'You're in a good mood!' Macro stopped whetting the blade of his sword and grinned at Cato. Normally he would send his weapon to be sharpened by one of the legionaries on fatigues, but they were at war now, and Macro had to be confident his weapons were honed to their sharpest. He ran his fingers gently back from the point along each edge. 'That letter, I guess.'
'From Lavinia.' Cato gazed dreamily towards the fading bronze sky in the west. The sun had set, and faint fingers of light gilded the underside of scattered clouds. After the beating heat of the day, the air felt cooler at last Even the wood pigeons in the nearest trees sounded more comfortable in the dull haze of the closing dusk. 'First letter I've had from her'
'Still burning a lamp for you, eh?'
'Yes, sir. Seems that way.'
The centurion regarded his optio for a moment and slowly shook his head with pity. 'Not even a man yet and you're straining at the leash to get hitched to the girl. At least, that's how it looks. Haven't you got some wild oats to sow?'
'If it's all the same to you, sir, that's my business.'
Macro laughed. 'All right, boy, but don't say I didn't encourage you when some day you look back on all the lost opportunities. I've met some odd types in my time, but you must be the first lad I've met who's been so smitten that he's not looking forward to getting his leg over the first of the local women we get to grips with.'
Cato looked down, ashamed and bitter. Try as he might, he could not slip into the role of the legionary that Macro was so comfortable with. He was plagued by a painful and perpetual self-consciousness whenever he approached a new challenge.
'Now then, how are those burns? Can you cope?' 'Do I have a choice, sir?'
'No.'
'They hurt like hell, but I can do my duty.'
'That's the spirit! Spoken like a true soldier.'
'Spoken like a true fool,' muttered Cato. 'But you are up to it? I mean, seriously?'
'Yes, sir.'
The centurion cast an eye over the glistening mass of blisters covering Cato's arm then nodded. 'All right then. The legion's moving off at first light. We leave our packs here, and the army's baggage train will bring everything up once we cross the Tamesis. When we're on the far side, the orders are that we dig in and wait for the Emperor to arrive with reinforcements. '
'The Emperor's coming here?'
'In person. Least that's what the legate said at the briefing. Seems he wants to be in on the kill so that he can present himself as triumphant general to the mob in Rome. We get across the Tamesis, and then we're nicely poised to strike west into the heart of Britain, or go east and take the Catuvellauni capital. Either way we keep the natives guessing and meanwhile get ourselves fully rested and ready for the next stage of the invasion.'
'Wouldn't it be better to keep our swords in Caratacus' back, to keep him from re-forming? If we just sit there and wait he can only grow stronger.'
Macro nodded. 'That's what I'd have thought. Still, orders is orders.'
'Are we going to get any replacements, sir?'
'Some cohorts of the Eighth are being sent over from Gesoriacum.
They should catch up with us by the time we cross the Tamesis. Thanks to our losses the Second's been promised the biggest share of the replacements. You up to date with the century's strength returns?'
'Just sent them over to headquarters, sir.'
'Good. Let's hope those bloody clerks see fit to send us our quota.
Not that those idle buggers in the Eighth are up to much. They've spent too long on garrison duty and most will be soft as rotten fruit. You can count on it. Still, a live idle bugger is more use than a dead one.'
Cato could only nod in agreement with such flawless wisdom. Particularly since all the men who had died were now generating a distastefully large amount of paperwork.
'So how are we doing?'
'Sir?'
Macro raised his eyes. 'What's our Current strength?'
'Oh. Forty-eight effectives, including us and the standard bearer, sir.
We've got twelve in the hospital; three of those have lost limbs.' Macro spared the last three a moment's thought, well aware of the fate waiting those who were discharged from the legions. 'Those three, any of them veterans?'
'Two, sir. The third, Caim Maximus, only joined the legion two years ago. Took a sword blow to the knee, nearly cut right through. Surgeon had to amputate.'
'That's tough. Very tough,' Macro murmured, his face all but hidden in the gathering shades of night 'Two twenty-fifths of his gratuity is all he'll get. Not much for a man to survive on.'
'He's from Rome, sir. He'll be eligible for the corn dole.'
'Corn dole!' Macro sniffed contemptuously. 'That's a bloody humiliating prospect for an ex-legionary. No, I can't let him depend on that. He has to have some money to set up in trade. A cobbler wouldn't miss a leg or two. He can do that, or some similar trade. We'll have a collection for Maximus. You do the rounds before everyone turns in tonight. And do him a refund from the funeral club. I doubt if the lads will protest about that. See to it.'
'Yes, sir. Anything else, sir'?'
'No. You can pass the word about tomorrow's advance while you note the contributions for Maximus. Let the lads know we'll be up before dawn. Breakfasted, assembled and ready to move off. Now go to it.'
As he watched the optio's dark form move down the tent line, Macro's thoughts returned to Caius Maximus. He was barely older than Cato, but not nearly as bright. Quite stupid in fact. A big, gangling youth from the slums of the Subura in Rome. Tall, ponderous, with large ears between which a maddening lopsided smile split his face. From the moment Macro had taken charge of the century he had seen Maximus as a casualty waiting to happen, and he had shaken his head in pity at the boy's attempts to cut it in the legion. It gave Macro no satisfaction to be proved right about the lad, and the thought of the thick young invalid trying to survive in a teeming metropolis populated by thieves and rogues of the very worst kind was painful. But the sword that had cut short the lad's career, not to mention his leg, could just as easily have landed on any other man in the century, Macro reflected. It could just as easily have been him or young Cato.
The centurion folded up his tunic and placed it between his harness and his armour so that the dew would not soak it. Satisfied that his weapons were to hand, Macro pulled his wool cape across his body and lay back on the grass staring up into the star-pricked blackness. All around, the darkness was filled with the sounds of an army bedding down for the night. The distant blare of a horn from headquarters announced a change of watch, and then, in the gathering quiet of rows of slumbering men, the centurion fell asleep.
The Eagles Conquest