The Gladiator

In addition to his other concerns, Macro had sent out a patrol to the bay to find the crew and passengers of the Horus and have themescorted back to the acropolis. They would be given shelter, and Macro would need the fittest of them to fill out the ranks of the cohort until the emergency was over.

As soon as he took command of the cohort, he had carried out a close inspection of the men formed up in their centuries in the courtyard of the acropolis. It was as Portillus had said: only half his men had survived when the earthquake struck Matala. Those that remained were badly shaken by the loss of their comrades, and the mortal terror they felt towards whichever god it was who had decided to wreak his fury upon the port. As Macro slowly paced along the ranks of the Twelfth Hispania, his experienced eye quickly saw that the cohort was typical of most of the garrison units stationed in the safer provinces of the empire. There was a mixture of worn-out veterans, impatiently awaiting their discharge, and those whose health had been broken on campaign and who had been transferred to Crete where they could manage to carry out gentle policing duties. Finally there was a handful of simpletons and scrawny youths who could just about be trusted to hold a weapon and not do themselves, or their comrades, any harm.

Macro shook his head. As things stood, the cohort was going to be little use in restoring order and helping the civilian survivors. He would need better men, and more of them, in the days to come.

Meanwhile, he resolved to do what he could with the resources at hand. Not that there were many resources, he sighed. The quartermaster's inventory revealed that the cohort had been run down in recent years. A string of governors had done their best to cut the costs of running the province right down to the bone in order to curry favour with the emperor and senate back in Rome. Worn — out equipment had not been replaced and the soldiers had had to make up the shortfall in the local markets. They wore an odd assortment of standard-issue kit and a range of old Gallic and Greek helmets and swords. There were very few slings, almost no lead shot for them, and very few reserves of essential rations and drinking water. Two of the cisterns of the acropolis were bone dry and the third only half full, and what was left was barely potable, as Macro had discovered when he accompanied the quartermaster down the steps into the cool interior of the cistern, cut from living rock.

'That is fucking disgusting!' He spat out the rank-tasting liquid and wiped his mouth dry on the back of his hand before climbing back out.' When was the last time this was drained and cleaned out?'

The quartermaster shrugged. 'Don't know, sir. Must have been before my time.'

'How long have you been here?'

'Seven years, sir.'

'Seven years, ' Macro repeated flatly. 'And you just chose to ignore it?'

'No, sir, ' the quartermaster replied indignantly He was a thin old stick, with dark, wizened features, but he carried the scars that spoke 53

of some active service, Macro conceded. The quartermaster continued.' The prefect told me not to bother. Said that how as we were a garrison unit, and the province was at peace, there was no point in preparing for a siege, sir.'

'I see. Right, well, that's going to change. At first light I want you and your clerks down here. The cistern is to be drained, thoroughly cleaned, repaired and made ready to store any rain that falls.'

'Yes, sir.'

Macro stared at the quartermaster.' Look here… what was the name again?'

'Corvinus, sir. Lucius Junillus Corvinus.'

'Corvinus, eh?' Macro smiled.' Crow — it suits you. Now then, we have people out there who need our help. For now we are just going to help the survivors. Dig out any of those trapped in the ruins, then we have to feed them, see that they have fresh water and shelter. In the longer term we will need to make sure that there is order. If the food runs short then we're going to be hard pressed to keep things peaceable. In that event, I need every man of the Twelfth Hispania properly equipped and ready to fight. So that means you will need to pull your thumb out of your arse and make sure the men have what they need. Got that?'

'Yes, sir. I'll do my best.'

Macro shook his head. 'Best isn't good enough. You will do what I need you to do. If you can't do the job then I'll send you back to the ranks and find some one who can.'

'B-but you can't do that, ' Corvinus stammered. 'I will protest to the prefect, sir. You have no authority to remove me.'

'You can protest all you like. The prefect is dead.'

'Dead?'

'He was killed when the earthquake hit Gortyna. Him and most of the senior officials running the province. That's why Senator Sempronius is taking charge of things. That's why I am in charge of the cohort, and why you are going to have to start earning your pay for the first time in years.' Macro paused and then gently punched the man on the chest. 'It's all down to us, Corvinus. We're all that stands between those people out there, and starvation and chaos. Now, I'll ask you one time only. Can you do your job?'

Corvinus took a deep breath and nodded.

'Good man! Now then, I want a full inventory of the cohort's kit in my hands before the first change of watch tonight. You'd best start now.'

'Yes, sir.' Corvinus saluted and turned away, hurrying across the courtyard to the supply office and storerooms. Macro watched him for a moment and then sighed. He hoped that this was going to be the briefest command he would ever hold. Just long enough to set the cohort back on its feet and deal with the crisis in Matala before a new prefect arrived. Then he, Cato and the others could continue their voyage back to Rome. The sooner the better, he mused as he made his way back to the prefect's office.

Once he had finished reading through the waxed note tablets, Macro sent for Portillus. While he waited, he helped himself to one of the small jars of wine that the prefect had kept in a small rack in the corner of the office. Several tiles had fallen in and smashed the jars in the upper section of the rack, but some at the bottom had survived.

He tugged the cork stopper out and sniffed. A fine aroma wafted up into his nostrils and he smiled. Clearly the prefect had been a man who knew how to indulge himself. Shutting one eye, he peered into the jar.

'And half full.' He smiled to himself as he took the jar and a silvered cup back to the desk and filled the cup almost to the brim.

'Not a total disaster then.'

There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for a response, Portillus opened it and entered the office. A quick frown flitted across his face as he saw the wine, and then glanced to the surviving jars in the corner of the room. Macro realised that he had hoped to have them for himself now that the previous commander had no earthly use for such luxuries.

'Ahem, you sent for me, sir.'

Yes. Shut the door.'

Once the do or was closed and Portillus was standing at ease in front of the desk, Macro cleared his throat and began. 'This is not a good cohort, Centurion, as I am sure you know. The organisation is slack, the men are generally second-rate and the officers are worse. However,' he paused, 'that is about to change. And since you are my second in command, you are going to help make that change. Is that clear?'

Portillus nodded doubtfully

'I can't hear you, Centurion.'

'Yes, sir. It is clear.'

'Good.' Macro tapped the wax tablets. 'I want the best eighty men in the cohort to form a fighting century. They are to have the best of the kit, and they are to be commanded by the best officer. Who would you recommend?'

Portillus pursed his lips a moment before he replied. 'Centurion Milo, sir. He was promoted from the legions a year ago.'

'Then he shouldn't have gone soft yet. Fine, Milo it is. He is to choose his standard bearer, optio and clerk as he sees fit.'