The Eagle In the Sand

Then he noticed the doubtful look on the man's face and glanced down and saw that a great streak of bood splashed across his shoulders and down his left arm. His fingers fumbled over the blood, but found no injury.'Not mine.'

The soldier puffed out his cheeks in relief, nodded and turned away, hurrying after his comrades as they drove the brigands back. Macro closed his eyes and wiped the grit from his face on the back of a hairy forearm, then looked around.The men from the fort were chasing after the surviving brigands, thrusting at them and their mounts with spears. On the ground close to Macro lay the bodies of three of the brigands, and the decurion.The latter lay sprawled on his back, eyes staring up at the sun, mouth hanging open. A sword blade had opened his throat to the spine and the ground about him was drenched with blood.

'Poor bastard…' Macro mumbled, before he realised that the decurion had sacrificed himself to save the man he had been charged with escorting safely to Bushir. 'Poor brave bastard,' Macro corrected himself.

'Who are you?' a voice demanded.

Macro turned and saw an officer approaching him. At the sight of the plumed feathers in the man's helmet crest, Macro instinctively stiffened to attention before what he assumed was a superior.

'Centurion Macro!' he snapped, and saluted.

The officer saluted back, then frowned. 'Mind explaining what's going on, sir?'

'Sir?' Then it dawned on Macro that the officer was a centurion like himself, and only a freshly minted one at that. He regarded the man anew. 'Who are you?'

'Centurion Gaius Larius Postumus, adjutant at the fort, sir.'

'Where's Scrofa?'

'Prefect Scrofa? He's in the fort, sir. Sent me out to cover your force.'

'Leads from the front, eh?' Macro couldn't help sneering for a moment. 'Never mind. I've been sent to take command of the Second Illyrian.These men are my escort. We were ambushed several miles back.'

Macro glanced round and saw that the fight was over. Most of the brigands had pulled back and were staring silently at the fort from a small rise some distance away. The officers of the Illyrian troops had recalled their men and were forming them up beside the survivors of the cavalry squadron.Two of their men lifted the decurion off the ground and gently placed his body across the saddle of his horse before leading it towards the gate. Macro shook his head. It had been a close thing. But even though he had escaped this time he didn't suppose that Ba

'Sir?' Postumus tilted his head and looked questioningly at Macro. 'Anything the matter?'

'Yes. My friend's out there. We need to go and find him as soon as possible. I want you to give orders for the cavalry contingent to mount up.'

'With respect, sir, that is a decision for Prefect Scrofa to make.'

Macro rounded on the man. 'I told you. I'm in command now.'

'Not until the appointment has been properly authenticated, sir.'

'Authenticated?' Macro shook his head. 'We can deal with that later. Right now, what matters is Centurion Cato.'

'I'm sorry, sir. I take my orders from Prefect Scrofa. If you want to help your friend, you'll have to speak to the commanding officer.'

Macro fumed for a moment, balling his hands into fists as he glared at the young centurion. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he nodded. 'Very well. There's no time to waste. Take me to Scrofa.'

They made their way back into the fort with the last of the troops who had been sent out and Macro was able to take a closer look at the men as he made his way through them.Their kit was only adequately maintained, but they looked tough enough. Certainly, they had moved to engage the enemy horsemen willingly. That was always something of a test of any unit. The men in the legions could be counted on to hold their ground against any kind of attack. It was different with auxiliaries since they were more lightly armoured and not so well trained. But these lads had faced the enemy horsemen without any trouble. Macro nodded approvingly. The men of his new command – the Second Illyrian – seemed to have some potential and Macro was determined to build on that. Then he stepped through the gateway and saw the poorly maintained barrack blocks stretching out in rows on either side of the gate. There would be plenty of work to do before the cohort came up to Macro's standards. Opposite the barracks were the grain stores, infirmary, stables, headquarters building, officers' quarters and the cohort commander's house.

The Second Illyrian was a mixed cohort. Of over nine hundred men who served in the unit, a hundred and forty were mounted. There were cohorts like this on every frontier, where the mixture of cavalry and infantry allowed for greatest flexibility for those officers charged with policing the local tribes and keeping watch for any attempt by barbarians to cross the border. A strong force of cavalry allowed the cohort commander to scout a wide area, chase down any barbarian raiding parties, and when necessary, launch quick punitive raids into enemy territory.

Such cohorts were usually commanded by centurions who had transferred from the legions, a process regarded as a promotion for those who were judged ready to hold independent commands. Despite his earlier reservations, Macro realised that Scrofa had to have shown some promise to be selected for this command. Macro did not fool himself that he too must be a cut above the rest. His own command of the cohort was to be a temporary affair; little more than a cover until the present crisis had been resolved.

Once the last man had passed through the gates, Centurion Postumus ordered them closed and the locking bar replaced in its sockets. Macro indicated the survivors of the cavalry squadron, leading their exhausted mounts away from the gateway. 'You had better organise some stabling and quarters for the men.'

'Yes, sir. After I've shown you to the prefect.'

'Where is he?'

'In his quarters, sir.'

'Right, I can find him. You see to these men, all right?'

'Very well, sir,' Postumus responded reluctantly. 'I'll join you as soon as they have been taken care of.'

Macro entered the prefect's house, which was guarded by two well-turned-out men in full equipment. Even though they stood under a sun shelter, they were sweating profusely in the heat. They snapped to attention at Macro's approach and as he passed between them he noticed, with wry amusement, a bead of sweat suspended on the tip of one man's nose. Inside he paused momentarily to adjust to the shaded environment. An orderly was sweeping the hall and Macro turned to him.

'You there!'

'Yes, sir?' The man stiffened his back at once and saluted.

'Show me to Prefect Scrofa's office.'

'Certainly, sir,' the orderly responded with a deferential bow of his head, and led Macro through the hall to a staircase at the rear. They climbed to the next floor where the rooms were spacious and designed to allow any available breeze to be cha

'This way, sir.' The orderly indicated an open door at the end of the landing. Macro strode past him and entered the commander's office, and paused in surprise at the luxurious appointments. The walls were richly painted with mythic scenes of a heroic nature. The furniture was well crafted and finished with neat decorative flourishes, and there was a couch to one side covered in comfortable cushions. A glass bowl stood on a small side table, filled with dates and figs. Prefect Scrofa, wearing a light tunic, sat behind a large wooden desk. To one side of him stood a huge red-haired slave, steadily directing air at his master with a fan. Scrofa was a wiry man in his early thirties with pale skin and dark hair that had receded on either side of his central fringe. On his left hand he wore the ring signifying that he came from the equestrian social class. He looked up irritably as Macro marched into the room, covered in dust and stained with the decurion's blood.