Cato raised his arms and leaned towards Thraxis, working his way out as the servant gathered the folds of the scale vest and pulled them over his head. The layer of padding followed. With a relieved grunt, he stood up and stretched his shoulders. Then he saw the streaks of dried blood on the metal scales and looked down to see more caked on his fingers.
Macro’s blood.
It was a moment before he shook off the feeling of dread for his friend. Clearing his throat, he addressed the servant.
‘I want meat, bread and wine. And get a fire going in the brazier. You can clean my kit afterwards.’
‘Yes, sir. And will Centurion Macro be joining you?’
Cato hesitated. He was too weary to explain. ‘Not tonight.’
‘Very well, sir.’
The Thracian left him alone. Cato stared dumbly at his hands for a moment before following the example of the surgeon and washing his hands using the bowl and Samian-ware jug of water on the camp table opposite his simple desk. He had to work at the dried blood, using his fingernails to flake it away from his skin. When the last of it had been wiped clear, he gazed down into the stained water and sighed in frustration. What had Macro been thinking when he charged towards the young native? It had been foolhardy, and he had paid a grievous price for his folly. If he died, it would be an ignominious end. But then so many soldiers shared that fate. Far more died due to accidental injuries or sickness than fell in battle. But somehow Cato had never imagined his friend’s end coming in any way other than at the head of his cohort. That was the character of the man.
He dried his hands and moved across the room to sit on the stool behind the desk. With Macro bed-ridden for an indeterminate period, his men would need a temporary commander. The obvious choice was Centurion Crispus. A giant of a man, though what he possessed in physical presence, he certainly lacked in good humour. But there was no helping it. Crispus would have to do. Cato resolved to tell him as soon as he had eaten.
First, there was one other matter that could not wait. Taking one of the blank folded slates at the side of the desk, he flipped it open and picked up the brass stylus lying beside it. Thraxis had made a good job of preparing the wax, and the surface was smooth and unmarked. Cato sat still for a moment, staring at the opposite wall, as he composed his recollection of what he had seen at the native settlement, then he bent to his task.
‘To Legate Gaius Quintatus, of the Fourteenth Legion, greetings. I respectfully beg to report . . .’
CHAPTER THREE
‘How are you feeling?’ Cato asked as he pulled up a stool and sat down beside Macro one morning early the following month. The latter was propped up on a bedroll stuffed with heather and straw. His bandaged leg lay flat, and Cato was pleased to see that there were no dark stains on the linen dressing. A few days earlier, Pausinus had reported that Macro’s wound was clear of any mortification and a healthy amount of pus had been cleaned away with a further application of vinegar before a fresh dressing had been applied. It only remained for Macro to take the mandragora and wine as required, and rest, and a full recovery was expected. He was more than happy to take the wine, despite finding the flavour of the root extract disagreeable.
‘How do I feel?’ The centurion sighed deeply. ‘Bored out of my fucking mind. This ain’t no place for a soldier to be.’
‘It is if the soldier in question is recovering from being shot in the thigh by a hunting arrow.’ Cato smiled. ‘Besides, the army can get by without you for a month or so.’
‘You think?’ Macro arched a brow. ‘I hear that you’ve got Crispus running my cohort while I’m in here. How’s he doing?’
‘Well enough. He’s cut from the same cloth as you, but lacks your warm and charming manner.’
‘Very funny.’ Macro scowled before Cato continued.
‘Seriously. He’s doing a good job. You don’t need to worry about your lads. They’re not going to the dogs. Crispus is drilling them hard for the coming campaign. That’s when he’s not sorting provisions and making sure we have enough kit, carts and mules for when we get our marching orders.’
‘He’s welcome to that part of the job. Never did like the paperwork.’
‘Comes with the rank, Centurion Macro. Why do you think they pay you so much more than a common legionary?’
‘I’d always assumed it was on account of my warm and charming manner.’
They shared a laugh before Macro’s mirth faded and his expression became serious. ‘So Quintatus is going to take the army off into the mountains?’
‘I think so. Mine wasn’t the only report of the tribes gathering their warriors. It looks like the Deceanglians and the Ordovices have made some kind of pact against us. No doubt brokered by the Druids. The legate has instructed the Twentieth and the Fourteenth, and six auxiliary cohorts – including the Blood Crows – to make the necessary preparations.’ Cato clicked his tongue. ‘Shame you won’t be able to join in.’
Macro shuffled up on his bedroll and sat erect. ‘Sod that. I’m coming. Just stick me in one of the supply carts until the leg’s better. I can still fight if I need to.’
Cato shook his head. ‘I’ve already written the orders. You’ll stay here. The legate’s sending for some reserve units to take over the frontier forts while he leads the rest against the enemy. Two centuries from the Eighth Illyrian will be sent here when we march out. You’re to take command in my absence, as soon as you are back on your feet. Try not to make their lives too difficult, eh?’
Macro sniffed. ‘The Eighth Illyrian? From what I’ve heard, they’re a useless shower. Beardless boys, invalids and veterans scraped from other units for a job-lot discharge ceremony as soon as the emperor has signed off. The gods help me . . .’
Cato patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Then you’re just the man they need to lick them into shape.’
‘I know how to train men well enough. But I can’t perform bloody miracles.’
‘No one’s asking you to perform a miracle, just to do your duty. Besides, it was you who complained of being bored. Soon you’ll have plenty to keep you occupied.’
They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, and a moment later a breathless auxiliary entered the dormitory and saluted.
‘Duty optio sends his compliments, sir. There’s a column of riders approaching the fort.’
Cato stood up. ‘From which direction?’
‘The east, sir. On the track from Viroconium.’
Cato thought briefly. It was likely that they were Roman, coming from the fortress where the bulk of the army was in camp. All the same, it might be a ruse. The enemy had been known to use captured armour. ‘Ours or theirs?’
‘I couldn’t tell, sir. We saw them in the distance, before they disappeared into the mist on the floor of the valley.’
‘I see.’ Cato scratched his chin. ‘And how many of them?’
‘I’d say . . . at least thirty, sir.’
‘No direct threat, then. All right, return to your post and tell the optio I’ll join him directly.’ Turning to Macro, he shrugged apologetically. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t worry, sir. I’m not going anywhere, more’s the pity.’
Cato followed the auxiliary out of the hospital block and hurried to his quarters to tell Thraxis to bring his armour, weapons and cloak to the eastern gatehouse. Then he strode across the fort, resisting the temptation to break into a trot. He subscribed to the school of thought that it did the men good to see their commanding officer appear calm and unperturbed at all times. As he reached the steps at the foot of the gatehouse tower, he was gratified to hear the optio give the order to turn out the rest of the unit. A sharp note from a brass trumpet rang out across the fort. Three quick blasts, then a pause, before the signal was repeated. The officers roused the men in their barrack blocks with harsh shouts and curses. The doors of the section rooms crashed open as the men hurried outside, where they helped each other into their mail vests before taking up the rest of their kit and hurrying to their assigned stations along the ramparts.