The Eagle In the Sand

'I'm sorry, sir. I take my orders from Prefect Scrofa. If you want to help your friend, you'll have to speak to the commanding officer.'

Macro fumed for a moment, balling his hands into fists as he glared at the young centurion. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he nodded. 'Very well. There's no time to waste. Take me to Scrofa.'

They made their way back into the fort with the last of the troops who had been sent out and Macro was able to take a closer look at the men as he made his way through them.Their kit was only adequately maintained, but they looked tough enough. Certainly, they had moved to engage the enemy horsemen willingly. That was always something of a test of any unit. The men in the legions could be counted on to hold their ground against any kind of attack. It was different with auxiliaries since they were more lightly armoured and not so well trained. But these lads had faced the enemy horsemen without any trouble. Macro nodded approvingly. The men of his new command – the Second Illyrian – seemed to have some potential and Macro was determined to build on that. Then he stepped through the gateway and saw the poorly maintained barrack blocks stretching out in rows on either side of the gate. There would be plenty of work to do before the cohort came up to Macro's standards. Opposite the barracks were the grain stores, infirmary, stables, headquarters building, officers' quarters and the cohort commander's house.

The Second Illyrian was a mixed cohort. Of over nine hundred men who served in the unit, a hundred and forty were mounted. There were cohorts like this on every frontier, where the mixture of cavalry and infantry allowed for greatest flexibility for those officers charged with policing the local tribes and keeping watch for any attempt by barbarians to cross the border. A strong force of cavalry allowed the cohort commander to scout a wide area, chase down any barbarian raiding parties, and when necessary, launch quick punitive raids into enemy territory.

Such cohorts were usually commanded by centurions who had transferred from the legions, a process regarded as a promotion for those who were judged ready to hold independent commands. Despite his earlier reservations, Macro realised that Scrofa had to have shown some promise to be selected for this command. Macro did not fool himself that he too must be a cut above the rest. His own command of the cohort was to be a temporary affair; little more than a cover until the present crisis had been resolved.

Once the last man had passed through the gates, Centurion Postumus ordered them closed and the locking bar replaced in its sockets. Macro indicated the survivors of the cavalry squadron, leading their exhausted mounts away from the gateway. 'You had better organise some stabling and quarters for the men.'

'Yes, sir. After I've shown you to the prefect.'

'Where is he?'

'In his quarters, sir.'

'Right, I can find him. You see to these men, all right?'

'Very well, sir,' Postumus responded reluctantly. 'I'll join you as soon as they have been taken care of.'

Macro entered the prefect's house, which was guarded by two well-turned-out men in full equipment. Even though they stood under a sun shelter, they were sweating profusely in the heat. They snapped to attention at Macro's approach and as he passed between them he noticed, with wry amusement, a bead of sweat suspended on the tip of one man's nose. Inside he paused momentarily to adjust to the shaded environment. An orderly was sweeping the hall and Macro turned to him.

'You there!'

'Yes, sir?' The man stiffened his back at once and saluted.

'Show me to Prefect Scrofa's office.'

'Certainly, sir,' the orderly responded with a deferential bow of his head, and led Macro through the hall to a staircase at the rear. They climbed to the next floor where the rooms were spacious and designed to allow any available breeze to be channelled through them by well-placed windows.

'This way, sir.' The orderly indicated an open door at the end of the landing. Macro strode past him and entered the commander's office, and paused in surprise at the luxurious appointments. The walls were richly painted with mythic scenes of a heroic nature. The furniture was well crafted and finished with neat decorative flourishes, and there was a couch to one side covered in comfortable cushions. A glass bowl stood on a small side table, filled with dates and figs. Prefect Scrofa, wearing a light tunic, sat behind a large wooden desk. To one side of him stood a huge red-haired slave, steadily directing air at his master with a fan. Scrofa was a wiry man in his early thirties with pale skin and dark hair that had receded on either side of his central fringe. On his left hand he wore the ring signifying that he came from the equestrian social class. He looked up irritably as Macro marched into the room, covered in dust and stained with the decurion's blood.

'Who the hell are you?'

'Centurion Macro. Sent from Rome to assume command of the Second Illyrian.You are hereby relieved, Prefect Scrofa. Please send for your senior officers at once, so they can be told of my appointment.'

Scrofa's mouth sagged open. The slave continued fanning without any change in his expression.

'What did you say?'

'You're relieved.' Macro leaned back and popped his head round the door frame. The clerk was heading back to the top of the stairs. 'Hey!'

The clerk turned round and stared at Macro for a moment, then glanced past him towards Scrofa with a questioning expression. 'Sir?

'Centurion Scrofa is no longer in command.' Macro stepped between them and continued, 'I want to see all the centurions and decurions in here straight away.'

'Even the duty officers, sir?'

Macro paused. With Bannus and his men still in the area, that would not be wise. 'No. Not them. I'll meet them later. Now go!'

When he turned back into the office Scrofa had recovered some composure and was sitting back in his chair. He looked at Macro with an angry frown. 'Explain yourself. What in Hades is going on here?'

Macro, conscious of his pressing need to collect a strong force of men and go in search of Cato and Symeon, strode across the room and stood in front of the table.'It's simple.Your appointment was temporary. I have been given orders by the imperial staff to take command of the Second Illyrian. There's no time for any changeover ceremony, Scrofa. I need the mounted contingent ready for action immediately.'

Scrofa shook his head. 'Impossible! Cassius Longinus assured me that he would send to Rome to have my appointment made permanent.'

'Look,' Macro said in a gentler tone, desperate to take command as soon as possible, 'I don't know anything about that. All I know is that I was sent to Bushir with orders to take command.'

The sound of footsteps came from the landing and a moment later Centurion Postumus strode into the room. Scrofa raised an arm and pointed at Macro.'This man says he has been sent from Rome to take command of the cohort.'

Postumus shrugged.'He was with the auxiliary cavalry being pursued to the fort, sir.'

'There is another officer, and a guide, still out there, hiding,' Macro said urgently. 'I must take some men out to find them.'

'I'll deal with that in a moment,' said Scrofa. 'Once we've sorted the situation out.'

'There's nothing to sort out!' Macro shouted, his temper finally snapping. 'I'm in command! You have been replaced. Now stand aside. I'm meeting the cohort's officers in here. Take your slave and return to your quarters.'

'I'll do no such thing! How dare you come in here and treat me like this? Who sent you from Rome?'

'I told you. I'm acting on the orders of the imperial office.'

Centurion Postumus coughed loudly and stepped up to the table to confront Macro. 'Excuse me, sir. If you're acting on orders, might we see them?'

'What?' Macro stared at him.

'Your orders, sir. The confirmation of your appointment. '

'Bloody hell! All right then. I'll get them. They're in my saddlebag…'