Under The Eagle

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When the eagle and the other standards were removed from the fortress strong-room at dawn the next day, the legate and his staff breathed a sigh of relief. Soldiers, being the superstitious lot that they were, interpreted any problem in moving the eagle at the start of a campaign as an ill omen of the worst kind. But today the eagle emerged smoothly from headquarters and marched down the Via Praetoria to take its place in the colour guard at the front of the First cohort. The significance of the moment was observed by all those within sight of the eagle: the Legion was about to go off to war for the first time in years – minor border skirmishes excepted. An expectant hush settled over the fortress as every soldier, muleteer and camp follower waited for the order. Only the animals, insensible as ever to the affairs of mankind, moved; hooves scraped on cobblestones, bits jingled on harnesses and tails flicked to and fro in the spring morning.

The legate lowered his arm and the Legion's senior centurion snapped his head back to bellow out the order.

'First century! First cohort! Second Legion! Advance!'

In fine order, the red-cloaked ranks of the First cohort stepped out along the Via Praetoria, past the vast vehicle park and through the west gate where the rising sun caught them in its light so brightly that their cloaks glowed like fire. Close on the heels of the First cohort marched the headquarters company led by Vespasian and the tribunes mounted on smartly groomed horses.

Cohort followed cohort and then the ponderous lines of baggage trundled into their appointed place in the line of march. The last cohort, assigned for rearguard duties, followed the baggage train out of the fortress and the end of the column crawled up the slope away from the west gate. Many of the locals from the settlement watched the Legion depart with genuine sorrow. The Second Legion would be missed, particularly since they were to be replaced by a mere thousand auxiliary troops, two cohorts from Spain whose poor quality made them fit for garrison duties only. The auxiliaries, not being Roman citizens, were paid only a third as much as the legionaries. The local economy was going to be hit hard in the following years, and even as the final ranks of the Legion disappeared from view, a desultory column of civilians was already heading south to find new army bases to live off.

Chapter Twenty

'Halt!' The command was quickly relayed down the column. 'Packs down!'

The legionaries of the Sixth century shuffled to the side of the road and slumped to the freshly churned grass along the verge, far enough from the road to allow quick access for any messengers passing along the column. With a loud sigh, Macro slumped down and rubbed his leg. He had been discharged, at his own request, after the first two days on the road. Hospital wagons were as comfortable as it was possible to make them but, even so, the regular bone-rattling movement punctuated by jarring crashes from potholes was more than he could bear. Enforced lack of exercise made the march difficult but the dogged determination that came with the post of centurion carried him along. And now, some ten days later, Macro was almost back to his previous good health. The scar was still a livid red welt straddling his thigh but it had healed well enough and, apart from an aching stiffness and itch, it troubled him no more than all the other scars he carried.

'Water-carriers coming up, sir.'

'Any stragglers, Cato?'

'Two, sir. Both been placed on a charge.'

'Good. All right, boy, take a break with the rest of us.' He patted the grass at his side. 'The legate's setting a killing pace. It's a wonder we haven't had any more drop out. That's only seven since we set off.'

Cato glanced down as Macro rubbed his thigh again. 'How's the leg today, sir?'

'Fine. Just takes a bit of getting used to.'

A pair of slaves came down the line, pouring watered wine from animal skins into the mess tins held out by eagerly waiting legionaries. The water-carriers were part of a contingent of slaves Vespasian had brought along to carry out menial duties that might slow the Legion down on its quick march to the sea. They moved swiftly from man to man, pausing just long enough to half fill each mess tin. Once they had passed, Cato gratefully sipped the sour-tasting mixture of water and cheap wine. His legs ached terribly and the yoke from which his kit and non-fighting equipment hung was intolerably heavy. He had only managed to keep his place in the line of march through the fear of being seen as weak and unable to keep up with the veterans – the men whom he outranked by virtue of patronage, not merit.

Macro regarded the young man for a moment as he sipped another mouthful from his mess tin and swilled it around his tongue to fully appreciate the refreshing flavour. Cato sat leaning forwards, forearms resting on his knees and hands hanging limply as he stared fixedly into the mid-distance with a strained expression. Macro smiled with almost paternal affection for the boy. Despite all his earlier fears, Cato had turned out well. There was no doubting his guts and his coolness of mind under pressure. And, at last, he was begi

Macro had more cause to be grateful. At the end of each day, Cato freely gave up time to continue the reading lessons, as discreetly as circumstances allowed. Macro was pleased to find there was less to this literacy lark than he had feared. Those dreadful, indecipherable marks were slowly yielding up their secrets and Macro was able to follow the more simple texts in a halting way, dragging his finger from word to word along the scrolls as his lips framed sounds, and gradually extended them into words.

'Packs on!' The cry repeated itself down the line to the Sixth century where Macro stood to repeat the order at parade-ground volume. The century wearily picked itself up from the roadside and shouldered their yokes while the few men with enough energy to indulge in some ad-hoc foraging ran back from the surrounding countryside with knapsacks crammed with fruit and any small livestock they had managed to buy, or steal, from the local farmers. The century stood in line, while up ahead the column rippled into motion as the lead elements moved forward. They were off again, trudging down the paved road that led from Divodurum to the west of Gaul.

Cato, unseasoned as he was, suffered terribly in comparison to the grim-faced veterans. The afternoon's march was agony, particularly since the blisters he had acquired early on the road had burst and he was only just getting over the agonising rawness of the last few days. He had found that the best way of coping was to try and think of other things, examining the gently rolling landscape they were marching through, or turning his gaze inwards to try and occupy his mind. And there lay the problem. As much as he tried to concentrate on matters military there was always Lavinia lurking on the periphery of his consciousness.

That evening, after the century had been fed and the miscreants assigned their extra duties, just as Cato was yawning with arms at full stretch, a slave entered the flickering gloom of the oil lamps lighting the centurion's tent. He glanced about him, message tightly grasped to his chest.

Macro looked up from his desk, where the benefits of acquiring rudimentary writing skills were counterbalanced by the tedious paperwork he could now cope with. He held out a hand. 'Here!'