‘The man in charge, eh?’ Macro sniffed. ‘This is an army outpost, not an inn on the Appian Way.’ He thought briefly about sending the civilian away with orders never to bother him again, but then he relented a fraction. Regardless of how he felt about the presence of the camp followers in the fort, they were here now, and unless he was prepared to order them to return to Viroconium, then he had better get used to the idea. If he sent them away, they would be easy prey for the enemy war bands that ranged through the borderlands between the mountain tribes and the new Roman province. Neither could he afford to send them back with an escort strong enough to guarantee their safety, not without putting the fort at risk. So for now, at least, he was stuck with them. And Venistus. He approached the man with a surly expression.
‘All right. What is it?’
Venistus stood up and smiled easily. ‘Centurion Macro I believe? We have not yet had the pleasure of making each other’s acquaintance.’
‘Pleasure does not come into it. Speak your mind and make it quick, Venistus.’
Macro’s abruptness barely fazed the civilian, even though he had spent many years in the company of soldiers. His smile did not falter as he bowed his head modestly. ‘I apologise for imposing on you, sir, but there are certain arrangements about our accommodation and living conditions that I fear I must bring to your attention.’
‘Really? Do tell me.’
‘As you know, sir, we were given permission by Legate Quintatus’s headquarters to accompany Centurion Fortunus and his men to this posting, and-’
‘You got this permission from the legate himself, I take it?’
‘Not as such, sir. No. It was authorised by a member of his headquarters staff.’
‘Someone with a greasy palm, I’ll wager.’
Venistus affected dawning realisation and then shock. ‘Sir, are you accusing me of offering a bribe to an imperial official?’
‘Do I really have to accuse you?’ Macro sniffed. ‘We both know it works, so let’s not waste time. What do you have to say?’
Venistus’s cordial expression disappeared and the hardened features of the market trader came to the fore. ‘You’ve put us in the stables, sir. Treating us no better than animals. Worse. We get the run-off from the barracks up the slope from us. The place stinks. Furthermore, you have confined us to that area and your men refuse to let us move freely about the fort, or indeed to leave the fort at any time. Many of the auxiliaries have families amongst the camp followers, sir. They are not being allowed to see them. This was not the arrangement that pertained back at Viroconium with the rest of the Illyrian cohort.’
‘I don’t suppose it was. But that might have more to do with how the prefect of the cohort chose to run things. The Eighth Illyrian is a joke, Venistus. Not fit to take its place in the battle line. Not even fit to be a reserve unit, let alone the garrison of a frontier outpost. That has to change. I will see to it. Those men are going to earn their bloody pay and perform like soldiers of the Roman army. Only then will I cut them some slack and let them enjoy the privileges of real soldiers. And if that means depriving them of their bed rights, then that’s just tough on them. Besides, it’ll give the tarts from the vicus a chance to rest.’
‘But they have to eat, sir. The soldiers are the only customers they have.’
‘They will eat. Food, at least. They get the same rations as the men, for now.’
‘For now?’
Macro nodded. ‘I’ll be asking headquarters for an escort to take you and your people back to Viroconium as soon as possible. I dare say that may take a while, given that there’ll only be a small garrison there now that the legate has taken the army into the mountains. And perhaps your man on the staff might find a way to scupper my plan. But I want you out. As for the accommodation, count yourself fortunate that I haven’t ordered you to set up a vicus outside the fort. At this time of year, shelter from the elements is at something of a premium. The stables may smell, but they are dry and they are safe. You might reflect on that with a bit more gratitude.’
‘Of course we are grateful. But what about the men’s families? What about our livelihoods?’
Macro sighed with irritation at the demanding tone of the civilian. ‘Like I said, this is an army outpost. I set the rules here, and you will abide by them. If any of your people break them, I will have them thrown out of the main gate to fend for themselves. If any of my men try to cross the line into your part of the fort without permission, I’ll have them flogged. If you have any objection to these arrangements, then I suggest you have a word with your friend Fortunus. I’m betting the two of you had a cosy little relationship back at Viroconium. If he can’t deliver on his side of it now that you’re here, then that’s your problem. You are free to leave at any time. However, if you choose to stay, then you live under my authority and there is no more to be said on the matter.’
Venistus opened his mouth to remonstrate, but had the wit to still his tongue. Macro glared at him, defying him to protest. The civilian’s gaze slipped away and he stared meekly at the floor between them.
‘That’s better,’ said Macro. ‘Now you take care of your people and keep them out of my way and out of trouble and we shall get on well enough. Once I have the Illyrians in hand, then perhaps we can arrange for them to have access to the stables once in a while as a reward.’
Venistus looked up hopefully.
‘But only if everyone keeps to the rules,’ Macro said firmly.
A figure entered the hall and Macro glanced aside to see Optio Pandarus turn towards his quarters and pause as he caught sight of his superior in conversation with the civilian. Macro waved him on. ‘I’ll join you in a moment.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He turned back to Venistus. ‘You know where you stand. In future, if you wish to speak with me, then wait until evening watch is sounded. I will not have you interrupt the day-to-day running of the fort, is that understood?’
‘Yes, Centurion.’
‘Then you may go.’
Venistus bowed his head again and backed away respectfully before turning to leave the hall. Macro watched him depart, gratified that he had put the man in his place, but still frustrated that he had had to deal with the matter at all. It was outside the remit of soldiering as he understood it, and he wondered briefly how Cato might have handled the matter. Perhaps this was precisely the kind of thing that was part and parcel of being a senior officer, he mused. An ability to deal with a range of unexpected and unwanted situations that had little to do with the everyday routines of commanding a line unit. If this was what promotion brought with it, then he wanted none of it, he concluded bitterly.
He let out a deep sigh and turned to limp across the hall to the door leading through to his office and the modest quarters that lay beyond. Pandarus was standing at ease in front of the desk as Macro entered and shuffled round to the chair before slumping down with a grunt. He leaned his crutch against the edge of the table as he addressed the optio.
‘It seems you are now the senior cavalry officer in the fort, but don’t let it go to your head.’
Pandarus grinned. He was an amiable type, one of the shrinking number of men from the first draft of Thracians who had made up the cohort when it had been formed a few years earlier in a small town on the north shore of the Aegean Sea. The campaigns in Britannia had whittled their ranks down, and the replacements had been drawn mostly from Gaul, from tribes skilled at horse-riding. The recent losses of so many experienced men had helped Pandarus to achieve his recent promotion to optio. When Macro had first encountered the unit, they had resembled wild hill men, wrapped in furs and dark cloaks and wearing their hair long and unkempt. Thanks to the dilution of the original Thracians, the troopers of the cohort now tended to look more like the longer-established auxiliary units. The cloaks and furs remained, but they had braided their hair and favoured long Celtic moustaches instead of beards. As far as the enemy knew, however, this was the same cavalry unit that had terrorised the lands of the Silures, and they dreaded the very sight of the red crow on the black background of the cohort’s standard.