Under The Eagle

'Right then, in person it is.' Vitellius stood up, scroll in hand. 'Come with me.'

Vitellius led them down a short passage into an antechamber where the legate's private secretary worked at a desk to one side of a large studded door. He looked up as they approached and, seeing Vitellius, wearily rose to his feet.

'Can I see the legate?' Vitellius asked briskly.

'Is it urgent, sir?'

'Imperial despatch.' Vitellius held out the letter so that the seal could be seen. The secretary instantly knocked on the door of the legate's office and entered without waiting for a reply, closing the door behind him. There was silence for a moment and then the door opened again. The secretary ushered Vitellius inside and held up a hand to the other two. From inside, Macro could clearly hear a raised voice, punctuated by an occasional monosyllable from Vitellius. The dressing down was mercifully brief but the tribune managed to fire a cold, hostile glare at the centurion as he passed out of the office back towards the admin hall.

'He'll see you now.' The secretary waved a finger at them.

Macro silently seethed with anger at Bestia. That bloody letter would do for him. Having been ordered to act as the boy's guide to the headquarters, Macro was about to face the wrath of the legate for imposing on his precious time. If Vitellius, a tribune, could be shouted down only the gods knew what the legate would say to a humble centurion. And it was all the bloody boy's fault. Macro instinctively passed on the look he had received from Vitellius, then gulped nervously as he marched smartly through the door, past the smug expression of the secretary. At that moment he would rather have faced ten howling mad Gaulish warriors single-handed.

The legate's office was unsurprisingly spacious. The far side was dominated by a black marble-topped table behind which sat Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasian – scowling as he looked up from the open letter in front of him.

'Right then, Centurion. What are you doing here?'

'Sir?'

'You're supposed to be on duty.'

'Orders, sir. I was told to show this new recruit to headquarters and see you got that letter.'

'Who ordered you?'

'Lucius Batiacus Bestia. He's covering the watch until I return, sir.'

'Oh, is he?' A frown creased the broad brow of Vespasian. Then his gaze switched to the young recruit standing one step behind and to one side of Macro, desperately hoping that immobility was the surest route to invisibility. The legate's eyes quickly looked over the boy, assessing his potential. 'You are Quintus Licinius Cato?'

'Yes, sir.'

'From the palace?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Bit unusual to say the least,' Vespasian mused. 'The palace doesn't generate too many recruits for the legions, my wife excepted – even she's finding it hard to adapt to the squalor of a legate's private accommodation. I doubt you will find our ways much to your taste but you're a soldier now and that's that.'

'Yes, sir.'

'This,' Vespasian waved the letter, 'is a letter of introduction. Normally my secretary deals with such trivial matters because I have better things to do – like, for example, commanding a legion. So you can imagine how annoyed I might have been to have the tribune waste his time and, more importantly, mine, with such a matter.'

Vespasian paused and the two visitors withered under his glare. Then, he continued, in a more moderate tone. 'However, since this letter is from Claudius, as you no doubt know, I must defer to his power to bother one of his legates with petty details. He tells me that, in gratitude for your late father's service to Rome, he has made you a freedman and wishes me to appoint you centurion in my legion.'

'Oh,' Cato replied. 'Is that good, sir?'

Macro spluttered with rage momentarily, before regaining control and bunching his fists hard against his thighs.

'Problem, Centurion?' Vespasian asked.

'No, sir,' Macro managed to respond through clenched teeth.

'Now then, Cato,' the legate continued mildly. 'There is absolutely no possibility of me appointing you centurion, whatever the Emperor wishes. How old are you?'

'Sixteen, sir. Seventeen next month.'

'Sixteen… Hardly old enough to be a man. Certainly too young to lead men.'

'Begging your pardon, sir, but Alexander was only sixteen when he commanded his first army in battle.'

Vespasian's eyebrows shot up in amazement. 'You consider yourself to be an Alexander? What do you know about military affairs?'

'I have studied them, sir. I am familiar with the works of Xenophon, Herodotus, Livy and, of course, Caesar.'

'And that makes you an expert on the modern Roman army does it?' Vespasian was enjoying the youngster's hubris. 'Well, I must say, I only wish all our recruits were so versed in the arts of war. It would be novel to have an army march on its brains rather than its stomach. Would be quite something, wouldn't it, Centurion?'

'Yes, sir,' Macro replied. 'We'd all be headaching instead of bellyaching, sir.'

Vespasian looked at Macro in surprise. 'Was that meant to be a joke, centurion? I don't hold with junior officers being funny. This is the army, not some Plautus comedy.'

'Yes, sir. Who, sir?'

'A playwright,' Cato patiently explained to Macro. 'Plautus adapted material from Greek theatre-'

'That's enough, son,' Vespasian cut in. 'Save it for the literary salons, should you ever return to Rome. Now then, I've decided. You will not be a centurion.'

'But, sir…'

Vespasian held up a hand to silence him and then pointed at Macro. 'You see this man? Now, he's a centurion. The man who escorted you here from Aventicum is also a Centurion. How do you think they came to be centurions?'

Cato shrugged. 'I've absolutely no idea, sir.'

'No idea? Well, just you listen. This man, Macro, has been a legionary for many years – how many, centurion?'

'Fourteen years, sir.'

'Fourteen years. And in that time he has marched halfway across the known world and back. This man has fought in Jupiter knows how many battles and minor engagements. He has been trained to use every weapon in the army. He can march up to twenty miles a day in full armour carrying his kit. He has been trained to swim, build roads, bridges and forts. He has many other qualities besides. This man led his patrol to safety when the Germans cut them off on the far side of the Rhine. Then, and only then, was he even considered for promotion to the centurionate. Now which of these things can you do? Right now?'

Cato thought back a moment. 'I can swim, sir – a bit.'

'Have you considered a career in the navy?' Vespasian asked hopefully.

'No. I get seasick.'

'Oh dear. Well, I'm afraid that swimming doesn't quite qualify you for command, but since we're going to need every man we can train for next year I will allow you to join the Second Legion. Dismissed… that's the army way of saying, please be a good fellow and wait outside.'

'Yes, sir.'

Once the door had closed behind the young man, Vespasian shook his head. 'What's the world coming to? Think we can make a soldier out of him, Centurion?'

'No, sir,' Macro replied immediately. 'The army's too dangerous a place for theatre critics.'

'So is Rome,' Vespasian sighed, recalling those who had rashly ventured an opinion on the literary output of the late Caligula. Not that matters were much better under his successor, Claudius. The new Emperor's chief secretary, the freedman Narcissus, had spies everywhere, busy compiling reports on the loyalties of every Roman who might pose the least possible threat to the new regime. The atmosphere in the capital was poisonous following the failure of Scribonianus' coup attempt and Vespasian had recently been informed that several of his wife's friends were among those already arrested. Flavia herself had only recently joined him at the base, anxious and fearful, and not for the first time Vespasian wished that Flavia would be more circumspect in her choice of social companions. But that's what came your way, Vespasian considered, when you married a woman who had been brought up in the highly political atmosphere of the imperial household. Like the young man waiting outside. Vespasian looked up from his desk.