‘Any thoughts about what you’re going to do when we get to the end of the year?’
Macro had been staring at the mess tin in his lap, wondering if he dare try to eat some of the concoction Thraxis had produced, suspicious that Cato’s servant had deliberately gone for a meal that was guaranteed to turn the stomach of even the hardest old soak in the legions. He looked up at Cato. ‘Mmmm?’
‘This is your demob year. You’re on the short enlistment. So?’
Macro worked his spoon round the gruel. The legions discharged time-served men every other year, which meant that soldiers served a twenty-four or twenty-six year enlistment. He braced himself and took a spoon and chewed it slowly, forcing himself to swallow before he replied.
‘Had a letter from my mum in Londinium. The inn she bought is making a packet and she wants me to join her and expand the business.’
‘Oh?’
This was the first Cato had heard of the letter, and he felt a twinge of anxiety as he regarded his friend, the man he had served with ever since joining the Second Legion as a pasty-faced recruit ten years ago. Life in the army without Macro was unthinkable, but he had to accept that his friend was reaching the end of his enlistment and might well choose to take his discharge bounty and retire.
Macro considered a second spoonful and decided against it for the moment. He looked up at Cato. ‘I don’t know, lad. Sometimes I think I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for soldiering. Can’t deny the prospect of running a drinking hole for the rest of my days isn’t tempting.’
‘And you handle your drink so well,’ Cato smiled.
‘I don’t get as much practice as I’d like.’
‘I think regular practice would kill you, on the evidence of this morning.’
‘If anything is going to kill me, it’s this bloody poison your servant has mixed. Might as well cut out the middle man.’ Macro turned and flicked the contents of the mess tin into the fire where the gruel steamed, bubbled, spat and hissed for a moment. He scratched his chin in thought. ‘I don’t know, Cato. My limbs are getting a bit stiff. I ain’t as strong or as quick as I used to be, and in this trade that isn’t good. I’ve been in plenty of fights. Good times, eh? Up until this year I’ve fought well enough. But lately? I get the feeling that I’ve already been as good a soldier as I am ever going to be. From here, it’s downhill. At some point, I’m bound to run into an enemy I can’t beat. When that day comes the chances are I’ll be cut to pieces. It might be for the best if I quit before that happens.’
Cato had been listening with a sinking heart. When Macro finished he looked at him to see how he would respond.
Cato shook his head slowly. ‘Well, I have to say, I’m surprised. I’d never have thought you’d be the one to jack in soldiering to run an inn. There’s still plenty of fight left in you as far as I’m concerned, and of course it’d be a sad loss for the army. .’ The string of platitudes dried up and Cato sat in awkward silence, not quite certain how to voice his real reasons for not wanting Macro to take his discharge.
His friend was watching his downcast expression closely and suddenly he could contain his mirth no longer and let out a roar of laughter.
‘If you could see your face! It’s a bloody picture!’
Cato was startled by the sudden transformation. ‘What are you talking about?’
Macro shook his head. ‘Just fucking about with you, lad! Paying you back for that shit you had Thraxis put together. Think I didn’t see that wink?’
‘You mean. . You aren’t thinking of leaving the army?’
‘What? Are you mad? What else can I do? I’d be bloody useless on civvy street.’
It was hard not to show his relief, even though he was annoyed by the petty trick. Cato wagged a finger at him.
‘Next time, I’ll give orders for your discharge myself. Just to make certain.’
‘Oh sure. Anyway, you’ll not get your chance. I’ve already handed in my request to extend my enlistment. Just waiting to hear back from the legate, and then I’m signed up for another ten years.’ He leaned forward and clapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily!’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Cato said with feeling and hurriedly turned his attention back to his breakfast, determined not to let his relief show.
The grizzled veteran smiled to himself, touched by the sentiment of his younger friend. His gaze returned to the pot by the fire. A thin trail of steam curled up from the gruel and he felt his stomach lurch in disgust at the very idea of trying to eat.
‘You should try some,’ Cato urged. ‘Or you’ll be hungry later on.’
‘Eat that? No fucking chance. I’d sooner lick a turd off a stinging nettle.’
‘Interesting notion.’ Cato stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I’ll see if Thraxis has the recipe.’
It was mid-morning before the hunting party had gathered at the entrance to the vale General Ostorious had chosen for the site of the day’s entertainment. There were over a hundred officers, with their mounts, and twice as many soldiers and servants, together with several carts carrying the necessary equipment and provisions. A table had been set up beside a brazier and as the officers arrived they were given a cup of heated wine. Macro downed his with an appreciative smack of his lips as if the previous night had never happened. The soldiers assigned to act as beaters began to quietly file up the vale and work their way around the sides to the far end. Other men set to work erecting the wicker screens that would funnel the deer and boar into the killing zone. Once that was done they began to take out the hunting bows and arrow-filled quivers from one of the carts and lay them out on a leather groundsheet to keep them off the dew-dampened grass.
The general was the last to arrive, riding up accompanied by the two legates and his personal bodyguard of eight hand-picked legionaries. He wore a thick cloak about his body, even though the sun shone and bathed the mountainous landscape in its warm glow. Despite his cheery demeanour Cato realised that he was putting on a performance of hearty good health and humour for his subordinates.
Ostorius dismounted and took some wine, cupping his gnarled fingers tightly round the goblet. Cato watched him as he moved through the gathering, greeting his officers. Then the prefect’s eye caught a movement down the valley in the direction of a camp. A horseman was galloping up on a sleek black mount. As he got closer, Cato saw that it was the tribune who had arrived the previous day. He reined in a short distance from the other officers and wagons, spraying clods of earth on to one of the general’s servants. Dropping from the saddle, he thrust the reins into the man’s hands and swiftly joined the others, breathing heavily from his ride. The sudden arrival had caused a moment’s lull in the conversation and Ostorius rounded on the tribune with a frown.
‘Young man, I don’t know what passes for good manners in Rome these days, but I’ll thank you to ensure that you never arrive late to any meeting or gathering where your commanding officer is already present.’
Tribune Otho bowed his head. ‘My apologies, sir.’
‘And what reason explains your tardiness?’
Otho looked up and hesitated a moment before he replied. ‘There is no excuse, sir. I woke late.’
‘I see. Then clearly you need training in the art of wakefulness. Five days’ command of the night watch should suffice.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato and Macro exchanged a quick look. The general had just condemned the young tribune to five days with almost no chance to sleep. The officer in charge of the night watch was obliged to distribute the password to each sentry and then do the rounds of the camp between changes of watch to ensure that every man was alert and gave the right challenge. It was a tiresome business, all the more so after a day’s march. That was why the duty was shared amongst the tribunes of an army.