The man bowed his head briefly. ‘Centurion Gaius Appilus, sir. Sixth Century.’
‘Then sit down, Appilus.’ Cato introduced the other officers around the table in turn. ‘Centurion Macro, who will command in my absence. Centurion Crispus, temporarily taking over the Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. The others are Centurions Festinus, Portillus, Lentulus and Macer, and that’s Optio Croton, filling in for Macro. On the other side of the table are the Blood Crows. My mounted squadrons, led by Decurions Miro, Themistocles, Corvinus and Aristophanes. Lastly, those in charge of my foot centuries, Harpex and Plato – no relation.’
Fortunus stared at him blankly for a moment. ‘No relation to who, sir?’
Cato shrugged. ‘Never mind. Tuck in, gentlemen, tuck in! This all needs consuming, or else it will be left to Macro to work his way through what remains of my private stores. I suspect he will be less inclined to share such spoils even with the few officers that will remain after the garrison marches to war.’
‘Damn right!’ Macro nodded vigorously, then drained his goblet, picked up the wine jug and refilled to the brim.
Around the table, the other officers reached in with their knives to cut themselves meat and heap it on their platters, together with hunks of bread and cheese. They ate, talked and joked in the high spirits of men on the eve of a new venture. Fortunus and Appilus soon joined in the convivial mood, and the former’s heavy jowls quivered as he chewed vigorously on his meat, juice dripping from the corner of his mouth. Thraxis stood to one side, keeping an eye on the wine jug and taking it out to the scullery to top it up whenever it was in danger of being emptied. In the same manner he added to the bread and cheese baskets, and threw fuel on the fire that crackled and hissed in the hearth at the side of the hall, the flames adding their glow to the wan flicker of rush torches in the wall brackets. As the evening drew on, the wine flowed and the faces of the officers grew flushed with the warmth of the fire and the effects of the drink. All except Cato’s. He tried to appear as if he was sharing the comradely ambience while at the same time shrewdly weighing up the men he commanded.
Portillus, Lentulus and Croton had served under Macro for less than a month, arriving with the replacements from Rutupiae. The first two were freshly promoted to the centurionate, proven men of at least ten years’ standing, while Croton was somewhat younger, and had only been an optio following a promising performance against the Brigantes the previous summer. As for the officers of the Thracian cohort, Miro and Themistocles were the only decurions remaining from the time when Cato had taken command of the unit. Miro was competent but lacked imagination and initiative, and occasionally allowed his nervous disposition to get the better of him. He would hold his place in the battle line well enough, but could not be trusted with any independent command. Themistocles was a different proposition. Tough and experienced, he would carry out any order given to him without thought of the consequences. For that reason he could not be trusted to act alone either.
These were the men Cato was tasked with commanding and fighting alongside, and it was vital that he understood their strengths and weaknesses. Now more than ever, given that he would not have Macro with him. His closest friend was irreplaceable. Tough and fearless, and utterly loyal, Macro had over twenty years’ experience of the army, along with a finely judged understanding of the men around him and how to train them and make them ready for battle. When the time for war came, few men were his equal. Cato would sorely miss his friend in the months to come.
In any case, Macro’s enlistment would soon be at an end. He had given the best years of his life in the service of Rome and would be entitled to retire with the generous bounty that came with an honourable discharge. Most of the centurions who left the army returned to Italia and bought modest farming estates, or set up in business in provincial towns, joining the small circle of influential men who ran local affairs, largely for their own benefit. However, Cato found it hard to imagine Macro willingly settling into either role. They had occasionally discussed life after the army, in those moments soldiers were prone to in order to distract them from the discomforts of the present. Macro played the game as well as any legionary, conjuring up fantasies of endless drinking and whoring, or, as the mood took him, more bucolic notions of a quiet life in the serene landscape of Campania. But such moments soon passed, and it was clear that there would only ever be one true home for Macro: in the ranks of the Roman legions. He was born to it, and likely as not it would be where his life ended, through sickness, injury or death in battle. Natural causes, as he himself wryly commented from time to time.
Cato smiled fondly at his friend’s military stoicism, before his thoughts turned to his own fate. Promotion to his present rank had come rapidly due to the number of campaigns he had fought in since joining the army. Without the benefit of an aristocratic background, there was a limit to any further progress he might achieve. He was denied the most senior posts of legate, consul or governor. If he was extremely fortunate, he might secure one of the two positions still entrusted to men of equestrian rank: commander of the Praetorian Guard, or Prefect of Egypt – neither of which any emperor was prepared to entrust to potential rivals. If Nero succeeded the ailing Claudius, then it would be vital to obtain the patronage of Pallas to stand any chance of winning either post. In the short term, that meant offering his loyalty to Quintatus, distasteful as that might be.
Looking around the table, Cato saw that the officers had finished their meal and shoved their platters to one side as they concentrated on their wine. He beckoned to Thraxis and indicated that he wanted him to clear the table.
Thraxis took up his commander’s platter and knife first, leaning in as he muttered, ‘Sir, we’re down to the last amphora of wine. Do you wish me to open it? There will be next to no chance of picking up any more while we’re on the march.’
‘Maybe so, but I can live without wine, and besides, I’ll need a clear head. Which is more than the others will have come the morning. But let them enjoy the moment . . . Yes, bring them wine.’
Thraxis clicked his tongue. ‘As you wish, sir.’
Once the table was cleared and the wine jug was replenished, Macro took a set of carved ivory dice from a small box. ‘Now for some sport with my lucky dice, eh, boys? A chance for me to clean you out. You won’t need much silver where you’re going.’
Crispus leaned his elbows on the table and grinned. ‘I’m game.’
‘Who else?’ asked Macro, glancing round. ‘How about you, Fortunus?’
The new arrival nodded and set down a surprisingly heavy-looking purse. ‘Why not? Always good to supplement my army pay.’
Macro’s eyebrows rose. ‘I admire your confidence. What about you, sir?’
Cato hesitated. He did not like playing dice on principle. There was no skill, just random luck, no matter what those who loved the game said. It seemed ludicrous to hazard the small fortunes that were routinely gambled by soldiers. It often caused as much bad feeling as enjoyment, and dice games were the cause of frequent fights, and not a few deaths. However, it was a long-established tradition, and any commander who attempted to curb his men’s urge to gamble risked causing considerable bad feeling in the ranks. Sometimes, Cato reasoned, it was better to overlook such vices and take part, in order to better understand those around him.
Stifling a sigh, he sent Thraxis to bring him fifty denarii from the strongbox in his quarters, a sum he could barely afford to lose but one that did not appear unduly parsimonious to his guests. He had no wish to be shown up by Centurion Fortunus.
Once everyone’s stake money lay on the table, Macro called for a spare beaker for the dice as his companions placed their bets. Cato examined the circles Macro had chalked on the table and placed a coin on number 7, then, steeling himself, added a second. He watched as the others placed their bets, some going for the higher odds, others spreading their bets. Cato noted each man’s strategy, and wondered how much it revealed of their personality; whether they were risk-takers, or whether they played safe. He watched curiously as Fortunus placed a coin on 12 and then three more beside Cato’s stake. Macro was the last to bet. He sized up the others’ positions and then slid five coins on to the circle marked 6.