The Eagles Conquest

'That's not very fair, sir.'

'No it isn't,' agreed Macro. 'Not fair at all, but right now that's bloody wonderful. About time our century got a break, and this is it. So let's just cheer up and make the most of it, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

The thought of making good the losses of his sadly depleted century was most gratifying, and Macro downed the dregs of wine in his battered cup, poured himself another and downed that. Then he paused to let out a gut-wrenching belch that turned heads from the men nearby, and lay back on the ground, arms crossed under his head. He smiled, yawned and closed his eyes.

Moments later, familiar deep snores rumbled from the shadows beyond the glow of the cooking fire, and Cato cursed his fate at not being able to get to sleep first. The rest of the century had also eaten their fill, and drunk more wine than was good for them since there would be no sentry duties for them tonight at least. Nearly all were asleep, and for a while Cato sat hugging his knees, close to the fire. In its wavering heart the orange glow curled and flowed in a hypnotic fashion and he found his wine-befuddled mind drifting off to Elysian reveries. A vision of Lavinia effortlessly interposed itself before the flames, and he allowed himself to contemplate the loveliness of the image before he laid his head down on his folded cape and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Thirty-Five

'Name?' Macro barked at the legionary standing in front of the desk. 'Gaius Valerius Maximus, sir.'

'Tribe?'

'Vitellius.'

'How long have you served with the eagles?'

'Eight years, sir. Seven with the Twenty-Third, before it was disbanded and I was sent to the Eighth.'

'I see.' Macro nodded gravely. The Twenty-Third had been heavily implicated in the Scribonianus mutiny and had paid the ultimate price for their tardy loyalty to the new Emperor. Be that as it may, the man standing before him was a veteran and looked tough enough. More tellingly, his kit was in perfect condition; belts and buckles gleamed in the sunlight, and he had invested in a set of the new segmented armour that was becoming popular in the army.

'Let's see your sword, Maximus,' Macro growled.

The legionary reached to his side and smartly withdrew the sword from its sheath, turned it round and held the handle towards the centurion. Macro respectfully closed his fist round the handle and lifted the blade up for close inspection. The standard of care with which it had been maintained was immediately evident, and a light touch to the edge revealed a pleasing sharpness.

'Good! Very good.' Macro handed the weapon back. 'You'll get your unit assignment by the end of the day. Dismissed!'

The legionary saluted, turned and marched away, a little too stiffly for Macro's liking.

'Shall I put him down for the Second, sir?' asked Cato, sitting at Macro's side, four scrolls unrolled in front of him. He dabbed his pen in the ink and held it poised above the Second's scroll.

Macro shook his head. 'No. Can't use him. Look at the left leg.' Cato saw a vivid white line ru

Macro raised his eyes to the line of legionaries waiting to be assigned. 'Next man!'

As the day wore on, the long line of replacements was slowly whittled down, and the lists of names on Cato's scrolls grew longer. The process was not completed until late in the evening, when Cato checked his lists by lamplight against the tally sent from the Eighth Legion's headquarters to ensure that no names had been missed out. To his credit, Macro had balanced out the numbers so that each legion got replacements in proportion to their losses. But the best men went to the Second Legion.

The next morning Cato rose at first light and had four men from his century round up each legion's replacements and quarter them according to their allocated units so that they got used to their new identity as soon as possible. Macro busied himself at headquarters chasing up the Second's replacement equipment. Somehow the requests had been misplaced, and a clerk had gone off to look for them, leaving the centurion sitting on one of the benches lined up outside the headquarters entrance. As he sat waiting, Macro began to feel like some cheap client awaiting his patron back in Rome, and shifted about angrily on the bench until finally he could stomach it no more. Storming into the tent he found the clerk back at his desk with the requests lying on one side of the desk.

'Found 'em then? Good. Now I'll come with you while we get things sorted.'

'I'm busy. You'll have to wait.' 'No. I won't. On your feet, laddie.'

'You can't order me around,' the clerk responded sniffily. 'I'm not army. I'm part of the imperial service.'

'Oh really? Must be a cushy number. Now let's go, before you delay the war effort any longer.'

'How dare you? If we were in Rome I'd report you to the prefect of the Praetorian Guard.'

'But we're not in Rome,' Macro growled, leaning across the desk. 'Are we?'

The clerk saw the prospect of imminent violence in the centurion's glowering expression.

'Very well then, sir,' he conceded. 'But let's make this quick.'

'Quick as you like. I'm not being paid by the hour.'

With Macro in tow, the clerk scurried round the depot and authorised the provision of all the requested weapons and equipment, as well as carts to carry them on the march back to the Tamesis.

'I can't believe you don't have any transports available,' Macro challenged him.

'Afraid not, sir. All available shipping has been sent to Gesoriacum for the Emperor and his reinforcements. That's why we've been sent ahead. To help out with the admin.'

'I wondered what your lot was doing at headquarters.'

'When something needs organising properly,' the clerk puffed out his chest, 'the experts have to be called in.'

'Oh, really?' Macro sniffed. 'How reassuring.'

After the midday meal Macro assembled the new recruits for his century and had them parade in front of his tent. They were all good men; fit, experienced and with exemplary records. When he led the Sixth Century against the Britons again, they would cleave a path right through the heart of the enemy ranks. Satisfied with his selection, he turned to smile at Cato.

'Right then, Optio. You'd better introduce this lot to the Second Legion.'

'Me, sir?'

'Yes, you. Good practice for command.'

'But, sir!'

'And make it inspiring.' Macro nudged him. 'Get on with it.' He stepped back into his tent and, sitting on a stool, calmly began to sharpen the blade of his dagger.

Cato was left standing alone in front of two ranks of the hardest looking men he had ever seen. He cleared his throat nervously and then stiffened his spine and stood as tall as he could, hands clasped behind his back as his mind raced for suitable words.

'Well then, I'd just like to welcome you to the Second Legion. We've had a pretty successful campaign so far and I'm sure that soon you will all be as proud of your new legion as you were of the Eighth.' He glanced along the lines of expressionless faces and his self-confidence withered.

'I-I think you'll find that the lads of the Sixth Century will make you feel welcome enough; in a way, we're like one big family.' Cato gritted his teeth, aware that he was wallowing in a mire of cliches. 'If you have any problems you ever want to talk over with anyone then the flap of my tent is always open.'

Someone snorted derisively.

'My name's Cato, and I'm sure I'll get to know all your names quickly enough as we make our way back to the legion… Erm. Anybody want to raise any questions at this stage?'