‘All ready?’
He covered the beaker and shook it hard so the dice rattled noisily inside. Then, with a muttered plea to Fortuna, he tossed the dice on to the table. They bounced and settled and the officers leaned forward to inspect the result.
‘Six!’ Macro shouted with glee. ‘Lucky six for Fortune’s centurion!’
The others muttered curses, save Croton, who had placed a bet on an even number and smiled broadly. Macro flicked a coin across to him and drew all the others to one side to form the pot, from which he extracted his winnings. Then he looked up eagerly. ‘Tough luck, lads. Time to go again.’
While the others reached for fresh coins, Centurion Fortunus reached out a puffy-fingered hand. He picked up the dice and held them up to the light as he inspected them, rolling them in his palm to test their weight and balance. Macro’s smiled faded.
‘Something wrong, Fortunus?’
‘No. Not at all. Just admiring these. A very fine set, if I may say so, sir. Must have cost you. Where did you get them?’
‘Syria.’
‘Ah, Syria . . .’ Fortunus nodded sagely. ‘Of course.’
Macro’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’
‘Just that that would explain their quality, sir.’ Fortunus placed the dice back on the table. He waited until the last of the others had placed their bets, then slid a coin on to 6 and sat back on his stool. Cato sensed his suspicion, but thought it misplaced. Macro was not the kind of player who cheated. He preferred the honest excitement of the game over the prospect of winning under a cloud of dishonest guilt.
Cato played for the odds again and bet on 7. Once again the dice rattled and rapped sharply on the table before yielding their result.
‘Two! Castor and Pollux!’ Macro exclaimed. ‘Fuck my luck . . .’
As the game continued, punctuated by expectant silence, uproar and excited exchanges, each man took his turn at throwing the dice for a few rounds. Cato saw that some muttered prayers, some closed their eyes as their lips moved soundlessly, while others were more matter-of-fact and gave a quick shake before casting. None of which seemed to divert the inexorable good fortune of Macro and Fortunus, whose piles of coins grew steadily while the others shrank. At the sound of the trumpet announcing the change of the watch, Cato decided it was time to put an end to proceedings.
‘Last round, gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘We have a long day ahead of us.’
The others nodded blearily and prepared for the final cast of the dice. Looking down, Cato saw that he had eight coins left. With as much good humour as he could muster, he slid them on to the circle marked with a 10. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’
The final bets were placed and then Macro passed him the dice in the beaker. ‘The honour is yours, sir.’
Cato took the beaker with a grateful nod and held it up. ‘Best of luck to you all.’
He shook it hard, the dice beating a shrill tempo close to his ear. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he threw them on to the table, where they bounced high, then again, and rattled to a stop. There was the briefest of pauses before Fortunus snorted with disgust.
‘Ten! Of all the luck . . .’ He puffed his cheeks and shook his head. ‘Never mind. I’ve done all right. Well done, sir. A skilful throw.’
Cato was disappointed by the glib flattery. ‘There is no skill in this game. You can only play the odds.’
Macro’s brow creased. ‘Then how do you explain why some men win more than others, sir?’
‘That’s life, Macro,’ Cato replied patiently. ‘Just life.’
‘If you say so.’ Macro counted out some coins and slid the small heap over to Cato. ‘I’d say you have come out about even, sir.’
‘Like I said. Nothing gained.’ He swept the coins into the purse that Thraxis had brought from his chest, and the others likewise gathered up what they had left. ‘That concludes the occasion. I thank you all for your company. We’ve made a fine night of it.’
The officers mumbled their thanks, more or less coherently, as stools scraped on the flagstone floor and they rose to their feet, making for the door leading out to the small courtyard of the headquarters block. Macro remained seated, gently rubbing the skin around his dressing.
‘Giving you some grief?’
Macro sniffed. ‘Just itches from time to time, like a bastard.’
‘It won’t be for much longer.’
Macro looked up with a sober expression. ‘Long enough . . . Long enough to have to sit on my arse and watch you lead my cohort out to battle.’
‘Not all of the cohort. I’ve decided to leave you two sections of legionaries, to provide some backbone to the garrison. And ten of the mounted contingent from the Blood Crows. You’ll need them for patrolling and dispatches.’
‘Fair enough. Thanks . . . Take care, my friend.’
‘I’ll be fine. It’s time I learned how to stand on my own two feet,’ Cato replied lightly.
‘You’ve been doing that for many years. You don’t need me. The fact is that I’m the one who needs to be in the thick of the action. I can’t fucking stand to miss out.’
‘There will be other campaigns, Macro.’
‘I know.’ The veteran was silent for a moment. ‘There’s something I want you to do for me, sir.’
‘Name it.’
Macro replaced his dice in their box and held it out to Cato. ‘Take this with you.’
Cato looked puzzled. ‘Why? What for?’
‘For good luck. I was told they would bring me luck when I bought them. You saw how well I did at the table tonight. They’ve worked for me. Now they’ll do the same for you.’
‘Macro, I-’
‘Just take them, please. I’d be happier knowing you had them with you.’
Cato hesitated, until he saw the concerned look on Macro’s face. He smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll keep them close. You can have them back when I return.’
‘Good.’ Macro took up his crutch and struggled to his feet. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, sir. Good night.’
‘Good night, Centurion Macro.’
Macro limped off and closed the door behind him, leaving Cato alone in the dying light of the fire and the two rush torches still burning. He stared down at the box in his hand, then closed his fist over it and walked slowly towards his private quarters. Despite his misgivings about the workings of fate, he might just need all the luck he could get in the days to come.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘I expect to see that you have worked your usual magic on Fortunus and his mob by the time I return,’ said Cato as he took one last look around the fort.
The garrison was formed up along the main thoroughfare that stretched across the fort, passing the arched entrance of the headquarters block. The riders of the mounted squadrons stood by their horses at the head of the column. Each mount was laden with hay netting and bags of oats. Behind them came the colour party with the collected standards of the two units under Cato’s command, followed by the legionaries, standing beside their laden marching yokes. At the rear was the small baggage train: fourteen carts carrying spare kit and marching rations, as well as four of the fort’s complement of bolt-throwers. The foot soldiers of the Thracian cohort, organised into two centuries, were assigned to protect the vehicles as well as forming the rearguard. It was the least-regarded duty for those on the march, since they had to endure the choking dust kicked up by those ahead of them during the summer, and negotiate the churned mud of winter.