Cato paced slowly into the middle of the street to await the auxiliary centurion as the rest of the new arrivals fell out of line and spilled into the open ground between the ramparts and the barracks blocks.
The centurion ambled forward and bowed his head in salute, then gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Fuck me,’ he wheezed. ‘That was some march, sir. Never thought we’d make it before nightfall.’
‘Stand up straight!’ Cato snapped. ‘And make your report properly, man.’
The centurion’s jaw sagged a little before he recovered his wits, grounding his vine cane and drawing back his shoulders. This had the unfortunate effect of pushing out his large stomach, so that Cato was reminded of an egg. The comparison became even more apt as the man’s cheeks seemed to fold into his neck, and the whole angled down to merge seamlessly with his rounded shoulders. Yes, Cato thought. An egg. A very fat egg.
The officer drew a deep breath and introduced himself. ‘Marcus Fortunus, Fifth Century, Eighth Illyrian Cohort, sir! On detachment. Here are my orders, sir.’ He felt inside his side bag and took out a slate. Cato flipped it open and swiftly scanned the comments etched into the wax. The orders followed the standard format, authorising Fortunus to take two centuries to the appointed installation to serve as a temporary garrison until notified of further instructions. They bore the name of the legate’s chief of staff and the impression of the legate’s ring seal. He snapped the slate shut and returned it to the officer.
‘Marcus Licinius Cato, prefect of the Second Thracian Cavalry, and commander of this fort. You’re late. We were expecting you around noon.’
‘The road wasn’t easy, sir, and the camp followers slowed us down.’
‘Camp followers?’ Cato looked past the man towards the gate. Sure enough, the last of the soldiers had entered, and now came an extended throng of women and children, together with a handful of mule-drawn carts.
‘Jupiter give me strength!’ Macro spat. ‘What the hell is all that?’
Fortunus glanced over his shoulder, not without difficulty. ‘Some of the men have families in the vicus at Viroconium. A few of the demobbed veterans are in business with some of my men. No more than a hundred or so in all. The fort has been constructed to accommodate a thousand men, so there’ll be plenty of room. Besides, it’s good for morale.’ He looked curiously at Macro, uncertain if he should defer to him. The latter was in a plain tunic and cloak and had no insignia to indicate his rank.
Macro quickly put an end to his dilemma. ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. I’ll be in command while the prefect is absent.’
‘In command? I was led to believe that I would be . . . sir.’
‘Well you’re not,’ said Cato. ‘Centurion Macro is recovering from a wound and is unable to lead his cohort in the coming campaign. He will be remaining here.’
‘More’s the bloody pity,’ Macro added through clenched teeth.
Fortunus shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But my orders are quite specific. I’ve been appointed to command the fort in your absence. The legate’s chief of staff said so.’ He patted his bag. ‘You saw for yourself.’
Cato gestured towards the dishevelled men of the Illyrian cohort and the last of the civilians trudging in through the gate. ‘I am not leaving a forward outpost in the hands of the man who commands that rabble. I have made my decision. If you have any problem with it, take the matter up with the legate himself.’
‘But . . . but he’s about to set off into the mountains,’ Fortunus protested. ‘It could be months before he responds.’
‘That’s not my problem,’ Cato snapped. ‘Until then, my decision holds. And you will call both me and Centurion Macro “sir” when you address us. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s better.’ Cato glanced at the new arrivals crowding the gate. ‘For now, you can get your men and the camp followers into the stables at the end of the fort.’
‘Stables?’ Fortunus grimaced. ‘Sir, I-’
‘My men need the barracks tonight, thanks to your tardiness. And my horses will have the better of the stables. You will occupy what space is left and be thankful I don’t order you to camp outside the fort until I lead my men out tomorrow. Now get them out of my sight.’ Cato dismissed him.
Fortunus saluted and turned away to join his men as Cato and Macro looked on with grim expressions.
‘Now that,’ Macro said quietly, ‘is the most miserable fucking example of a soldier it has ever been my misfortune to meet.’
Cato cocked an eyebrow and glanced at his friend. ‘Really? What about that skinny recruit that joined the Second Legion back in Germania a while back? “A pointless streak of piss” was the phrase, as I recall.’
Macro shrugged. ‘Oh, that he was. Completely. But he turned out well enough in the end. The army made a decent soldier of him.’
‘I thank you for your faint praise.’
‘You don’t need me to praise you. Your record since then has done the job well enough.’
Cato experienced a ripple of unease. He never felt comfortable with his achievements, as if they were more the result of blind fortune than his own efforts and therefore he was as undeserving of praise as any man who had simply benefited from good luck. He cleared his throat.
‘Now you’ll have the chance to lick Fortunus and his men into shape while I am gone. Should keep you busy.’
‘That lot?’ Macro laughed bitterly. ‘Fat chance. In the case of Fortunus, literally. I’ll be lucky if the fort is still standing and habitable by the time the campaign is over.’
Some of the garrison had emerged from their barracks to inspect the new arrivals, and looked on with bemused smiles, or hurled good-natured insults at the Illyrians, who replied in kind before Fortunus ordered them to fall in, bellowing loudly – more to impress the senior officers at the fort than to encourage his men, Cato guessed. The auxiliaries shuffled into place, grounded their spears and waited for the last of their comrades to join them from amongst the camp followers.
Macro turned his head and spat into the open drain running past the headquarters block. ‘I could train monkeys to drill better than that lot. They’re a fucking disgrace.’
‘Well, now they’re all yours, my friend.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
Cato chuckled. ‘Just keep ’em out of trouble. And look after my fort. And make sure you rest that leg as much as you can. I want you back on your feet and ready to stick it to the enemy as soon as possible. How is it coming on, by the way?’
Macro patted his thigh above the dressing. ‘The scar is healing nicely. But the muscle hurts like buggery and feels like it’s pulled in every direction. Still not good enough to put much weight on, and too stiff to walk without looking like a Subura whore after a double shift.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve had worse, but nothing quite as humiliating as being picked off by some native kid. Still, he had balls, I’ll say that for him.’
‘Him and all the other barbarians in these mountains.’ Cato’s mood soured as his thoughts returned to the coming campaign. It was a bad time of year to commence a large-scale military operation. The army would begin its march with the autumn well advanced, and the frequent rain in these lands would quickly make the ground hard going for the baggage train, not to mention the miserable prospect for the infantry of plodding through the glutinous mud of the native tracks, which would quickly be churned up by the hooves, wheels and nailed boots of the Roman column. The natives would have the advantage of being familiar with the ground, and would no doubt attempt to continue with the harrying tactics that had served them well in earlier campaigns.