Under The Eagle

'Open the gate,' Macro called down. One of the soldiers quickly drew out the locking pin and the others slid the beam back into the recess. With a heavy wooden groan, the gates were pulled open just as the wagon reached the top of the rise, its momentum carrying it through the gate into the base. Looking down from the guardhouse, Macro watched the wagon draw up to one side. Bestia jumped down from the driver's bench and waved his vine cane at the sodden procession of new recruits passing by.

'Come on, you bastards! Move! Quickly now! The sooner you're in, the sooner you can get warm and dry.'

The recruits, who had followed the wagon for over two hundred miles, automatically began to mill round it once inside the gate. Most wore travelling cloaks and carried their few belongings in blankets tied across the shoulder. The poorest recruits had nothing, some didn't even have cloaks, and they shivered miserably as the wind drove the freezing rain at them. At the rear stood a small chain-gang of criminals who had opted for the army rather than remain in prison.

Bestia immediately waded into the growing crowd with his cane, beating a clear space for himself.

'Don't just stand there like a herd of sheep! Make way for some real soldiers. Get over to the far side of the street and line up facing this way. NOW!'

The last of the recruits stumbled in through the gate and followed the rest to take up an uneven line opposite the wagon. Finally the escort marched in, twenty men in step, who halted simultaneously at one word of command from Bestia. He paused for effect to let the implicit comparison sink in as Macro ordered the sentries to shut the gate and return to their duties. Bestia turned back to the recruits, legs astride and hands on hips.

'Those men,' Bestia nodded over his shoulder, 'belong to the Second Legion – the Augusta – the toughest in the entire Roman army, and you'd better not forget it. There is no barbarian tribe, however remote, who hasn't heard of us and who doesn't live in mortal fear of us. The Second has killed more of these scum, and conquered more of their land, than any other unit. We have been able to do this because we train men to be the meanest, dirtiest, hardest fighters in the civilised world… You, on the other hand, are soft, worthless piles of shit. You are not even men. You are the lowest fucking form of life that ever claimed to be Roman. I despise each and every last fucking one of you, and I will weed out every worthless piece of scum so that only the best join my beloved Second Legion and serve under our eagle. I've watched you all the way from Aventicum – and, ladies, I'm not impressed. You signed up and now you are all mine. I will train you, I will hurt you, I will make men of you. Then – if and when I decide you are ready – then I will let you become a legionary. If any one of you doesn't give me every last shred of energy and commitment then I will break him – with this.' He held the gnarled vine cane aloft for all to see. 'Do you shits understand?'

There was a murmured assent from the recruits, some of whom were so tired they just nodded.

'What was that supposed to be?' Bestia shouted angrily. 'I can hardly fucking hear you!'

He moved into the crowd and grabbed a recruit roughly by the collar of his travelling cloak. Macro noticed for the first time that this recruit was dressed differently from the others. The cut of his cloak was unmistakably expensive – no matter how much mud was caked on to it. The recruit was taller than the rest, but thin and delicate-looking – just the kind of victim to make an example of.

'What the hell is this? What the fuck is a recruit doing with a better cloak than I can afford? You steal it, boy?'

'No,' the recruit replied calmly. 'A friend gave it to me.'

Bestia slammed his vine cane into the boy's stomach and the recruit doubled over and slumped to the ground, hands splashing into a puddle. Bestia stood over him, cane raised for another blow.

'Whenever you open your mouth you call me sir! Understand?'

Macro watched the young man gasp for air as he tried to reply, then Bestia swung the cane down on his back and the boy yelped.

'I said, do you understand?'

'Yes, s-sir!' the recruit cried out.

'Louder!'

'YES, SIR!'

'That's better. Now, let's see what else you've got.'

The centurion grabbed the blanket carrier and wrenched it free. The contents spilled out on to the muddy ground; some spare clothes, a small flask, some bread, two scrolls and a leather-bound writing set.

'What the…?' The centurion stared down at the last of the contents. Then he slowly looked up at the new recruit. 'What's this?'

'My writing materials, sir!'

'Writing materials? What does a legionary want with writing materials?'

'I promised my friends in Rome I'd write, sir.'

'Your friends?' Bestia gri

'Dead, sir.'

'Know his name?'

'Of course, sir. He was…'

'Quiet!' Bestia interrupted. 'I don't give a toss who he was. Here, you're all bastards as far as I'm concerned. So then, what's your name, bastard?'

'Quintus Licinius Cato… sir.'

'Well then, Cato, I know only two types of legionary who can write – spies and those who think they're so bloody wonderful they're going to be officers. Which are you?'

The recruit eyed him warily. 'Neither, sir.'

'Then you won't need this stuff, will you?' Bestia kicked the writing kit and the scrolls towards the drainage gully in the middle of the street.

'Careful, sir!'

'What did you say?' The centurion spun round, cane at the ready. 'What did you say to me?'

'I said careful, sir. One of those scrolls is a personal message for the legate.'

'A personal message for the legate! Well, I…'

With a grin, Macro saw that the grizzled centurion was momentarily floored; he'd heard it all before, every excuse, every explanation – but not this one. What on earth could a recruit be doing with a letter for the legate? A first-class mystery, and one that had knocked Bestia off his perch. Not for long though – the centurion stabbed his cane towards the scrolls.

'Bloody well pick that stuff up and bring it here. Just arrived here and you're already messing the base up! Fucking recruits,' he grumbled. 'You make me puke. Well, you heard me. Pick it up!'

As the tall recruit leant down to retrieve his belongings Bestia barked out a series of orders, assigning batches of recruits to members of the escort to be guided to their units.

'Now, get moving! NOT YOU!' Bestia shouted at the lone recruit, who had managed to stuff his belongings back into his pack and had turned towards the safety of the others standing in the pouring rain. 'Over here! What are the rest of you staring at?'

The escort legionaries started to tell off their charges. While the recruits were cajoled and herded into groups, Bestia snatched the scroll Cato held out to him. Taking care to keep it out of the rain as much as possible, he read the address waxed on to it. He checked the seal as well, rechecked the address and paused a moment to consider his next step. He happened to glance up at the gate and saw Macro gri

'Macro! Get your arse down here.'

Moments later, Macro was standing to attention in front of Bestia, blinking as the rain dripped down from the brim of his helmet into his eyes.

'This seems genuine.' Bestia wagged the scroll under the junior officer's nose. 'I want you to take this and escort our friend here to headquarters.'

'I'm on sentry duty.'

'Well then, I'll relieve you till you get back. Get going.'

Bastard! Macro swore silently. Bestia had no idea of the letter's significance, or whether it was even genuine. But he dare not take the risk. Communications to legates took strange routes these days, even from the highest sources. Better to let someone else take the blame if the letter proved to be worthless.