Under The Eagle

'What do you mean?'

Cato shuffled his feet, shamefaced, as he attempted to formulate the problem. 'I know I'm an optio and that means the men have to obey me, but that doesn't mean that they take kindly to having a – well, if I'm honest – a kid telling them what to do. It's not that they don't obey me, they do. Nobody's calling me a coward any more, but they haven't got much respect for me.'

'I'm sure they haven't. It doesn't come automatically – it has to be earned. It's the same for every new officer. The men will obey because they are accustomed to. The trick is to get them to obey willingly and to do that you need to earn their trust. Then they'll respect you.'

'But how do I do that, sir?'

'You stop whining for a start. Then you begin to act like an optio.'

'I can't, sir.'

'What do you mean can't? Can! Fucking will!' Macro propped himself up on his elbows, wincing as he shifted his leg to a more comfortable position.

'Yes, sir.'

'Now then, put some more wood on that fire – some dry stuff – before the bloody thing goes out. And shut the window.'

'Are you sure, sir? Fresh air's supposed to speed recovery.'

'Maybe air that's not quite so fresh. The only thing that window's speeding is exposure, so shut it now.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato quickly obeyed the order and then carefully selected the driest wood he could find for the brazier.

'Did you notice?' Macro asked.

'What, sir?'

'How you instantly did what I said?'

Cato nodded.

'That's what I'm talking about. It's the tone of voice. You need to practise giving orders a while before it feels natural. But once you're there it's a doddle – comes as easy as breathing.'

'If you say so, sir.'

'I do. Now then, what's the news?' Macro eased himself back on the bed so that he was propped up against the bolster. With the window closed the red glow of the brazier added to what little light there was filtering through the shutters. 'Pull up the stool and fill me in. What else have you been up to?'

Cato shifted uneasily. 'I was summoned to headquarters this morning by the legate.'

'Oh yes?' Macro smiled. 'And what did Vespasian have to say?'

'Not much… He's investing me with a decoration, a grass crown. I'm not quite sure why.'

'Because I recommended it,' smiled Macro. 'You saved my life, remember? Even if you did nearly lose the standard while you were at it. You deserve it, and once you get the phalera attached to your harness I think you'll find the men will go easier on you. All good soldiers respect well-earned decorations. How's it feel to be a hero?'

Cato blushed, grateful that the uncomfortable glow in his cheeks was lost in the flickering orange of the brazier. 'Frankly, I feel a bit of a fraud.'

'Why on earth?'

'I can't be a hero on the strength of one battle.'

'Hardly a battle. More of a skirmish actually.'

'Precisely, sir. A skirmish, and one in which I only managed to injure an enemy by accident. Hardly the stuff of heroes.'

'Killing men in battle doesn't necessarily make you a hero,' Macro gently reassured him. 'Admittedly it does help and the more bodies you pile up the better. But there are other ways to be heroic. All the same, I wouldn't go around blabbing about not having knocked a few Germans on the head if I were you. Look, you didn't have to come back for me but you chose to – against the odds. In my book that takes guts and I'm glad you're with us.'

Cato stared at him, searching for the least sign of irony in his superior's face. 'Do you really mean that, sir?'

'Of course. Have I yet said anything to you I didn't mean?'

'No.'

'There you are then. So take it at face value and don't get sentimental on me. I take it there'll be an investiture?'

'Yes, sir. The legate's holding a parade two days from now. There are a number of decorations to hand out, including one for Vitellius.'

'Oh really?' Macro interrupted sourly. 'I'm sure that'll look good on his CV when he gets back to Rome.'

'Then there's a private di

'Should be rather cosy and intimate then. Typical of Vespasian; always the grand gesture on the cheap.'

'He insisted that you be there as well, sir.'

'Me?' Macro shrugged and pointed at his leg. 'And how am I supposed to attend?'

'That's what I asked the legate, sir.'

'You did? What did he say?'

'He'll send a litter for you.'

'A litter? That's great. I get to play the invalid all night long and have to chase up some social conversation. It'll be a bloody nightmare.'

'Then don't go, sir.'

'Don't go?' Macro raised his eyebrows. 'My lad, a polite invitation from a commander of a legion carries somewhat more weight than a writ issued by Jupiter himself.'

Cato smiled and rose to his feet. 'I'd better go now. Is there anything I can get you for next time? Some reading matter perhaps?'

'No thanks. Need to give my eyes a break. You might bring me a jar of wine and a dice set. I need to improve my technique.'

'Dice.' Cato was vaguely disappointed as he disapproved of those who refused to accept that dice fell randomly – straight dice at least. He nodded and made to leave.

'One more thing!' Macro called after him as he strode out of the ward.

'Sir?'

'Remind Piso he owes me five sestertii.'

Chapter Fifteen

Centurion Bestia glared into each face as he marched steadily along the ranks. In many ways inspection was the most onerous aspect of training to most recruits. Marching, drilling and weapons practice required no more than effort and the minimum of thought. Preparing for inspection, on the other hand, required a kind of genius that almost elevated it to the level of art. Every item of kit had to be cleaned, polished – where possible rather than where necessary – and in a perfect state of repair. There were few short-cuts, and since they were all known by Bestia it was a foolish or desperate recruit who resorted to them. Thus it was that Cato stood nervously at attention and prayed to every god remotely relevant to the situation that Bestia would miss the varnish he had applied to his belt and straps. The visit to the hospital had left him no time to buff the weathered leather up into a shine and he had simply painted the varnish on instead, on the advice of Pyrax. Standing stiffly with spear grounded to his right and left hand resting on the rim of his shield Cato was acutely aware of the faint smell of varnish wafting around him. If Bestia touched the tacky leather then Cato's deception would be uncovered and he would be up on charges.

Four men down the line Bestia suddenly caught sight of his prey and skimmed past the intervening men with barely a sidelong glance.

'Ah! Optio.' He laboured the word. 'So very good of you to join us this morning.'

As always the sarcastic greeting was unfair, since Cato had no choice in the matter and was excused drill on alternate days on orders from the Legion's headquarters.

'So then, it appears that you are something of a war hero, Master Cato?'

Cato kept his mouth shut and continued staring straight ahead, eyes unwavering.

'I believe I asked you a fucking question,' Bestia said, then turned to the optio who accompanied him on inspections through the ranks. 'Didn't I just ask him a fucking question?'

'Yes, sir,' the drill optio replied. 'You asked him a fucking question, sir!'

'So answer me!'

'Yes, sir!' Cato shouted.

'Yes, sir what?'

'Yes, I am something of a war hero, sir,' Cato replied in a low voice.

'I do beg your fucking pardon, son!' Bestia shouted. 'But I must be deaf. I can't hear you. Again! Louder!'