The Eagles Conquest

'Good! Very good.' Macro handed the weapon back. 'You'll get your unit assignment by the end of the day. Dismissed!'

The legionary saluted, turned and marched away, a little too stiffly for Macro's liking.

'Shall I put him down for the Second, sir?' asked Cato, sitting at Macro's side, four scrolls unrolled in front of him. He dabbed his pen in the ink and held it poised above the Second's scroll.

Macro shook his head. 'No. Can't use him. Look at the left leg.' Cato saw a vivid white line running down from thigh to calf, the tightness of the scar tissue causing the man to drag his leg slightly. 'He'd be a liability to himself, and more importantly to us, on a forced march. Put him down for the Twentieth. He's only fit for reserve duties.'

Macro raised his eyes to the line of legionaries waiting to be assigned. 'Next man!'

As the day wore on, the long line of replacements was slowly whittled down, and the lists of names on Cato's scrolls grew longer. The process was not completed until late in the evening, when Cato checked his lists by lamplight against the tally sent from the Eighth Legion's headquarters to ensure that no names had been missed out. To his credit, Macro had balanced out the numbers so that each legion got replacements in proportion to their losses. But the best men went to the Second Legion.

The next morning Cato rose at first light and had four men from his century round up each legion's replacements and quarter them according to their allocated units so that they got used to their new identity as soon as possible. Macro busied himself at headquarters chasing up the Second's replacement equipment. Somehow the requests had been misplaced, and a clerk had gone off to look for them, leaving the centurion sitting on one of the benches lined up outside the headquarters entrance. As he sat waiting, Macro began to feel like some cheap client awaiting his patron back in Rome, and shifted about angrily on the bench until finally he could stomach it no more. Storming into the tent he found the clerk back at his desk with the requests lying on one side of the desk.

'Found 'em then? Good. Now I'll come with you while we get things sorted.'

'I'm busy. You'll have to wait.' 'No. I won't. On your feet, laddie.'

'You can't order me around,' the clerk responded sniffily. 'I'm not army. I'm part of the imperial service.'

'Oh really? Must be a cushy number. Now let's go, before you delay the war effort any longer.'

'How dare you? If we were in Rome I'd report you to the prefect of the Praetorian Guard.'

'But we're not in Rome,' Macro growled, leaning across the desk. 'Are we?'

The clerk saw the prospect of imminent violence in the centurion's glowering expression.

'Very well then, sir,' he conceded. 'But let's make this quick.'

'Quick as you like. I'm not being paid by the hour.'

With Macro in tow, the clerk scurried round the depot and authorised the provision of all the requested weapons and equipment, as well as carts to carry them on the march back to the Tamesis.

'I can't believe you don't have any transports available,' Macro challenged him.

'Afraid not, sir. All available shipping has been sent to Gesoriacum for the Emperor and his reinforcements. That's why we've been sent ahead. To help out with the admin.'

'I wondered what your lot was doing at headquarters.'

'When something needs organising properly,' the clerk puffed out his chest, 'the experts have to be called in.'

'Oh, really?' Macro sniffed. 'How reassuring.'

After the midday meal Macro assembled the new recruits for his century and had them parade in front of his tent. They were all good men; fit, experienced and with exemplary records. When he led the Sixth Century against the Britons again, they would cleave a path right through the heart of the enemy ranks. Satisfied with his selection, he turned to smile at Cato.

'Right then, Optio. You'd better introduce this lot to the Second Legion.'

'Me, sir?'

'Yes, you. Good practice for command.'

'But, sir!'

'And make it inspiring.' Macro nudged him. 'Get on with it.' He stepped back into his tent and, sitting on a stool, calmly began to sharpen the blade of his dagger.

Cato was left standing alone in front of two ranks of the hardest looking men he had ever seen. He cleared his throat nervously and then stiffened his spine and stood as tall as he could, hands clasped behind his back as his mind raced for suitable words.

'Well then, I'd just like to welcome you to the Second Legion. We've had a pretty successful campaign so far and I'm sure that soon you will all be as proud of your new legion as you were of the Eighth.' He glanced along the lines of expressionless faces and his self-confidence withered.

'I-I think you'll find that the lads of the Sixth Century will make you feel welcome enough; in a way, we're like one big family.' Cato gritted his teeth, aware that he was wallowing in a mire of cliches. 'If you have any problems you ever want to talk over with anyone then the flap of my tent is always open.'

Someone snorted derisively.

'My name's Cato, and I'm sure I'll get to know all your names quickly enough as we make our way back to the legion… Erm. Anybody want to raise any questions at this stage?'

'Optio!' A man at the end of the line raised a hand. His features were strikingly rugged and fortunately Cato managed to recall his name. 'Cicero, isn't it? What can I do for you?'

'Just wondered if the centurion's having us on. Are you really our optio?'

'Yes. Of course I am!' Cato coloured.

'How long have you been in the army, Optio?'

A series of chuckles rolled lightly down the line of men.

'Long enough. Now then, anything else? No? Right then, roll call at first light in full marching order. Dismissed!'

As the replacements ambled off, Cato clenched his fists angrily behind his back, ashamed of his performance. Behind him in the tent he could hear the regular rasp of Macro's blade on the whetstone. He could not face the inevitable ridicule of his centurion. At length the noise stopped.

'Cato, old son.'

'Sir?'

'You might well be one of the brightest and bravest lads I've served with.'

Cato blushed. 'Well, thank you, sir.'

'But that was about the most dismal welcome address I've ever witnessed. I've heard more inspiring speeches at accounts clerks' retirement bashes. I thought you knew all about this sort of thing.'

'I've read about it, sir.'

'I see. Then you'd better supplement the theory with a bit more practice.' This sounded rather good to Macro, and he smiled at the happy turn of phrase. He felt more than a little gratified by his subordinate's failure to do the job properly, in spite of his privileged palace education. As was so often the case, evidence of a weak chink in another man's accomplishments produced a warm, affectionate feeling in him and he grinned at his optio.

'Never mind, lad. You've proved yourself often enough up to now.' As Cato struggled to find a face-saving response, he became aware of a ripple of excitement sweeping across the depot. Over in the direction of the jetty, men were scrambling up the reverse slope to the palisade where they crowded along the sentry walk.

'Hello. What's going on?' Macro came out of the tent and stood at his optio's side.

'Must be something coming in from the sea,' suggested Cato.

As they watched, more men crowded the palisade, and still more men flowed between the tent lines to join them. There were shouts now, just audible above a swelling din of excited chatter. 'The Emperor! The Emperor!'