Текст книги "The Legion"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Five days later Cato and Macro were standing to one side of the makeshift parade ground outside the temple complex. It was late in the afternoon and the regular breeze that swept in from the desert was swirling the dust kicked up by the First Cohort of the legion as it tramped round the circuit, laden with full kit and marching yokes. A number of men had already collapsed from exhaustion and had been hauled aside to recover in the shade of Karnak's outer wall. The stragglers were being driven on by the centurions and optios Macro had selected to act as his drill instructors. Some of them had served in other legions and still clung to the hard-won values that had been instilled before they were posted to Egypt. They shouted abuse and threats at the legionaries, and used their sticks freely to spur the men on.

Macro regarded the scene fondly. 'Like old times. Nothing I like better than getting the men ready for battle.'

'Nothing?' asked Cato with an amused expression.

'All right, there's wine and there's women too. I'm not that picky. Find me a boozy, belligerent Amazon and I'll die a happy man.'

Cato laughed and then turned his attention back to the exhausted men as they paced past the two officers. 'What is the condition of the First Cohort?'

Macro rubbed his chin. 'Most of the men are sound enough. They struggled on the first two days, but they've rediscovered their marching boots. They're ready for the campaign. Battle drill is another matter.'

'Oh?'

'The sword skills are there. They've had regular weapons practice at least. The trouble is that some of the formations are shaky. When I tried each century on forming a testudo there were gaps wide enough to drive a battering ram through. Looked more like an upended colander than a bloody tortoise. They're getting better though, now that I've turned my best officers on them.'

'What about the others?' asked Cato. 'Are some of the officers still claiming to be excused duties?'

Macro nodded sourly. 'When I told 'em to join the men this morning, they refused. I gave them the order, and at once that fat git, Aescher, went straight to Aurelius and asked that he and the others be excused.' Macro discreetly pointed out the officers sitting in the shade of a small shrine at the far end of the parade ground. 'They came straight back with their permission in writing.'

A slave stood to one side cooling them with a large fan made from woven palm leaves while some women from the camp followers sat on their laps and laughed playfully as the officers fondled them. Macro sniffed. 'Smug bastards.'

'Quite,' Cato agreed. 'It does the men no good to see their officers sitting it out. And that includes us. I think we need to set an example, Macro.'

'What did you have in mind, sir?'

'Have all the officers issued marching kit tomorrow morning, whether they are excused from drilling or not. You and me included. And also, find Hamedes and have him join us.'

'Hamedes?' Macro smiled. 'I haven't seen him for days. Bloody little drill dodger.'

'He asked me for permission to visit the local temples. He says he knows some of the priests here and is looking for a position once the campaign is over.'

'And he's doing this while on the payroll as a scout, I take it.'

'Naturally.'

'Then he'll have to earn his pay. I'll march him on to the parade ground myself tomorrow morning.' Macro rubbed his hands at the prospect. 'What kind of drill did you have in mind?'

'A route march down the Nile for the First Cohort. We'll have the legion's senior officers, and Hamedes, at the head of the column where the men can see us, and be sure to let the drill instructors know that the officers are not to be given any slack.'

Macro stared at him with an amused expression. 'What do you hope to achieve?'

'Think of it as an experiment in winnowing. Let's see if we can separate the chaff from the men.' Cato folded his arms and turned his attention back to the men of the cohort again. 'What about the other cohorts?'

'A similar picture. The cohorts led by good officers will be ready as soon as they've had a few more days of hard drilling. The problem units are the Seventh and Ninth Cohorts. They're commanded by cronies of Aurelius.'

'Then add them to tomorrow's route march. The other cohorts can be exercised over the following days.'

'Yes, sir.' Macro grinned briefly. 'What about the auxiliary units?'

While Macro had been put in charge of drilling the legion, Aurelius had ordered him to leave the drilling of the auxiliary cohorts to their prefects. Cato still had oversight of the process. He took a weary breath.

'Both of the infantry cohorts are in fair shape. Their prefects are looking for a chance to prove themselves and win advancement. So they've kept their men on their toes. The Syrian mounted cohort is first class. They know how to look after their horses and they manoeuvre well. The Alexandrian mounted cohort is a different matter. They have something of a superior attitude and their prefect seems to think they are the direct descendants of Alexander's Companion Cavalry. They drink hard and the discipline is a little sloppy. No question of their elan though. I just hope that they last the distance when the army marches. Then they'll have a chance to live up to their self-regard.'

'Or they'll discover that they're a bunch of gutless worms and bolt from the battlefield.'

Cato shrugged uncomfortably. Both men were silent for a moment before Macro continued. 'Any luck with the new legate on the planning front?'

'No. He still refuses to consult me. I've asked him when he intends to lead the army out of Diospolis Magna and he just says we will take the field when the situation is propitious.'

'Propitious?' Macro mused.

'He refused to clarify when I asked him. The thing is, he had better give the order soon, or the enemy will have free run of all the province between here and the cataract. They've already advanced on Ombos. The last report from the garrison there was that the Nubians were about to place them under siege. Even then, Aurelius refused to move.'

'Sounds like our glory-hunting commander is developing cold feet.'

'Perhaps.' Cato did not feel comfortable criticising his commander. In truth he had begun to discover the vulnerability of his position over the last few days. His promotion had elevated him to a position where he should share some responsibility in determining the course of a campaign. Before the suppression of the revolt on Crete, he and Macro had been junior enough simply to be told where to go and who to fight. The strategy was largely determined by other men of higher rank, and officers like Macro and Cato were left to execute their orders. Now, Cato had both rank and experience of command, yet he was still regarded as too fresh-faced or, worse, regarded as too ambitious. How else could someone of his years have advanced to his rank without being ruthless in his ambition? It was a question that those who perceived him as a rival would ask in order to justify their lack of cooperation. It was a double-edged burden, Cato decided, especially as he had never actively pursued elevation to his present rank. It had been conferred on him by those who had valued his achievements in the past. The envy of men like Aurelius would prevent him from providing the best service he could to Rome, and at the same time they would willingly do him down to maintain their own prestige.

With the death of Candidus, Aurelius was the most powerful man along the Nile south of Memphis. If Aurelius was against him then the only course through which he might pursue a complaint was through Governor Petronius in Alexandria. Cato had no patrons in the province. His nearest friend with any influence was Senator Sempronius in Crete – assuming Sempronius had not already relinquished his temporary control of the island and was on his way back to Rome. Cato was on his own, he realised. If he was to have any influence over the direction of the campaign, then he must find a way of working round Aurelius's prejudices towards him. Maybe this was the real test of those promoted to high rank. No longer was he being judged purely on the basis of his talent as an instrument of war. The time had come when political skills were every bit as vital.

'Ah, my chief training officer!' Aurelius greeted Cato as the latter approached his desk at the end of the pool. Torches flickered in brackets attached to the columns and lit up the space with a golden hue. Outside, the sun had just set and the red sky reflected on the surface of the water. Cato hoped that it was not an ill omen for the campaign as he stood erect in front of the legate's desk.

'What can I do for you, Tribune?' Aurelius leaned back in his chair.

'It concerns a training matter, sir. If you recall, you said that I would have complete authority in matters relating to preparing the men for the coming campaign.'

'Yes, I did,' Aurelius replied warily. 'Subject to my ultimate approval, naturally.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Well? How are things proceeding?'

'The soldiers are steadily improving and given time they will be in good shape once the campaign begins. It would help to know when you intend the army to march, sir.'

'Of course.' Aurelius nodded, and gestured towards the sheets of papyrus on his desk. 'As you can see, the need to prepare the men is not the only consideration affecting my decision. There are conflicting reports on the location of the enemy. Rumours are rife. Some say that Prince Talmis is no more than fifty miles away. Others say that he is still camped outside Ombos, besieging the garrison there. The overall picture is very uncertain, Tribune.'

Cato was not surprised. Since the ambush of the previous legate's column, Aurelius had restricted the range of his patrols to within half a day's march of the army's base at Diospolis Magna. Any intelligence of the enemy's movements beyond that margin depended upon questioning travellers or those fleeing the Nubians, and the truth had to be filtered out from rumours and wild speculation.

'It appears that the enemy have rather greater numbers than I thought,' Aurelius continued. 'So I have sent a request to the governor for reinforcements before we proceed.'

'Reinforcements?' Cato raised his eyebrows. 'Sir, when I last spoke with the governor he was adamant that every man that could be spared had been sent here.'

'There is always a way to find more men,' Aurelius responded dismissively. 'In any case, I do not ask for a vast host with which to overwhelm my enemy, merely enough to ensure the job is done well. Until then, it would be imprudent to proceed, even though I am straining at the leash to get to grips with those Nubians.'

Cato briefly wondered if he had ever met so supine a hunting dog. He thrust the thought aside and cleared his throat. 'Sir, it is possible that the enemy are also using this time to call on reinforcements. In any case, the longer they remain on Roman soil the greater the damage they do to the province. The natives are bound to feel resentment that they have been left to the mercy of the invader.'

'All part of the exigencies of war, alas.'

Cato could see that this line of argument would not be productive, and so switched his tactics. He nodded thoughtfully before he continued. 'Something occurs to me, sir.'

'Oh?'

'While I understand your prudence in delaying the opening of the campaign, other men far removed from this theatre of war will wonder at the delay.'

'Only because they lack full understanding of the circumstances,' Aurelius countered.

'Yes, sir. But that will not stop them muttering. My chief fear is that Governor Petronius will anticipate the musings of such men and be concerned lest he be thought to have sanctioned your inaction, as he might see it. When your request for reinforcements arrives, I fear that it may spur the governor's anxiety that the campaign is not being fought to a swift conclusion. Anxiety was ever the enemy of sound judgement, sir. What if the governor felt impelled to replace you with a commander less inclined to prudence? Some hothead who would lead the army in a wild dash straight at the enemy, with little thought.'

Aurelius stared directly at Cato. 'That could lead to disaster. I see what you mean. And there's no shortage of ambitious men in Alexandria who will regard me with envy now that the fates have elevated me to command of the army.' He nodded. 'Men like that thug Decius Fulvius. He's always looked down on me. The thought of that fool being placed in charge of the campaign is frightening.'

'Yes, sir. It is your duty to make sure that the governor has no excuse to send such a man to take command of the army.' Cato did not mention that it was more than likely that Fulvius was still attached to the force in Crete.

'Yes… Yes, it is my duty,' Aurelius nodded. 'Damn, I should never have sent that request. It's too late now.' He closed his eyes and made a quick calculation. 'It will take at least another two days for the message to arrive. Perhaps a day for the governor to react and then five days to send a reply.' He blinked. 'I must move fast. The army must be on the march before any reply can reach Diospolis Magna. Within the next seven days. I must consult my staff.' Aurelius paused, and then looked again at Cato. 'I must apologise. You were here to discuss a training matter, I believe.'

'Yes, sir. It concerns the officers of some of the cohorts. They have been avoiding the unit exercises and drills.'

'That's right. They have other duties to attend to. I gave them permission.'

'So they said. However, once the campaign begins, every legionary and every officer must be able to keep up with the column. We cannot afford to have any men slowing us down, sir. Officers included. As you just pointed out, the legion must march soon, and strike decisively. You cannot permit those officers who are infirm or unfit to hold you back.'

'You're right,' Aurelius agreed quietly. 'They must be made ready for the campaign. They must join their men in the training. I will not allow them to be excused from now on. Is that clear, Tribune? All officers will take part.'

Cato nodded.

'Was there anything else?'

'No, sir. That's all.'

Aurelius regarded him for a moment before he continued. 'Thank you, Tribune Cato. You are a most useful sounding board. It seems there's something more to you than meets the eye.'

It was clear that he had concluded their interview and Cato bowed his head and turned to leave the legate's presence. Only once he had passed through the entrance and entered the colonnade where some of the clerks still laboured at their desks did he permit himself a small smile of satisfaction.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The pale light of dawn bled out across the hazy sky as the dim figures of the legionaries and their officers made their way out of the temple complex and fell in. A small column of carts stood at the rear to pick up those who failed to complete the march. Macro and Cato had drawn full legionary kit from the legion's stores and retained only their crested helmets to signify their rank. It had been a while since either man had last taken part in a formal route march. Cato recalled the tips given to him when he had been a fresh recruit and placed pads of wool beneath his feet inside his boots. He also folded his cloak across his shoulder to provide a rest for the shaft of the marching yoke. His shield, mess tins and kitbag hung from the fork at the end of the yoke and a javelin rested on the other shoulder. A full canteen and a waterskin completed his load and he shuffled slightly to adjust it to a more comfortable position as he stood beside Macro at the head of the column.

A number of the officers were already in place. The more rotund or elderly men regarded Macro sourly, while their more professional comrades tried not to reveal their amusement over their discomfort.

'Happy-looking bunch, aren't they?' Macro grinned. 'Let's see how they look after the first five miles.'

'Forget them,' Cato muttered. 'Worry about me. If I don't get through it then the whole point of the exercise is lost.'

'You'll do. Tough as old boots, that's what you are, thanks to everything I've taught you.'

'I'd hate to disappoint you.'

'And I'd hate to have to use my vine cane on your back if you begin to falter.' Macro looked down at the short, knotted staff he carried instead of a javelin, the same as the rest of the drill instructors who would be marching with the column. 'Those were your orders, sir. No special treatment for officers.'

Cato nodded. 'Though you might consider taking the sting out of the blow if you can, in my case.'

'Ah, if I did it for you then I'd feel obliged to do it for some of those fat fucks standing over there as well.' Macro gestured to the officers taking up their positions. 'And speaking of slackers, where's Hamedes got to?'

Cato turned and looked towards the temple. 'There he is.'

The priest walked quickly towards them and stopped close by with a nervous grin. 'Do you Romans always march loaded down like mules, sir?'

'You'll be silent, unless spoken to,' Macro replied harshly. 'You're in the army now, lad. Until this is over you can forget being a priest.'

Hamedes had also been issued with full kit and Macro looked him over to ensure that everything was in place and correctly fastened. 'Not bad,' he mused. 'The armour fits well. Did you get some help putting it on?'

Hamedes hesitated before he nodded. 'One of the supply clerks showed me, sir.'

'Very well. Fall in with the officers, where I can keep an eye on you.'

'Yes, sir.' Hamedes smiled, then thought better of it, and turned and strode off, taking up position a respectful distance behind the rest of the officers.

Cato nodded at him. 'For a priest he has a pleasing disposition towards soldiering.'

'That he does,' Macro agreed. 'And he'll be tested to the full in the days to come.'

The last of the legionaries came trotting across to join their centuries and when they were in place Macro hefted his yoke on to his shoulder and strode down the column. He breathed in deeply and began to address the column.

'Today's jaunt will take us eight miles down the Nile and back. Nothing that should present a challenge to real soldiers. I am delighted to see my brother officers joining us today.'

A few men laughed in the ranks and there was a brief catcall before one of the optios standing beside the column turned to try and spot the perpetrator. Failing, he roared out, 'Keep your fucking mouths shut, or I'll 'ave you on a charge.'

Macro waited until there was complete silence again. 'Officers and men of the legions are all expected to complete route marches. It is a minimum standard and applies to all, regardless of rank. There is no excuse for any man here failing to finish the march.' He paused and then strode back to the front of the column, a short distance ahead of Cato and the other officers. 'Column! Prepare to march… March!'

Macro paced forward, followed by the rest, four ranks abreast. He led them across the training ground and down the rough track that joined the Nile road. Even this early in the morning the farmers and merchants who were making their way into Diospolis Magna to sell their wares were on the road and they hurriedly pulled aside as the legionaries turned right and began to head north, along the road that followed the course of the Nile.

A few boats were already out, the skiffs of fishermen rowing across the current to inspect their nets, and the larger broad-beamed vessels that carried goods up and down the great river. On the far bank was a thin strip of green vegetation and then the rocky mass of the lifeless mountains rising above the desert.

An hour after the column had set off, the sun had risen over the horizon and the pale yellow disc hung in the haze like an eye surveying the ribbon of water and crops that threaded its way across the great desert of northern Africa. Cato had settled into an easy rhythm; and an early ache that had started at the bottom of his back had faded away and he was starting to feel confident about completing the march. Sweat pricked out from his scalp, saturating his felt helmet liner, and every so often a trickle escaped, coursing down his brow, and he blinked it away rather than transferring the javelin to his shield hand so that he could mop his brow.

Glancing round he saw that some of the officers were already struggling to keep up with the pace. The nearest, a centurion from the First Cohort, was puffing out his full cheeks as he laboured under his kit. One of Macro's training optios fell into step beside him.

'Come on, sir. Put some bloody effort in! I've seen old men march better than that.'

The centurion clamped his lips together and struggled on. Cato turned back, feeling slightly guilty over his plan to break men like that centurion. However, if the man made it through the day then there was obviously more to him than met the eye – though given his girth, Cato thought wryly, that would be something of a challenge. Up ahead, Macro led the way, striding steadily down the road without the slightest sign of tiring.

The heat from the rising sun began to burn the haze and light mist away from the banks of the Nile and the marching men were exposed to its direct rays. The temperature began to rise swiftly and added to the discomfort of the dust kicked up by the passage of thousands of iron-nailed army boots. Every so often the road passed through small villages and little gangs of children would work their way along the column, begging for money in their chirping voices, hurriedly moving on from those soldiers who spat curses or swung a boot at them. Cato just ignored them, concentrating on placing one boot in front of the other as he followed in Macro's tracks. As the sun rose higher, the heat became intense, searing the landscape in its harsh glare. Cato felt the sweat on his back soak through his tunic and plaster it to his skin. Occasionally a cold trickle dribbled down from his armpits and traced its way over his ribs until it caught in a fold of his tunic. His mouth was dry and it was hard to resist the impulse to call ahead to Macro and suggest that he permit the men a short rest to take some water.

After the second hour there was a groan and a clatter and Cato looked back to see that one of the officers had collapsed on the road. A companion stopped and leaned down to help his friend, before an optio pounced, cracking his staff down on the officer's shield.

'What the fuck are you doing? Don't stop, sir! Keep moving!'

'You can't leave him there,' the centurion protested.

'Move!' the optio bellowed into his face, and raised his staff.

The centurion hurriedly straightened up and moved on. The optio remained by the fallen officer and gestured for the legionaries to march round the fallen man. 'Keep moving! Don't stop and gawp! What, you've never seen an officer fall on his face before? Move!'

The column rippled round the prone man and continued its advance without breaking its step. Macro had slowed so that he was just ahead of Cato and muttered with satisfaction. 'There goes the first one. Won't be long before we lose others. Wonder how many more will fall out.'

Cato licked his lips. 'Just as long as I don't.'

'Don't worry. Like I said, I won't let you.'

'Thanks, friend.'

'No need to get sarky, sir. This was your idea, remember?'

'Next time I have a good idea, tell me to mind my own business, eh?'

Macro smiled, but growled, 'Shut up and save your breath.'

Late in the morning, the column passed through a long grove of tall date palms and Macro called a halt and ordered the men to down packs. Cato stepped to the side of the road and let the yoke drop into the grass. He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, and panted for breath. Macro, sweating and breathing heavily but otherwise himself, shook his head pityingly. 'You're going soft. That's what promotion does to a man.'

'Bollocks.' Cato reached for his canteen, pulled out the stopper and raised it to his lips.

'Two mouthfuls.' Macro pointed a finger at him as he strode past to have a word with his instructors. 'Not a drop more.'

Cato nodded, and drank what he was allowed, letting the second mouthful swill round his parched mouth before he swallowed. He looked back along the column. Scores of men lay stretched on their backs, gasping. Amongst the officers he noticed a few absences, the faces of men he had hoped would fail to complete the march. The rest looked grim and determined.

As Macro returned to the front of the column, he stopped beside Cato and took a sip from his canteen. 'Four officers and eighteen of the men have dropped out so far. Not at all bad considering the heat. But then these men are used to it. Eight miles done, I make it. Time for a short rest and then we'll turn back towards the camp.' Macro was silent for a moment before he raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted briefly up at the sun before he took his second sip and capped his canteen. 'That will be the real test of the men. The heat in the afternoon will be crushing. Can't say I'm relishing the prospect. How are you holding up, sir?'

'I'm managing.' In truth Cato's feet were throbbing with pain from the prolonged march on a hard surface and he felt slightly dizzy from his exertions and the heat. But he forced himself to stand upright and look Macro squarely in the eye.

'And you?'

'No problems,' Macro replied as he took in his friend's blanched face. 'If I were you, I'd sit down and rest your legs while you have the chance.'

'Not before you do.'

Macro shook his head. 'Suit yourself.'

He paced slowly along the column, looking down at the officers and men of the First Cohort. They were mostly the product of a blending of the Greek and Egyptian races, darkly featured yet not quite as dark as the natives of the upper Nile. In general they had a somewhat smaller build than the legionaries of the northern frontier of the Empire where Macro had served most of his time. However, they looked tough enough, and they had stayed the distance, so far. But then they should, Macro reflected. The First Cohort was supposed to be the best in every legion. Twice the size of other cohorts, it was entrusted with the defence of the right flank when the legion went into battle. Still, it would be interesting to see how many remained in the column when it returned to camp. The men of the Seventh and Ninth Cohorts had fared as well as their comrades and only a handful had dropped out. Cato had been right to make a point of including the officers, Macro accepted. It had certainly perked the men up-a useful bonus over and above the opportunity to weed out those who were not fit enough for active commands.

As he made his way back down the line to the small group of officers resting beside the road, Macro saw Hamedes sitting to one side. Macro had always assumed that priests were a soft bunch of wasters and was surprised that Hamedes had kept up with the column.

'How are your feet coping?'

The priest stood up as he was addressed and smiled infectiously. 'A most welcome excursion, sir. Though I have to wonder that men who have to carry so much on their backs have any strength left to conquer and hold an empire.'

Macro smiled back and tapped him on the chest. 'That's the secret of our success,' he responded conspiratorially. 'It's because we have the strength left that we win.' Macro took a step back and glanced over the priest. 'You've done well, lad. I'll make a legionary of you yet.'

The young man's face was still for a moment before his smile returned. 'An honour, to be sure. Yet I am a man with spiritual, rather than martial, ambitions. When the campaign is over I fully intend to return to the priesthood.'

'We'll see. My instinct is that you are getting something of a taste for this life. Why else would you stick with us, eh?' Macro clapped him on the shoulder and returned to the head of the column. He picked up his yoke and heaved it up on to his shoulder with a grunt before turning to face back along the column.

'The rest break's over! On your feet!'

There was a chorus of groans and swearing that made Macro smile, then the men stood up and raised their yokes as the optios strode down the line bawling out those who responded too slowly to the order. Each century formed up and stood ready, waiting for the order to resume the march. Macro waited until they were still and silent, then bellowed down the line, 'Column! Advance!'

They shuffled forward, gradually picking up the pace. Macro led them a short distance beyond the belt of palms before leaving the road to march round a shrine and then turning back towards the camp, passing down the tail of the column and the covered carts carrying those who had collapsed on the outward leg. Midday passed and the afternoon breeze picked up, bringing with it the lightest of dust from the desert. The grit caught in the men's mouths and their eyes, adding to the discomfort of the scorching heat that beat down on them. Worse still, the glare made the road ahead shimmer as if a perpetually receding sheet of water lay before them, tormenting them with the prospect of assuaging their growing thirst.

More men fell out of line, and this time fewer of them could be coaxed back into place by the blows of the optios and were left for the carts to pick up. Cato had slowed a little so that he was now marching amid the other officers, a short distance behind Macro. Most of the centurions were coping with the strain of the march well enough, some struggled, and the last of those officers who had been avoiding the drills soon gave in and slumped to the side of the road to await the carts.

Cato had never known such heat, not even when he and Macro had crossed the Syrian desert to Palmyra. His tunic, encased in armour, felt tight against him, constricting his breath as he laboured under the weight of the yoke and the broad shield hanging from it. His feet and legs felt leaden and each step became an effort of will. They passed back through the villages near Diospolis Magna and out came the noisy clusters of children again. This time they were met with silence as the soldiers ignored them, unwilling to waste any breath telling the children to go away.