time. You might have something in common.’
Cato shrugged. He doubted that he and Maximius had anything in common. The cohort commander’s disdain for the young centurion had become evident to Cato over the few days that they had served together. What was more painful was the thought that the other centurions of the cohort, apart from Macro, might share the sentiment.
An order barked out from the smothering darkness, commanding the men to stand to attention, and Cato recognised Figulus’ voice. As iron-nailed boots stamped to the dry ground with a rippling thud like distant thunder, Maximius hurried over from the brazier to join his officers.
‘Must be the legate! Stand to.’
Maximius strode two paces to the front and stiffened like a rod. Behind him the other centurions stood in a line, shoulders back, chins raised and arms held tightly to their sides. Then all was quiet, apart from the champing and stamping of the horses. The sounds of several marching men approaching reached the centurions at the gatehouse and moments later Vespasian and a handful of staff officers emerged from the gloom and into the orange glow of the braziers. The legate strode up to the centurions and returned their salute.
‘Your men look well turned out, and keyed up for a fight, Maximius.’
‘Yes, sir. They can’t wait to get stuck in, sir.’
‘Glad to hear it!’ Vespasian stepped closer to the cohort commander and lowered his voice. ‘You’ve got your orders, and you know the importance of your role in today’s fight.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any last questions?’
‘None, sir.’
‘Good man.’ Vespasian reached out his hand and they clasped each other’s forearms. ‘One last battle. By the end of the day it should all be over. May the gods be with you today, Centurion.’
‘And with you, sir.’
Vespasian smiled and then turned to face east, where the first hint of light was filtering up from the horizon. ‘Time for you to get moving. I’ll share a jar of wine with you and your men tonight.’
The legate stepped back and led his staff officers up the wooden steps on to the walkway above the gate.
Maximius turned to his centurions. ‘Back to your units! Prepare to march.’
Cato and Macro saluted and trotted away from the gate, back down the column of silent men. Cato could pick out the highly polished shield bosses gleaming dully as he passed by; Maximius had given an order for the water-proofed leather shield covers to be left in the men’s tents to reduce the burden they had to carry. It had better not rain, thought Cato, well remembering the awful weight of a water-logged shield.
Macro peeled off when they reached the Third Century and gave a quick parting nod to Cato as the youngster made his way to the rear of the column where Optio Figulus waited beside the standard of the Sixth Century. As yet the long staff carried only one decoration beside the unit’s square identity pendant: a round disc with a profile of the Emperor Claudius stamped upon it, awarded to every century in the army of General Plautius following the defeat of Caratacus outside Camulodunum nearly a year ago.
Cato smiled bitterly to himself. A year ago. And here they were again, ready to do battle with Caratacus once more. For the last time. Even if there was a victorious outcome to the coming battle Cato was almost certain that the Roman legions would still not have heard the last of Caratacus. A year in this barbarous island had taught him one thing above all else: these Britons were too foolish to know the meaning of defeat. Every army they had sent against the Eagles had been bloodily defeated. And yet the Britons still fought on doggedly, no matter how many of them were cut down. For their sake, and the sake of their women and children, Cato hoped that the day’s battle would finally break their will to resist.
Cato filled his lungs. ‘Sixth Century will prepare to advance.’
There was a grating scrape in the darkness as his
Cato shrugged. He doubted that he and Maximius had anything in common. The cohort commander’s disdain for the young centurion had become evident to Cato over the few days that they had served together. What was more painful was the thought that the other centurions of the cohort, apart from Macro, might share the sentiment.
An order barked out from the smothering darkness, commanding the men to stand to attention, and Cato recognised Figulus’ voice. As iron-nailed boots stamped to the dry ground with a rippling thud like distant thunder, Maximius hurried over from the brazier to join his officers.
‘Must be the legate! Stand to.’
Maximius strode two paces to the front and stiffened like a rod. Behind him the other centurions stood in a line, shoulders back, chins raised and arms held tightly to their sides. Then all was quiet, apart from the champing and stamping of the horses. The sounds of several marching men approaching reached the centurions at the gatehouse and moments later Vespasian and a handful of staff officers emerged from the gloom and into the orange glow of the braziers. The legate strode up to the centurions and returned their salute.
‘Your men look well turned out, and keyed up for a fight, Maximius.’
‘Yes, sir. They can’t wait to get stuck in, sir.’
‘Glad to hear it!’ Vespasian stepped closer to the cohort commander and lowered his voice. ‘You’ve got your orders, and you know the importance of your role in today’s fight.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any last questions?’
‘None, sir.’
‘Good man.’ Vespasian reached out his hand and they clasped each other’s forearms. ‘One last battle. By the end of the day it should all be over. May the gods be with you today, Centurion.’
‘And with you, sir.’
Vespasian smiled and then turned to face east, where the first hint of light was filtering up from the horizon. ‘Time for you to get moving. I’ll share a jar of wine with you and your men tonight.’
The legate stepped back and led his staff officers up the wooden steps on to the walkway above the gate.
Maximius turned to his centurions. ‘Back to your units! Prepare to march.’
Cato and Macro saluted and trotted away from the gate, back down the column of silent men. Cato could pick out the highly polished shield bosses gleaming dully as he passed by; Maximius had given an order for the water-proofed leather shield covers to be left in the men’s tents to reduce the burden they had to carry. It had better not rain, thought Cato, well remembering the awful weight of a water-logged shield.
Macro peeled off when they reached the Third Century and gave a quick parting nod to Cato as the youngster made his way to the rear of the column where Optio Figulus waited beside the standard of the Sixth Century. As yet the long staff carried only one decoration beside the unit’s square identity pendant: a round disc with a profile of the Emperor Claudius stamped upon it, awarded to every century in the army of General Plautius following the defeat of Caratacus outside Camulodunum nearly a year ago.
Cato smiled bitterly to himself. A year ago. And here they were again, ready to do battle with Caratacus once more. For the last time. Even if there was a victorious outcome to the coming battle Cato was almost certain that the Roman legions would still not have heard the last of Caratacus. A year in this barbarous island had taught him one thing above all else: these Britons were too foolish to know the meaning of defeat. Every army they had sent against the Eagles had been bloodily defeated. And yet the Britons still fought on doggedly, no matter how many of them were cut down. For their sake, and the sake of their women and children, Cato hoped that the day’s battle would finally break their will to resist.
Cato filled his lungs. ‘Sixth Century will prepare to advance.’
There was a grating scrape in the darkness as his
Similar Books
