With a flash of insight he realised that was just another way the army had of toughening up its men. The discomforts of army life were as much mental as physical, and he'd better get used to it, because if he didn't then men like Maximius would break Cato as surely as night follows day. Very well, if he couldn't afford to outwit his commander, and couldn't bear to be the butt of his humour then Cato must keep as far away from Maximius as possible.
Cato glanced over his shoulder, back down the line of men towards his century bringing up the rear of the column. He frowned.
'Sir, I think my century's falling behind. Can I go back and chivvy them along?'
Maximius looked back and then turned his gaze on Cato with a shrewd narrowing of the eyes. For a moment Cato feared that his request would be denied. Then Maximius nodded.
'Very well. Make sure they keep up.'
'Yes, sir.' Cato saluted, quickly turned away and strode back down the column of sweating legionaries, under the watchful eye of Maximius.
'Macro?'
'Sir?'
'How well do you know that boy?'
'Well enough, I suppose, sir,' Macro replied guardedly. 'At least I've known him ever since he joined the Second Legion as a recruit.'
'As long as that?' Maximius arched his eyebrows.'That must be, almost, let me see… two years. My, that is a long time.'
Even Macro could pick up the heavy helping of sarcasm. He immediately decided that Cato had to be defended, before Maximius settled on a mistaken judgement of the young centurion. First impressions were hard to shake, and the last thing Macro wanted to see was Cato handicapped by some veteran's prejudice as he made a go of his first legionary command. The legionaries of the Sixth Century, he knew, were still bridling over the appointment of a centurion who was younger than all but a handful of the men. The situation was not helped by Cato's choice of Figulus for optio. Figulus was only a few months older than his centurion, but at least he had the kind of physique that deters those in the ranks from insubordination. Figulus was safe enough, Macro realised. It was Cato who would be pressured to justify his rapid promotion. Macro knew that Cato, cursed by lack of self-confidence and by driving ambition in equal measure, would do anything to prove he deserved his advancement. Macro had seen the lad's desperate courage on many occasions. Given half a chance Cato would prove Maximius wrong or die in the attempt. Unless Maximius knew that, and backed off from his snide treatment of his subordinate, then Cato would be a danger to himself.
Then Macro paused, mid-thought, as something more disturbing occurred to him. What if Maximius recognised that same flaw in Cato and decided to exploit it cruelly?
Macro cleared his throat, and spoke in what he hoped sounded like a light-hearted tone.'Sure he's young, sir. But he's learned the trade fast. And he's got guts.'
'Young!' Maximius snorted. 'I'll say.'
The other centurions laughed and Macro forced himself to smile along with them as he steeled himself for another attempt to steer Maximius towards a more sensitive treatment of the cohort's most junior centurion.
'He's just a bit touchy, sir.' Macro smiled.'You know what it was like at that age.'
'Yes I do. That's precisely why boys should not be placed in command of men. They lack the necessary temperament, wouldn't you agree?'
'In most cases, yes, sir.'
'In your case?'
Macro thought about this a moment and then nodded. 'I suppose so. I could never have been a centurion at Cato's age.'
'Me neither,' Maximius chuckled. 'That's why I'm not convinced by our young centurion.'
'But Cato's different.'
Maximius shrugged and turned his gaze along the track ahead of them. 'We'll see soon enough.'
The dust at the end of the column hung in the air and made the men's mouths feel dry and gritty. That was why Cato's men had slowly dropped back from the rear of the Fifth Century. He immediately ordered them forward and then kept them in the correct formation with the rest of the cohort, despite the undercurrent of muttered protest that greeted his command.
'Silence!' Cato shouted. 'Silence in the ranks there! Optio, take the name of the next man who opens his mouth out of turn.'
'Yes, sir!' Figulus saluted.
Cato stepped away from the track and stood and watched the men closely as his century marched past. His eye was practised enough to distinguish between the good and the bad legionaries, between the veterans and the recruits, between those in good physical condition and those who were in poor health. There was no question that they were all fit; the merciless regime of perpetual training and route marches saw to that. Cato's eyes glanced over the men's kit, mentally noting those who had taken every effort to maintain their armour and weapons to the highest standards. He noted the faces of those men whose armour was heavily tarnished; he would have Figulus see to them later. A few days of fatigues might sort them out. If that didn't work he'd slap some fines on them.
As the tail of the century tramped by, Cato waited a moment longer, making sure that the lines of his men were even, then he fell in on the track and double-paced to catch up. He was pleased enough with what he had seen so far. There was a handful of obvious bad characters, but the majority looked like good men, conscientious and hardy enough. The only thing that bothered Cato was that he still lacked a firm understanding of their collective spirit. The faces he had scrutinised from the side of the track were largely expressionless, and since he had ordered them to be silent there was little tangible sense of their feelings, only, perhaps, a sullen resentment over the order. Cato thought about changing his mind and letting them talk, which would allow him to gauge their mood a little more readily. But to countermand an order so recently given would only make him look indecisive and irresolute. He'd have to let them resent him for the moment then. That might even help foster his preferred image as a stern disciplinarian who would not brook the slightest hint of insubordination from the men under his command. He'd show that bastard Maximius…
Which was why he was being so harsh on the men, Cato realised. He was taking out his anger on them, and with that thought he was awash with guilt and self-contempt. There was really no difference between Maximius' bullying of Cato and Cato's taking it out on the men of his century. Maximius – it pained him to admit it – was right. He was sulking, and now eighty good men were suffering the consequences. Unless he grew out of his sensitivity he would be a perpetual burden to his men. Men who must trust him implicitly if they were to overcome the savage ferocity of Caratacus and his horde.
Not long after noon the track curved towards a small hillock. On its crest stood the raw dark earth of a recently erected rampart. A wooden palisade ran along the top of the earthworks with solid timber towers constructed above the two gates and at each corner of the fort. The distant detail of the structure was lost in the shimmering heat, but beyond the hill there was the glint of the Tamesis, looking cool and inviting to the eyes of sweating legionaries. Cato felt that he had not seen a more serene and peaceful view for months, but sight of the river brought the prospect of the coming battle sharply to mind. Soon enough those quiet waters would be stained with men's blood and their corpses would lay strewn about under the harsh glare of the sun.
As the cohort approached, there was no sign of movement behind the rampart, almost as if the sentries had decided to find some shelter from the sun to enjoy an afternoon nap. Above the fort Cato could see tiny black dots slowly swirling: carrion birds of some kind, he decided. Apart from a few solitary swifts darting high and low, they were the only birds in the clear sky. When the cohort was in long arrow range of the fort and there was still no sign of life, Centurion Maximius halted his men and bellowed out an order for the scouts to mount and move ahead to investigate. With a soft thrumming of hoofs the scouts trotted forwards and started up the gentle incline towards the gatehouse.