The Eagles Conquest

Macro nodded with full understanding. All soldiers reached this moment at some point in their lives. He knew that the boy had finally passed the limit of physical and emotional endurance. He was past any exhortation to duty.

'Rest, boy. I'll take care of the lads. But you must rest now.'

For a brief moment it looked as if the optio would try to protest. In the end he nodded and slowly lowered himself onto the grassy river bank and closed his eyes, asleep almost at once. Macro watched him for a moment and then unclasped the cloak from a Briton's body and gently laid it over Cato.

'Centurion Macro!' Vespasian's voice boomed out. 'I'd heard you were dead.'

Macro rose to his feet and saluted. 'You were misinformed, sir.'

'Evidently. Explain yourself.'

'Nothing much to explain, sir. I was knocked to the ground, took one of them with me, and they left us both for dead. Soon as I could, I made my way back to the legion. Arrived just in time to hop on one of the boats in the second wave. Thought Cato and the lads might need some help, sir.'

Vespasian glanced down at the huddled form of the optio. 'Is the boy all right?'

Macro nodded. 'He's fine, sir. Just exhausted.'

Over the legate's shoulder the fresh-faced tribunes and other staff officers mingled with the weary legionaries who had survived the river assault. The legate's presence suddenly caused Macro to frown with concern.

'The lad's finished for the moment, sir. There's nothing more he can do until he has rested.'

'Easy there!' The legate chuckled. 'I wasn't looking to use him for another duty. I just wanted to make sure he was all right. The boy's done quite enough for his Emperor this morning.'

'Yes, sir. He has.'

'Make sure that he gets all the rest he needs. And see to your century. They've performed magnificently. Let' em rest. The legion will just have to manage without them for the remainder of the day.' Vespasian exchanged a smile with his centurion. 'Carry on, Macro. It's good to have you back!'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Vespasian saluted and then turned and marched off to organise the defence of the hard-won bridgehead. The staff officers parted to let him through and then scrambled along behind.

With a final glance to check that his optio was still resting peacefully, Macro went off to see to the comforts of his surviving men. He carefully picked his way over the sprawled bodies and shouted out the order for the Sixth Century to assemble.

Cato woke with a start and sat up, bathed in a cold sweat. He had been dreaming about drowning, held down by an enemy warrior in a river of blood. The mental image slowly dissipated and was replaced with the colour blue which dissolved into orange. His ears filled with the crackle and clatter of campfire cooking. A pungent odour of stew filled his nostrils.

'Better now?' Macro leaned over him. Macro above.

Cato struggled up into a reclining position. It was dusk, the sun had just set and in the faint light he could see the legion camped along the river bank. The bodies had been removed and neat lines of tents stretched out on all sides. The silhouette of the distant rampart and palisade marked the fortifications that had been thrown up around the encampment.

'Want some food?'

Cato looked round and saw that he was lying close to a small fire over which a large bronze pot hung from a tripod. A faint sound of bubbling accompanied the steam gently wafting over the brim and the aroma instantly made him feel ravenous.

'What is it?'

'Hare,' replied Macro. He ladled some into Cato's mess tin. 'The place is thick with them. Never seen so many in my life. Lads have been taking pot shots at them all afternoon. Here you go.'

'Thank you, sir.' Cato put the mess tin down on the grass beside him.

He took the spoon Macro handed him and began to stir the steaming food, impatient to begin eating. At the same time, there was a question he needed answering. 'Sir, how did you do it?'

Macro sat back and hugged his knees with a smile. The blood and filth that had made him such a grim spectacle earlier in the day had been washed away and the centurion sat barefoot in his tunic. 'I wondered when you'd ask. Luck, I guess. Fortuna must have taken a shine to me. I really thought it was all over. Just wanted to kill as many of the bastards as I could before I was taken down. We did manage to hold them for a while. Then some of them got between the shields and caught one of the lads. Once he went down, they were all over us in an instant. One of 'em leaped at me, knocked my sword to one side, and we went down into them bushes beside the path. I managed to get my dagger out and stuck him in the throat. Bugger's blood nearly drowned me!

'Anyway I lay still as the rest of them piled by. They must have thought I was done for, and they were keen as mustard to see to you and the rest of the lads. Once I was sure they were gone, I heaved the Briton off and slid into the marsh. I kept off the tracks and made for the river, and then headed downstream. Had to be careful, though, there were still plenty of them about. I finally hooked up with some of the lads from the Seventh Cohort, and we got back to the legion just in time to see you lot piling into the Britons on the far side of the river. You really have no respect for another man's century, do you? No sooner are you made acting centurion than you throw the lads back into the grinder.'

Cato stopped blowing on the spoonful of stew and looked up. 'The lads wanted to do it, sir.'

'So they say. But I think we've had enough heroics for now. One more fight like that and there won't be a century any more.'

'Did we lose many?' Cato asked guiltily.

'A few. The burial club funds are going to be badly hit,' the centurion added. 'Just hope we can make up the shortfall once the replacements arrive.'

'Replacements?'

'Yes. I had word from one of the clerks on the staff. A column is on its way over from Gaul. If we're lucky we'll get some men from the Eighth. But most of em are new recruits sent up from the legion training depots.' He shook his head. 'Bunch of bloody recruits to nursemaid in the middle of a campaign. Can you believe it?'

Cato said nothing. He looked down into his mess tin and continued eating. When he had joined the Second Legion the last thing he expected was that less than a year later he would be with the eagles fighting for his life in barbarian lands. Technically, he was still a recruit; his basic training was over but he had yet to reach the first a

'Oh, you're all right, Cato! You might not be much at drill, and you've still got to learn how to swim, but you're a good hand in a fight. You'll do.'

'Thanks,' he muttered, not quite certain how best to handle being damned by such faint praise. Not that he minded, being cursed with a temperament that was always suspicious of any praise aimed at him.

Anyway, the stew was delicious and he had already polished off the mess tin and was scraping the bottom with his spoon.

'There's plenty more, lad.' Macro dipped the ladle back into the pot and scooped deep to make sure that Cato got plenty of meat. 'Fill up while you can. In the army the next meal's never guaranteed. By the way, how do the burns feel?'

Cato instinctively reached for the dressing on his side and discovered that it had been changed, and a clean roll of linen had been bound about his chest, tight enough not to slip and yet not too tight to be uncomfortable. A good job had been made of it and Cato looked up gratefully.

'Thank you, sir.'

'Don't thank me. That surgeon did it. Nisus. Seems our century's been assigned to his care, and you've seen to it that he's kept busy.' 'Well, I'll thank him for it sometime.'