The Eagles Prophecy

The traffic on the Flaminian Way was heavy, with a constant stream of wagons and carts loaded down with farm produce, goods and luxuries heading for the great markets of the capital. Trundling in the opposite direction were empty vehicles. The two centurions marched past as swiftly as possible to catch up with the reinforcement column that had left the city hours before and was well on the way to Ocriculum. The column would make good time as traffic would clear the way for them as they passed, whereas the two centurions, being far less conspicuous, would have to weave their way through the other road users.

'We're not going to catch them before nightfall,' Cato grumbled. 'Not at this rate.'

'We might,' Macro replied, glancing over his shoulder at Cato. 'If we can keep the pace up. Come on, lad, no dawdling.'

Cato gritted his teeth and lengthened his stride, until he drew alongside his friend. 'You ever had any dealings with the marines before?'

'Marines?' Macro spat on the ground. 'Yes, I've come across a few. On the Rhine squadron. They used to take leave in Argentorate, same as us legionaries. Idle wankers, the lot of them. Spent all their time dossing about on the decks of their ships while we got on with the real soldiering.'

Cato smiled. 'I take it there's no love lost between legionaries and marines.'

'None,' Macro replied emphatically. 'We were at each other's throats from the off.'

'You do surprise me. Still, now we've got a posting to the marines, we'd better forgive and forget, eh?'

'Forgive and forget?' Macro raised his eyebrows. 'Fuck that! I just hate the bastards. Every legionary does. Mark my words, there's no such thing as a good marine. Idlers, wasters and the scrapings of the street. Anyone with any worth has upped and joined the legions. We'll have to cope with the leavings.'

'Not looking forward to a bit of drilling then?'

'Cato, my lad, there's drilling and then there's the kind of chaotic scrabbling about that is the specialism of your average marine.'

'So, when it comes to soldiering, they're all at sea?'

Macro closed his eyes briefly. 'Cato, that's the kind of crack that ruins friendships.'

'Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.'

'Well, don't. All right? Things are hard enough for the pair of us without you trying to joke about it.'

'Fair enough.' Cato glanced up as a column of wagons ground by on the other side of the road. Each wagon carried several men, well-muscled and looking at the peak of physical fitness. He nudged Macro. 'Could do with a few more like them in the legions.'

Macro looked round. 'Them? Gladiators. No, they're the last thing you want in the army. They think they know all that there is to know about fighting. That it's all down to fancy footwork and a nimble blade. Your bog-standard barbarian would knock 'em flat while they were still out to win points for style. Gladiators…' Macro shook his head wearily. 'So far up their own arses they hardly see the light of day from one month to the next. If you want someone at your shoulder that you can rely on, pick a legionary every time. And, if you can't find a legionary, then an auxiliary will do.'

Cato stared at him. 'You've really got it in for the marines, haven't you? Any particular reason? One of them run off with your sister, or something?'

Macro shot a look at his friend.'Sister? No. Much closer than that. My mother.'

'Your mother?'

Macro nodded. 'A trireme turned up at Ostia for refitting. Crew came ashore for a few days. One of the smooth bastards chats my mum up and she drops the rest of us in the shit and sails off into the bloody sunset with her marine and is never seen again. I was not much more than a kid at the time. That was twenty years ago.'

Cato was stunned. In the two years that he had known Macro, his friend had rarely mentioned his background. And now this. Having grown used to the tales of old soldiers he could not help being suspicious. 'Is that true?'

'Have I ever lied to you?'

Cato shrugged helplessly. 'Well, yes. Frequently, as it happens. Soldiers' stories and all that. "The barbarian that got away", that kind of thing.'

'Oh.' Macro pursed his lips. 'This one's true. So I hate marines,' he concluded simply.

Cato felt a heavy weight settle on his heart. If Macro carried such prejudices with him all the way to Ravenna then life with the marines was going to be very difficult. The inter-service rivalry was bad enough without Macro adding his personal crusade against marine-kind to the situation.

Cato tried to reason with his friend.'Don't you think it's a bit harsh to judge them all by the conduct of one?'

'No.'

Cato hissed with frustration. 'That's hardly fair.'

'What's fairness got to do with it? One of the bastards ran off with my mum. Now the boot's on the other foot and I'm going to stick it to them. And I'll have none of your nonsense about fairness.'

'Prejudice never solved anything,' Cato replied calmly.

'Bollocks! Which one of your fancy philosophers came up with that? Prejudice solves everything, and quickly too. As long as you've got the balls to see it through. How else do you think we got ourselves an empire? Through playing fair with a bunch of hairy-arsed barbarians? Think we talked 'em into throwing down their weapons and surrendering their lands? No. We regarded them as ignorant and uncivilised. All of them. And rightly so, in my opinion. Made kicking their heads in a lot easier at the end of the day. You start arguing with yourself about the pros and cons of their point of view and you'll be dead in a flash. Act as you find and life becomes simpler, and longer, probably. So, Cato, spare me your feelings about fairness, eh? If I want to hate marines, that's up to me. Makes my life easy. You want to cosy up to them, then that's up to you. But leave me out of it.'

'Well, if you insist.'

'I do. All right? Now let's change the subject.'

Cato could see that his friend would not budge on the issue. Not right now, at least. Perhaps Macro could be persuaded to be more reasonable over time; a few carefully chosen words here and there and their posting to the marines might be less of an unpleasant experience. If Narcissus was right, then this mission was going to be dangerous enough for Cato and Macro without having to worry about the loyalty of the men around them.

Cato leaned forward, adjusted the weight of the yoke on his shoulder, and marched on in silence. The Flaminian Way began to incline as it met a low ridge to the north of the capital. As the road evened out, Cato stepped off the road into the shade of a copse of tall cypress trees and set his pack down for a moment. Macro strode on a few paces, then paused, and reluctantly trudged off the paved surface and joined his friend.

'Not tired already?'

'A bit,' Cato admitted. 'I'm out of training for route marches.'

'Really?' Macro smirked. 'I'll make a marine of you yet.'

'Very funny.' Cato took a sip from his canteen and stared back down the road towards Rome, sprawling across its seven hills and spilling out on to the surrounding landscape. Having lived in the tight confines of the city for some months, it felt strange to Cato to encompass the city of a million souls in one glance. The vast edifice of the imperial palace complex was clearly visible, even at a distance of several miles, but now it looked tiny, like some construction of a child's set of building blocks. For a moment Cato wondered at the smallness of human achievement in a wider context. All the grand politics of the palace, all the petty prejudices and aspirations of the densely packed streets of the capital – all seemed futile and insignificant viewed from a distance.

Cato looked at his friend. For Macro it was different. He survived in the gritty world of immediate details and focused on the challenges right in front of him. It was an enviable perspective, Cato felt – one that he wished he could develop for himself. He spent far too much time thinking about abstract issues. In the legions that could cost lives, he reflected, and the abyss of self-doubt that plagued him yawned once more. Now that he was a centurion he was more conscious than ever about his failings, and yearned for the verities of the life that he assumed Macro enjoyed.