Centurion (4 page)

‘Best to go easy on them,’ Cato suggested. ‘We can’t afford to lose any before the campaign begins.’

‘Go easy on ‘em?’ Macro frowned. ‘Will I fuck. If they can’t hack it now, then they never will when the real fighting starts.’

Cato shrugged. ‘I thought we needed every man.’

‘Every man, yes. But not one makeweight.’

Cato was silent for a moment. ‘This is not the Second Legion, Macro. We can’t expect too much from the men of an auxiliary cohort.’

‘Really?’ Macro’s expression hardened. ‘The Second Illyrian ain’t just any cohort. It’s my cohort. And if I want the men to march, fight and die as hard as the men of the legions, then they will do it. Understand?’

Cato nodded.

‘And you will do your part in making that happen.’

Cato’s back stiffened.’Of course I will, sir. Have I ever let you down?’

They stared at each other for a moment before Macro suddenly laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Not yet! You’ve got balls of solid iron, boy. I just hope the rest of the men can match you.’

‘So do I,’ Cato replied evenly.

Macro rose to his feet and rubbed his buttocks, which had lost a little feeling after some hours on the hard wooden bench of the inn. He picked up his centurion’s vine stick. ‘Let’s go.’

They set off through the forum, already filling with brothel touts and sellers of trinkets and the first of the off-duty soldiers from the camp. Fresh-faced recruits hung together in loud packs as they made for the nearest bars, where they would be fleeced by experienced conmen and swindlers who knew them for what they were and had all manner of petty rackets at their fingertips. Cato felt a twinge of pity for the recruits but knew that only experience would teach them what they needed to know.A few sore heads and the loss of their purses would ensure they kept their wits about them in the future, if they lived long enough.

As ever, there was a strict division between the men of the legions and those of the auxiliary cohorts. The legionaries were paid far more and tended to regard the non-citizen soldiers of the Empire with a degree of professional disdain – a sentiment which Cato could understand, and Macro wholly agreed with. The feeling extended beyond the camp and into the streets of Antioch where the men from the cohorts generally kept a respectful distance from the legionaries. But not all of them, it seemed. As Cato and Macro turned on to one of the streets leading from the forum they heard an angry exchange of shouts a short distance ahead. Beneath the glow of a large copper lamp hanging over the entrance to a bar a small crowd had gathered round two men who had tumbled out into the street and now rolled in the gutter in a mad flurry of blows.

‘There’s trouble,’ Macro grumbled.

‘Want to give it a miss?’

Macro watched the fight for a moment as they approached and then shrugged. ‘Don’t see why we should get involved. Let ‘em sort it out amongst themselves.’

Just then there was a brief fiery glimmer in the hand of one of the fighting men and someone cried out, ‘He’s got a knife!’

‘Shit,’ Macro growled. ‘Now we’re involved. Come on!’

He increased his pace, and thrust aside some of the other men who had come out of the bar to investigate the commotion.

‘Oi!’A burly man in a red tunic turned on Macro.’Watch where you’re going there!’

‘Hold your tongue!’ Macro raised his vine stick so that the man, and all the others, could see it, and pushed his way through to the men fighting in the gutter. ‘Break it up, you two! That’s an order.’

There was one final scuffle and a deep explosive grunt and then the men rolled apart. One, a thin wiry man in a legionary tunic, moved like a cat on to his feet and rose in a crouch, ready to continue the fight in an instant. Macro rounded on him, brandishing his vine stick.

‘It’s over, I said.’

Then Cato saw the small blade in the man’s hand. It no longer glittered, but was obscured by a dark film that dripped from the point. On the ground the second man had risen up on his elbow while his other hand clutched at his side. He gasped for breath and winced in agony.

‘Fuck . . . Oh, shit it hurts . . . Bastard’s stuck me.’

He glared at the legionary for an instant, then groaned in pain and slumped back on the ground in the wan glow of the lamp overhead.

‘I know him,’ Cato said softly. ‘He’s one of ours. Caius Menathus, from one of the cavalry squadrons.’ He knelt down beside the man and felt for the wound.The auxiliary’s tunic was sodden with the warm gush of blood when the knife had been withdrawn and Cato glanced up at the men clustered round.

‘Get back!’ he ordered. ‘Give me some room!’

Cato had left his vine cane at the camp, and his youth caused some of the veterans to hesitate to obey his command. But the men from the Second Illyrian, Menathus’ companions, recognised their officer and drew back at once. After a brief moment the others followed suit and Cato turned again to the injured man. The tear in the cloth was small but the blood was flowing freely, and Cato quickly pulled the tunic up to expose the red-smeared flesh of the man’s torso. A faintly puckered wound, like a small mouth, glistened in the glow of the lamp and disgorged a steady pulse of blood. Cato clamped his hand over the wound and pressed hard as he glanced up at the nearest men.

‘Get a board of wood, something to carry him on, now! And you, run back to the camp and get hold of a surgeon and send him to the hospital. He’s to be ready for us the moment this man arrives. Tell him Menathus has been stabbed.’

‘Yes, sir!’The auxiliary saluted and turned away, running down the street towards the town gates.

As Cato turned back to Menathus, Macro stepped cautiously towards the legionary holding the knife.The man had backed away from the crowd towards the opposite side of the street and was still in a crouch, eyes staring wildly as Macro approached him.

Macro smiled and held out his hand. ‘That’s enough trouble for tonight, son. Give me the knife, before you do any more damage.’

The legionary shook his head. ‘Bastard had it coming to him.’

‘I’m sure he did. We’ll sort it all out later. Now give me the knife.’

‘No. You’ll have me arrested.’ The man’s voice was slurred with drink.

‘Arrested?’ Macro snorted. ‘That’s the least of your troubles. Drop the knife before you make it worse for yourself.’

‘You don’t understand.’ The legionary waved the knife towards the man on the ground. ‘He cheated me. In a game of dice.’

‘Bollocks!’ a voice cried out. ‘He won fair and square.’

There was a chorus of angry agreement, matched a moment later by furious denials.

‘SILENCE!’ Macro roared.

At once the men stilled their tongues. Macro glared round at them and then returned his attention to the man with the knife.’What’s your name, rank and unit, legionary?’

‘Marcus Metellus Crispus, optio, fourth century, second cohort,Tenth Legion, sir!’ the man rattled out automatically. He even attempted to stiffen to attention as he said it, but staggered drunkenly to one side after a moment.

‘Optio, give me the knife. That’s an order.’

Crispus shook his head. ‘I ain’t going in the guardhouse for that cheating bastard.’

Macro pursed his lips thoughtfully and then nodded. ‘Very well then, but we’ll have to deal with this matter first thing in the morning. I shall have to speak to your centurion.’

He started to turn away, and Crispus relaxed a moment and let his guard down for the first time. Then there was a blur. Macro’s cane swept up and out and arced round viciously as he swirled back towards Crispus. There was a sharp crack as the blow connected with the man’s head and Crispus collapsed. His knife clattered on to the street a short distance away. Macro stood over him, arm raised, but there was no movement – the man was out cold. Macro nodded with satisfaction and lowered his cane.

‘You four.’ He gestured to some men from the Second Illyrian. ‘Scrape this piece of shit up and take him back to our guardhouse. He can stew there while I sort this out with his commander.’

‘Wait.’ A man stepped from the crowd and loomed over Macro. He was a head taller and broad to match and in the orange light of the lamp his face looked hard and weathered. ‘I’ll take this man back to the Tenth. We’ll deal with it.’

Macro stood his ground and sized the man up.’I’ve given my orders. I’m placing this man under arrest.’

‘No, he’ll go with me.’

Macro smiled faintly. ‘And who might you be?’

‘The centurion from the Tenth Legion who’s telling you what’s going to happen,’ the man smiled back.’Not a pissing little centurion from an auxiliary cohort. Now, if you auxiliary boys wouldn’t mind moving along . . .’

‘Small world,’ Macro replied. ‘I’m not a centurion from an auxiliary cohort either. I’m the prefect of the Second Illyrian, as it happens. I keep my vine cane for old times’ sake. From my days as a centurion of the Second Legion.’

The other officer stared at Macro for a moment before stiffening and saluting.

‘That’s better.’ Macro nodded. ‘And who the fuck are you?’

‘Centurion Porcius Cimber, sir. Second century, third cohort.’

‘Right then, Cimber. This man’s in my custody.You find your legate and explain the situation to him. His man will be disciplined for taking a knife to one of mine.’

Macro was interrupted by a deep groan from the ground as Menathus suddenly writhed, breaking free of Cato’s hold. The blood pumped out at once.

‘Where the hell’s that carrying board?’ Cato yelled, then pressed his hands on the wound again and leaned over Menathus. ‘Keep still!’

‘Shit . . . I’m cold,’ Menathus muttered and his eyes rolled aimlessly as the lids flickered. ‘Oh . . . shit, shit . . . it hurts.’

‘Hold on, Menathus,’ Cato said firmly. ‘We’ll get the wound seen to.You’ll be all right.’

The crowd of soldiers, and the handful of townspeople who had joined them, stood and gazed on the scene in silence as Menathus groaned, his breath coming in sharp ragged hisses. Then he started trembling violently and his body spasmed, every fibre tense as rock for an instant, before he slumped back on to the street, his breath escaping from his lips in a long last sigh. Cato pressed his ear to the man’s bloodied chest for a while and then drew back, withdrawing his hand from the knife wound.

‘He’s gone.’

For a moment the crowd was still. Then one of the auxiliaries growled, ‘Bastard murdered him. He’s going to die.’

There was an angry chorus of agreement and at once the crowd shuffled into two groups, as auxiliaries and legionaries confronted each other. Cato saw hands bunch into fists, men crouching slightly as they braced their legs to charge, and then Macro strode between them and raised his arms into the air.

‘That will do! Enough! Keep your distance there!’ His expression was furious as he stared from side to side, daring the men to defy him. Then he nodded to Centurion Cimber. ‘Take your men back to the camp. Now.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Cimber saluted and thrust the nearest of them down the street towards the gate. ‘Move, you bastards! Show’s over.’

He continued to push and shove the angry legionaries away from the bar and the body lying in the street. One of the auxiliaries called after them.’You ain’t seen the last of us! There’s a score to settle for Menathus!’

‘Silence!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Shut your mouths! Centurion Cato?’

‘Yes, sir?’ Cato stood up, wiping his bloodied hands on the sides of his tunic.

‘Give Cimber a head start and then get our men back to camp. Make sure that the prisoner doesn’t come to any harm.’

‘What about Menathus?’

‘Take him as well. Get the hospital orderlies to prepare the body for a funeral.’

As they waited for the legionaries to reach a safe distance Cato edged closer to his commander and spoke softly. ‘Not a good situation. Last thing we need is for the men to enter a campaign with bad blood between them and the boys from the Tenth.’

‘Too right,’ Macro grumbled. ‘And now that our man’s dead, there’s no future for Crispus either.’

‘What’ll happen to him?’

‘Knifing a fellow soldier?’ Macro shook his head wearily. ‘No doubt about it. He’ll be condemned to death. And I doubt that Crispus’ execution will be the end of it.’

‘Oh?’

‘You know what soldiers are like for bearing a grudge. It’s bad enough when the men belong to the same unit. But this will lead to a feud between the Second Illyrian and the Tenth, mark my words.’ Macro gave a deep sigh. ‘And now I’ll have to write up a bloody report for the governor and see him first thing in the morning. I’d better be off. Give me a moment, then get our lads moving.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll see you later, Cato.’

As Macro strode off down the street Cato stared at the body at his feet. The campaign had not even begun and already they’d lost two men. Worse, if Macro was right, the damage done by a single drunken brawl would fester in the hearts of the men. Just when they needed every ounce of their wits about them if they were to defeat the Parthians.

The body of the auxiliary had been placed on a bier and carried to the pyre by his comrades just before dawn. The pyre had been constructed a short distance from the camp gates. The dead soldier’s century had mounted the honour guard, but almost every man of the cohort had been there to bear witness. Macro had noted their sullen, vengeful mood while he gave a brief oration for Menathus and then lit the pyre. The men watched the flames catch the oil-drenched wood and then crackle into life, sending up a swirling vortex of smoke and sparks into the clear sky. Then, as the pyre began to collapse in on itself, Macro nodded to Cato to give the order to return to camp and the men turned away quietly and marched off.

‘Not in the happiest of moods, I think,’ Cato muttered.

‘No.You’d better find them something to do. Keep ‘em occupied while I see Longinus.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know,’ Macro said tersely. ‘You’re the smart one. You decide.’

Cato glanced at his companion in surprise but kept his mouth shut. He knew that Macro had spent the whole night dealing with the report and the preparations for the funeral, on top of the previous day’s drinking, and his black mood was inevitable. So Cato simply nodded.