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‘Yes, sir . . . Thank you.’

Cato wheeled his mount around and glanced back down the column. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of the men he was about to lead against their adversaries, the vanguard of the entire army launching itself against the enemy warriors and their Druid allies. He had fought and shed blood alongside these men and knew that they shared his pleasure in the hard-fighting reputation that both units had garnered since he had taken command. It was a pity that Macro was not here to share the moment with him, he reflected briefly.

He raised his arm and drew a deep breath. ‘Blood Crows! Fourth Cohort! Prepare to advance!’

The legionaries and auxiliary infantry bent down to lift their shields, while the riders eased their mounts into two columns and adjusted their reins. Cato waited until the last of the men was ready before he turned his horse away from the army’s camp and swept his arm down to point along the track leading towards the hills and mountains. A dull overcast made them seem more distant, and already he could see a broad band of darker clouds rolling in from the north, threatening rain.

‘Column . . . advance!’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Centurion Macro was sitting on a camp stool on the grass mound beside the modest training area that had been levelled by his legionaries shortly after they had completed the fort itself. Taking advantage of the nearest expanse of flat ground outside the fort, they had removed rocks and clumps of gorse bushes and scythed down the long grass to clear space for the garrison to conduct its training sessions. At one end stood a line of wooden posts, at which Fortunus’s men stood in files, each auxiliary waiting to take his turn at hacking the target. The steady clatter of their swords striking the posts filled the air, until Optio Diodorus blew his whistle to signal the changeover. Panting men broke away from the stakes and trotted to the rear of each file before the whistle sounded again and the sword drill resumed.

The other Illyrian century was marching around the training ground, breaking into a trot on each of the longer sides of the rough rectangle. They came puffing past Macro, kit clinking as they struggled to keep up with their commander. Centurion Appilus maintained a steady pace, his crest bobbing as he led his men on. Now and then he dropped to the side, marking time as he shouted threats at those lagging behind their comrades.

‘Pick those bloody feet up! Move yourselves! Any man who falls more than a length behind the century is on latrine duty for the next ten days!’

Macro nodded approvingly. Despite his thin frame and the lack of an eye, Appilus was a decent officer who appeared to know his trade, unlike Fortunus, who was at that moment flailing away at one of the stakes, urged on by the optio. When the whistle blew again, the centurion bent forward, gasping for breath, before stumbling to the rear of his file. This was only the second day of training, and Macro was already starting to pick out the more fit and able of the Illyrian auxiliaries. Men who could be depended on if it came to a fight. Of the rest, there were some who merely needed exercise, while others needed to improve their drilling. Only a handful were no-hopers – too old to serve in a front-line capacity. One of those from Appilus’s century had already fallen out of formation, slumping to his knees, shield grounded to one side as he struggled to prop himself up with his javelin shaft. At once the centurion shouted at the rest to keep going before doubling back to stand over the hapless straggler.

‘On your feet!’

The soldier tried to rise, but fell back and shook his head.

‘That was fucking pathetic!’ Appilus bellowed, hefting his vine cane as he glared dangerously with his remaining eye. ‘On your feet, you fat bastard. I won’t tell you again.’

The man on his knees made no effort to obey, and Appilus lashed out with his stick, striking the soldier on the backside. He let out a yelp before scrambling up and staggering after his comrades.

‘That’s more like it! Keep going! You drop out again and I’ll take the bloody hide off you!’

They caught up with the rest of the unit and Appilus increased his pace until he had resumed his position at the head of the column. Macro drummed his fingers on the shaft of the crutch lying across his thighs. The straggler would only be the first of the day. The morning drill was not yet halfway through, and he knew that there would be many more who would fall out of formation before then. It looked like the latrines were going to be kept spotless for the next month or so, he reflected with a wry grin.

He swung the end of the crutch on to the ground and gritted his teeth as he stood. There was the familiar sharp stab of pain as his wounded leg took the load, and he adjusted his balance to favour his other limb. He swore under his breath and waited for the pain to pass. It would be a while yet before he would be able to walk comfortably. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he called over towards the men at the stakes.

‘Diodorus! On me!’

The acting optio hurried across to the reviewing mound and stood panting as he saluted his superior.

‘Give it a little longer and then swap them round,’ Macro ordered. ‘Work ’em hard. I want these layabouts to know what real soldiering feels like.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Give them a short break at midday, then get them in full marching gear and take them round the fort until they’ve covered eight miles. That should sort them out. Anyone who falls out knows what to expect.’

‘Latrines, sir?’

‘Indeed. While I’m in command of this fort, we’ll save shit-shovelling for the layabouts. They’ll get sick of the stink soon enough and put their backs into training. See to it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Right, I’m off. If you need me, I’m at headquarters.’

They exchanged a salute, and Diodorus turned away and hurried back to his charges. Macro took one last look around the training ground, then hobbled towards the track leading up to the fort’s main gate. As he approached, he saw that the legionaries charged with keeping watch from the ramparts were watching the auxiliaries with the broad smiles soldiers usually wore for less fortunate companions.

‘What the hell are you gawping at?’ Macro shouted at them. ‘You’re supposed to be keeping a lookout for the enemy, not watching those lazy bastards!’

The legionaries immediately returned to their stations and scanned the surrounding landscape intently.

Still wearing a scowl, Macro entered the fort and made his way to headquarters. One of the Blood Crows left behind by Cato was standing guard at the arched entrance and snapped his spear upright as the garrison’s commander passed by. With the departure of Cato and the rest of the fort’s standing garrison, the building was much quieter, and only two clerks remained at the desks just inside the main hall. Macro addressed the nearer of them.

‘I want Optio Pandarus in my office now.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro was about to head towards the garrison commander’s quarters at the end of the hall when the clerk cleared his throat and nodded to one side. Following the direction, Macro saw a civilian sitting on a bench, looking at him expectantly.

‘He’s asked to see you, sir.’

‘Really? Who the hell is he?’

‘Venistus, sir. The man assigned to speak for the camp followers.’

Macro gritted his teeth as he considered this uninvited complication to his day. ‘What does he bloody well want?’

‘I don’t know, sir. He said he would only speak to the man in charge.’