thank you to remember that.’
A difficult silence fell over the other officers in earshot of the sharp exchange, but the hubbub in the rest of the tent continued and a moment later the men on either side of Cato and Macro had returned to their good-humoured banter. But the mood between the two friends remained soured for the rest of the feast.
As the last of the dishes were cleared away and the officers began to rise and take their leave, Cato made his way over to the junior tribune responsible for supplies on the general’s staff.
‘Gaius Portius, a word.’
A short, round-faced young officer with a mop of dark curly hair turned from his companions and smiled blearily at Cato. ‘Yes? P-prefect Cato, isn’t it?’
Cato stared at him coldly. He himself had only drunk the one cup of wine, as he disliked the feeling of being drunk, or more particularly the consequences of the feeling, and was quite sober.
‘I wish to speak to you about the supply situation.’
‘Of course, sir. First thing in the m-morning. Oh, hang on. The hunt. After that then, sir. S-soon as possible.’
‘I wish to speak now, Portius.’
The younger officer hesitated a moment, as if he might protest, but Cato’s stern expression brooked no defiance and the tribune turned to his friends. ‘You fellows carry on. I’ll s-see you in the mess.’
His comrades exchanged sympathetic looks with Portius and he clapped a couple of them on the shoulder as they stumbled out of the tent. Portius turned back to Cato and tried to focus his mind. ‘I’m all yours, sir.’
‘Good. Since you seem to have some trouble remembering my name, I’ll remind you. Quintus Licinius Cato, Prefect of the Third Thracian Cavalry and, for now, the commander of the baggage train escort. Mind you, you should already be aware of that, given how many requests I’ve sent to headquarters over the last month chasing up our rations and the kit my two units require, urgently. But I’ve had no response. It’s not an acceptable state of affairs, is it, Tribune Portius?’
The tribune raised a hand in protest. ‘Sir, I understand your situation. However, yours is not a front-line command. Supplies are limited and there are other units with a higher pr-priority.’
‘Bollocks,’ Cato snapped. ‘The auxiliaries and legionaries under my command are front-line troops. We don’t need to prove our worth. In any case, the general has entrusted us with guarding the baggage train. There wouldn’t be any bloody supplies if we failed in our job. If my horses and men go without adequate feed and rations then they’re not going to be on top form should the enemy decide to strike at the wagons and people I’m protecting. My men are going to be even less effective if they can’t get their kit repaired due to lack of the materials needed to fix them. We’re short-handed as it is. If we are attacked and the enemy manage to break through, it will be in no small part your responsibility, Tribune Portius. I will make sure that everyone knows it, from the common soldier right up to the general, and the Emperor back in Rome.’ He leaned forward so that their faces were no more than a foot apart and tapped the tribune firmly on the chest. ‘Think what that will do to your prospects. You’ll be lucky if your next post is supervising the sewers in some desert shithole on the edge of the known world.’
Portius edged back and shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, sir. If I could give you everything you wanted I would. But I have to d-decide which commander’s requests are justified.’
‘And I’ve just told you why mine are. From now on you are going to see to it that my Thracians and Centurion Macro’s legionaries are given what are they are due and what they need. If you don’t then I am going to hunt you down at headquarters, or wherever you drink with your friends, and I’m going to give you a bollocking in front of them that neither you nor they are going to forget
A difficult silence fell over the other officers in earshot of the sharp exchange, but the hubbub in the rest of the tent continued and a moment later the men on either side of Cato and Macro had returned to their good-humoured banter. But the mood between the two friends remained soured for the rest of the feast.
As the last of the dishes were cleared away and the officers began to rise and take their leave, Cato made his way over to the junior tribune responsible for supplies on the general’s staff.
‘Gaius Portius, a word.’
A short, round-faced young officer with a mop of dark curly hair turned from his companions and smiled blearily at Cato. ‘Yes? P-prefect Cato, isn’t it?’
Cato stared at him coldly. He himself had only drunk the one cup of wine, as he disliked the feeling of being drunk, or more particularly the consequences of the feeling, and was quite sober.
‘I wish to speak to you about the supply situation.’
‘Of course, sir. First thing in the m-morning. Oh, hang on. The hunt. After that then, sir. S-soon as possible.’
‘I wish to speak now, Portius.’
The younger officer hesitated a moment, as if he might protest, but Cato’s stern expression brooked no defiance and the tribune turned to his friends. ‘You fellows carry on. I’ll s-see you in the mess.’
His comrades exchanged sympathetic looks with Portius and he clapped a couple of them on the shoulder as they stumbled out of the tent. Portius turned back to Cato and tried to focus his mind. ‘I’m all yours, sir.’
‘Good. Since you seem to have some trouble remembering my name, I’ll remind you. Quintus Licinius Cato, Prefect of the Third Thracian Cavalry and, for now, the commander of the baggage train escort. Mind you, you should already be aware of that, given how many requests I’ve sent to headquarters over the last month chasing up our rations and the kit my two units require, urgently. But I’ve had no response. It’s not an acceptable state of affairs, is it, Tribune Portius?’
The tribune raised a hand in protest. ‘Sir, I understand your situation. However, yours is not a front-line command. Supplies are limited and there are other units with a higher pr-priority.’
‘Bollocks,’ Cato snapped. ‘The auxiliaries and legionaries under my command are front-line troops. We don’t need to prove our worth. In any case, the general has entrusted us with guarding the baggage train. There wouldn’t be any bloody supplies if we failed in our job. If my horses and men go without adequate feed and rations then they’re not going to be on top form should the enemy decide to strike at the wagons and people I’m protecting. My men are going to be even less effective if they can’t get their kit repaired due to lack of the materials needed to fix them. We’re short-handed as it is. If we are attacked and the enemy manage to break through, it will be in no small part your responsibility, Tribune Portius. I will make sure that everyone knows it, from the common soldier right up to the general, and the Emperor back in Rome.’ He leaned forward so that their faces were no more than a foot apart and tapped the tribune firmly on the chest. ‘Think what that will do to your prospects. You’ll be lucky if your next post is supervising the sewers in some desert shithole on the edge of the known world.’
Portius edged back and shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, sir. If I could give you everything you wanted I would. But I have to d-decide which commander’s requests are justified.’
‘And I’ve just told you why mine are. From now on you are going to see to it that my Thracians and Centurion Macro’s legionaries are given what are they are due and what they need. If you don’t then I am going to hunt you down at headquarters, or wherever you drink with your friends, and I’m going to give you a bollocking in front of them that neither you nor they are going to forget
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