Centurion

'Then why didn't you say so?'

Macro glanced at his friend sharply. 'We don't make policy, Cato, we just obey orders. Besides, it might just work. If we can find a way through to the citadel.'

'If?' Cato shook his head. 'That's a bloody big if.'

Macro was silent for a moment and then forced a laugh. 'Well, you heard him, Cato. If there's anyone who can do this, it's me. Best man for the job. His exact words.'

'You really think so?'

Macro pursed his lips. 'It would be nice if it was true. Perhaps Longinus thinks it's true.'

'Perhaps,' Cato replied flatly. 'And perhaps Longinus thinks that this might be the best chance he has of getting rid of us.'

'Eh?'

'You have to admire the way he thinks,' Cato continued. 'It would have been easy to send us to certain death, by just dispatching the Second Illyrian to Palmyra. And he was right, Narcissus would have seen through it in an instant. The deliberately arranged destruction of his two agents in Syria would have confirmed his suspicions about Longinus. This way he can argue that he sent a force strong enough for the job. Who in Rome would doubt that a cohort of legionaries was not sufficient for the task? If we succeed he reaps the rewards of acting swiftly and decisively. If we don't, then we'll be tarred with the brush of failure. That's even if we survive. And of course, our destruction will add weight to his request for those reinforcements he has been angling for all along. Oh, he's a shrewd one, that Longinus.'

Macro suddenly stopped and turned to face his companion. 'Cato, did you really just think all that up?'

Cato looked bemused. 'It seems to make sense.'

'Really?' Macro sighed. 'You know, it is also possible that Longinus thinks that this might work.That we might arrive with enough force to save the king and hold out until the rest of the army arrives.'

'Assuming that Longinus and the army set off in time to rescue us.'

'Bloody hell, Cato!' Macro cried out in bewilderment. 'Why is everything a conspiracy to you? Why do you assume that everyone above the rank of centurion is scheming to become emperor?'

People in the street were looking in their direction and Cato hissed, 'Keep it down!'

'Or what? Someone will report us to Narcissus' agents? Cato, we are his bloody agents. So I'll say what I damn well please. Why do you think every man in the Roman senate is involved in a conspiracy?'

'How do you know that they aren't?'

'Oh, come on!' Macro fumed, and then started marching off down the street again. 'We haven't got time for this. Let's go.'

They walked on in silence for a moment before Macro clicked his fingers. 'Well, what about Vespasian then?'

Cato recalled the legate they had served under in the Second Legion during the invasion of Britain. Vespasian's family had only been elevated to senatorial rank in recent years, and so he had a measure of understanding of the men he commanded. 'What about him?'

'He was as straight as they come. A soldier to the bone that one. Not a grain of politician in him.'

Cato thought a moment and then shook his head. 'He's an aristocrat, like the rest of them. They are breastfed on politics. But I agree with you. He seemed straightforward enough. Even so, I shouldn't wonder if even Vespasian surprised us all in the end.'

Macro snorted with derision and they continued their fast-paced march back to the camp in silence.

The instant they arrived Macro summoned his centurions and explained the situation to them, and confirmed Cato's temporary appointment as prefect.

'I'll see you on the track outside the camp. Make 'em travel light. Weapons, minimal kit and rations only. Spare rations can be carried on the light carts.'

'Yes, sir. I understand. They'll have what they need.'

'Right then.' Macro thumped Cato gently on the shoulder. 'Time for me to rejoin the Eagles.'

He left his subordinate to give the orders for the men to make ready to leave the camp and went to take up his command of Castor's cohort of the Tenth Legion. The governor's clerk was waiting for him outside the headquarters tent. He had run hard from the general's house in the city and was panting for breath as he handed a sealed tablet to Macro.

'Your authority to assume command, sir… and the general's orders.'

Macro nodded curtly and entered the tent. Inside, a pair of veterans sat on stools at their desks and hurriedly tried to look busy as the officer entered. Macro pointed to the nearest man.

'You! Fetch my officers. I want them here at once. Tell them the cohort has a new commander. And you, get word to their optios, and tell them to ready the men for a hard march and' – he grinned – 'an even harder fight.'

As soon as the men were formed up Cato made a close inspection of each century. The man he had selected as his adjutant, Centurion Parmenion, the oldest and most experienced of the auxiliary officers, marched at his shoulder with a tablet and stylus, ready to take notes for his commander. It was funny, Cato mused. Only this morning he had been in Parmenion's job, and well knew the burdens that his replacement had taken on. But it was nothing compared to the weight of responsibility that had now landed on Cato's shoulders. More than eight hundred men now looked to him and he would be directly compared to Macro in their judgement of him. It would be a hard standard to live up to, he reflected grimly. Still, it was not as if he was a new commander, freshly appointed to the cohort, and anxious to prove himself. He had served with the Second Illyrian for nearly a year and had fought alongside most of them. So they knew him well enough and accepted him. But he was aware that they would be measuring him by a new standard and watching him closely now that he was the prefect of the cohort, albeit temporarily.

Cato's eye was drawn to a man just ahead of him, swaying slightly as he stood in line. He quickened his step and drew up suddenly in front of the auxiliary.

'Name?'

The auxiliary, an older man whom Cato recognised as one of the new recruits Macro had brought in, stiffened and tried to stand as erect and still as he could, but the raw reek of cheap wine gave him away.

'Publius Galenus, sir.'

'Well, Galenus, it appears that you are not quite sober.'

'No, sir.'

'You are aware that being drunk on duty is an offence.'

'Yes, sir.'

'In which case, you're pulling extra fatigues for a week and will be docked ten days' pay.'

'That ain't fair, sir,' Galenus grumbled. 'I wasn't on duty an hour ago. None of us were. We was all looking forward to a night on the town and I decided to get some drink in early – you know what crooks them local wine merchants are – then we get the call to arms, and, well…' he glanced at Cato, 'here we are, sir.'

'Indeed.'

For a moment Cato was about to cancel the man's punishment. Galenus had a point. He could hardly be blamed for the vagaries of military timing. But then, Cato had already spoken and to change his mind would be an admission of indecision. He wondered briefly what Macro would do and the answer was clear.

'Parmenion. Mark this man down for fatigues and the fine. Drunk on duty is the offence, whatever the circumstances.'

Galenus frowned blearily. 'But that ain't fair, sir.'

Cato continued to address Centurion Parmenion. 'Add ten nights on double watch for insubordination.'

Galenus' jaw dropped open, then some reserve of self-control came to the rescue and he clamped it shut as Parmenion made notes on his wax tablet with swift strokes of his stylus. Cato strode on. He completed the inspection and was satisfied that every man was carrying only the necessary equipment and supplies, according to their orders. Then he mounted the horse that was being held for him by an orderly and trotted it up to the head of the column.

'Second Illyrian!' he called out, and paused for an instant to relish the fact that he was now Prefect Cato, about to lead his men to war. 'Advance!'