it, sir.’

‘Right, well, I expect there’s some work we can be getting on with. And there’s some of that wine that still needs drinking. Coming?’

Cato knew Macro well enough by now to recognise the difference between a genuine choice and a politely worded order.

‘No thank you, sir. I’d like to stay and watch for a while.’

‘Suit yourself.’

As dusk gathered, the other men on the wall slowly drifted away.

Cato leaned forward, resting his elbow in the notch between two stakes and cupping his chin on one palm as he gazed at the of shipping now filling the Channel around the flagship. Some vessels carried soldiers, some carried the servants of the imperial household, and a few others the expensively dressed members of the Emperor’s entourage. Further out some large transports were anchored with curious grey humps showing above the coping of their holds. Once the triremes that had unloaded the Praetorians had moved away from the jetty, the large transports were eased alongside the jetty and Cato had a clearer view of their cargo.

‘Elephants!’ he exclaimed.

His surprise was shared by the few men remaining along the palisade.

Elephants had not been used in battle for over a hundred years. Though they presented a terrifying spectacle to those facing them on the battlefield, well-trained soldiers could neutralise them very quickly. And, if badly handled, elephants could be as much of a danger to their own side as the enemy. Modern armies had little use for them and the only elephants Cato had ever seen were those in the beast pens behind the Circus Maximus. Quite what they were doing here in Britain was anybody’s guess. Surely, he thought, the Emperor can’t be intending to use them in battle. They must be here for some ceremonial purpose, or to put the fear of the gods into the hearts of the Britons.

As he watched one of the elephant transports, a section of the vessel’s side was removed and a broad gangway was manhandled onto the jetty.

Sailors lowered a heavy treaded ramp into the hold and spread a mix of straw and earth up the ramp and across the gangway, these familiar smells would be badly needed to comfort to the animals after the uncertain motion of the sea journry journey from Gesoriacum. Satisfied that all was in place, the captain gave the order to unload the elephants. A moment later amid anxious trumpeting, an elephant driver urged an elephant up the ramp and onto the deck. Even though Cato had seen them before, the sudden emergence of the vast grey bulk of the beast with its wicked tusks still awed him and he caught his breath before reassuring himself that he was safe enough where he was. The elephant driver tapped his stick against the back of the animal’s head and it tentatively lumbered onto the gangway, causing the transport to tip slightly at the shift in weight. The elephant paused and raised its trunk, but the driver whacked the stick down and with clearly visible expressions of relief from the men. The elephant crossed to the jetty.