It was the first hour of the day and the sun had not yet risen above the eastern rampart, though its light bathed the men of the replacement garrison in its rosy glow as they paced along the ramparts and stood watch on the platforms above the four gatehouses. In the shadow of the rampart the air seemed tinged with blue and felt chilly, so that the men were thankful for their thick military cloaks.
Macro leaned his crutch against the wall beside the entrance to headquarters and rubbed his hands together vigorously. ‘Don’t you worry. You’ll hardly recognise the Illyrians. Especially that tub of lard Fortunus. I see him as my personal challenge. He will shed the fat and get fit, or I’ll see that he dies in the process.’
‘No need to go that far,’ Cato responded. ‘Just make sure he can actually get into his armour. That will do.’
They shared a quick laugh and then Cato held out his hand. They clasped forearms.
‘Take care, sir.’
Cato detected the anxious tone behind his friend’s words. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Macro spoke earnestly. ‘Just watch yourself around that bastard Quintatus. Whatever he says, he’s still one of them devious bastards out for whatever he can get.’
‘I know. I’ll be careful.’
‘All right . . .’ Macro smiled self-consciously and quickly changed the subject. ‘And while you’re at it, take good care of my lads.’
Cato nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Crispus and make sure your cohort doesn’t come to grief.’
They both glanced towards the head of the legionary column and saw the tall figure of the centurion tapping his vine cane impatiently against his palm.
‘They’re in good hands,’ said Macro. ‘Crispus is a fine soldier. Reminds me of myself in younger days.’
‘Really? Then he’s grown some.’
Macro growled deep in his throat and gently pushed Cato’s arm away. ‘And fuck you too, sir,’ he muttered lightly. ‘Get going, and let me get on with sorting these Illyrian bastards out.’
Cato shot him a final smile and turned away to stride towards the head of the column, where Thraxis was holding his horse. As Centurion Crispus became aware of his approach, he quickly grounded his cane and drew a deep breath.
‘Column! Form line of march!’
The infantry instantly broke off their muted conversations and took up their yokes, shuffling the sturdy shafts into as comfortable a position as possible on their shoulders. The four squadrons of Thracians took the reins of their mounts and steadied them as Miro glanced round to make sure they were ready for the next order.
‘Second Thracian Cavalry! Prepare to mount . . . Mount!’
The riders grasped their saddle horns to lift themselves up and used the momentum to help them swing their legs over the backs of their horses before settling into the saddle and taking up the reins. With the tightly packed hay in nets fastened over the rumps of the horses, together with the bags of oats, it was no easy feat, and it took a moment before the lines were dressed and the cavalry stood ready. Cato was glad that his horse was simply saddled and free of such encumbrances. Thraxis handed him the reins and bent over to make a step with his hands. Once Cato’s boot was in place, the sturdy Thracian heaved the prefect up and Cato landed in his saddle with a modicum of grace. He adjusted his grip on the reins and sat as erect as he could as he looked back down the column and saw that every man was ready and waiting.
He drew a deep breath. ‘Open the gates!’
Fortunus snapped an order to the section of Illyrians standing by the gatehouse, and they rushed forward to remove the locking bar and draw the timber gates inwards, releasing a flood of dazzling sunlight that streamed into the fort. Cato was forced to squint as he raised his arm and swept it forward. ‘Column! Advance!’
He urged his horse into a walk and felt the familiar swaying motion as his mount clopped forward. Behind him rode Thraxis, carrying the prefect’s personal standard, then two of the headquarters clerks, followed by Decurion Miro and the first of the squadrons of Thracian cavalry, beneath their black banner with its depiction of a red crow, hanging limply from the crosspiece in the still morning air. As soon as they had cleared the ditch surrounding the fort, Miro ordered his squadron forward and they cantered past on either side of Cato and took up their place quarter of a mile ahead of the rest of the column, watching for any sign of the enemy.
As the last of the Thracian auxiliaries tramped out of the fort, Macro eased himself up on to his feet and took up his crutch. He picked his way towards the gatehouse as Fortunus shouted the order for the gates to be closed and barred, pausing at the foot of the wooden stairs rising up the rampart to the palisade.
‘You!’ He addressed the nearest of the Illyrians. ‘Help me up here.’
With the soldier supporting him on one side while using the crutch on the other, Macro hopped awkwardly from step to step until he reached the palisade, then clutched the roughly hewn logs as he stared down at the column snaking slowly along the valley. The sun had crested the rim of the hills to the east and the shadows rapidly began to shrink away as the day began. Macro stood and watched for a while longer, catching the twinkle of light on polished metal and squinting slightly as he strained to pick out the red cloak of the prefect close to the head of the column. He was worried for his friend. Over the years, they had become so accustomed to guarding each other’s backs, from enemies on all sides, that it felt unnatural to be watching helplessly as Cato marched to war.
No, not helplessly, Macro corrected himself. He had a job to do. Cato had left him in command of the fort and the replacement garrison. That would keep him occupied and give him something useful to do. He smiled to himself at the prospect of what he had in store for Fortunus and his Illyrians. It would be like old times.
The head of the column crested a small hill at the mouth of the valley and began to disappear from view, like a shimmering insect. Given the season, and the recent rain, there was none of the usual dust that was kicked up in the wake of soldiers, horses and carts on the move, and Macro was clearly able to see the last of the men reach the top of the hill and disappear from sight. Then the valley was still, and the quiet landscape stretched out around the fort nestling between the two forested ridges that led into the mountainous land of the Ordovices. Autumn was well advanced, and the branches of many of the trees were almost bare, while the ground beneath lay covered in brown and yellow leaves. Macro sniffed the air. He liked the dank, musty odour at this time of year, and the way the sunlight seemed to bring out the richness of the colours of nature.
He stood erect quite suddenly and frowned with irritation.
‘What the fuck am I thinking?’ he muttered. ‘Poncing around like a bloody poet.’
Taking up his crutch, he turned to look over the fort, and soon spied Fortunus sitting with his optio on stools outside the barrack block his century had been assigned. Macro filled his lungs and bellowed down from the rampart, loudly enough to be heard easily throughout the fort.
‘Centurion Fortunus! I want you and your officers at headquarters as soon as the morning watch is changed. Hear me?’
Fortunus struggled to his feet and saluted. Macro nodded curtly and beckoned to the auxiliary to help him back down the steps, his heart warmed by the thought that he would no longer be subject to the fussy care of the surgeon, who had marched off with Cato.
It felt unusual to be sitting the other side of the desk. Fortunus, Appilus and their optios stood facing Macro, together with the senior legionary of the section Cato had left behind. Lucius Diodorus had served over ten years in the Fourteenth, nearly all of that time in Britannia. He had mousy hair, left rather too long and unkempt for Macro’s taste, and a puckered white scar on his cheek. Tall and well built, and with a good record, he seemed a sensible choice for the role of drill instructor. The auxiliary optios, by contrast, looked as useless as the two centurions. Saphros was a small, wiry man in his late thirties with a cunning expression, while Mago was heavily built and dull-looking. The kind of man who might have had a brief career in the arena, where his brute strength would have seen him through until he met an opponent with even a grain of guile.