Centurion Read online

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 and 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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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.

  ‘Weapons drill. With training weapons. That should wear them out.’

  A few hours with the double-weighted swords and wicker shields would exhaust even the strongest of men and a thin smile flickered across Macro’s expression.

  ‘See to it.’

  Cato saluted and turned to follow the men heading in through the main gate. Macro watched him for a moment, wondering when Cato would fully master the drill technique that Macro had taken so many years to become familiar with. Where Macro could shout instructions, and not a little invective, loud enough to be heard across the parade ground for hours at a stretch, Cato had not yet developed his lungs to the same degree and tended to come across as more of a schoolteacher than the front-line centurion he had proved himself to be. A few more years under his belt, M
acro reflected, and the young man would carry it off as naturally as any other officer. Until then? Macro sighed. Until then, Cato would just have to keep proving himself worthy of the rank that so few men of his age had ever risen to. Macro turned towards the gates of Antioch. The governor had commandeered one of the finest houses in the city as his headquarters. No rudely constructed praetorium for Cassius Longinus, then. Nor the relative discomfort of a suite of well-appointed marching tents. Macro smiled grimly. If one thing was for certain in the coming campaign, it was that the army’s general would travel in the kind of luxury that most of his men could only ever dream about as they tramped in full armour under the burden of their heavily loaded equipment yokes.

  ‘I do love a man who leads by example,’ he said softly to himself as he trudged off to his appointment with Longinus.

  The governor of Syria looked up from the report and leaned back in his chair. On the other side of the desk sat Macro and Legate Amatius, commander of the Tenth Legion. Longinus regarded them silently for a moment, and then raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I can’t say I’m terribly happy about the situation, gentlemen. One man dead, and another man facing punishment. I imagine this will cause a lot of bad feeling between your two commands. As if preparing the army for war wasn’t demanding enough, I now have to deal with this.’

  Macro felt his anger rise at the accusing tone of his superior. It was hardly his fault that Menathus was dead. If he and Cato hadn’t stepped in to prevent the situation from escalating out of control, then there’d have been far more funeral pyres casting their pall across the sky outside the camp that morning. It was hardly likely that Crispus was the only legionary carrying a blade in the crowd outside the bar last night. Or that none of Macro’s men was similarly armed. In an atmosphere of drunken dissent the brawl could easily have become more widespread and far more ugly. Macro bit back on his irritation as he replied.

  ‘It is unfortunate, sir, but it could have been worse. We have to make sure that the lads settle down and forget the business as soon as possible. My lads, and those of the Tenth, sir.’

  ‘He’s right.’ Legate Amatius nodded. ‘The, er, matter has to be resolved as swiftly as possible, sir. My man has to be tried and punished.’

  ‘Punished …’ Longinus stroked his chin. ‘And what punishment would be suitable for this man Crispus, I wonder? Clearly an example has to be made, if we are to discourage any more incidents like last night’s.’

  Amatius nodded. ‘Of course, sir. Nothing short of beating will do. That and breaking the man back to the ranks. My men won’t forget that in a hurry.’

  ‘No.’ Macro shook his head firmly. ‘That won’t do. A man has died, needlessly, as a result of Crispus’ pulling a knife. He could have fought it out fairly, and he didn’t. Now he must face the full consequences of his actions. The regulations are clear enough. It was in your standing orders, sir. Any man off duty within the walls of the city was forbidden to carry weapons, I imagine with just such an incident as happened last night in mind. Isn’t that so, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’ Longinus opened his hand towards Macro. ‘And how do you think he should be punished?’

  Macro steeled his heart. He derived no satisfaction from the thought of sending Crispus to his death, but he knew that the consequences of not doing so would cause a great deal of harm to the army’s discipline. He met the governor’s gaze directly. ‘Execution, to be carried out by the men of his century, before the rest of his cohort.’

  ‘Who’s his cohort commander, by the way?’

  ‘Centurion Cator, as it happens,’ Amatius said sharply. He looked at the governor. ‘In his absence, I can tell you that the men would not stand for the punishment Prefect Macro suggests. And why should they? After all, the man he killed was a bloody auxiliary. I regret the death every bit as much as Prefect Macro, but the loss of that man’s life hardly compares to the loss of a legionary, and a Roman citizen. Especially since this was simply the result of some drunken fight in the street.’ He turned to Macro. ‘I know what happened, Macro. I’ve made my own enquiries. It seems that your man cheated the legionary during a game of dice.’

  ‘That’s not what my men say, sir.’

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t, would they? They want the hide off my man. They’d say anything to have that.’

  ‘Just as your men would say anything to save his skin,’ Macro replied icily. ‘I think we have to accept that the men’s accounts will be biased. But I was there. I saw what happened. With respect, sir, you didn’t. Crispus is guilty. He has to be punished according to military law.’

  Amatius frowned for a moment before he replied with forced cordiality. ‘Look, Prefect, I understand your feelings on this. It’s only natural that you’d share your men’s desire for revenge.’

  ‘Not revenge, sir. Justice.’

  ‘Call it what you will. But hear me out. If your man had pulled the knife, you’d want him spared, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘What I want is irrelevant, sir,’ Macro responded firmly. ‘The punishment for such a crime is clear enough.’

  ‘Look here,’ Amatius persisted. ‘Macro, you were once a legionary, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. So?’

  ‘So you must have some loyalty to your comrades in the legions. You would not want a comrade to be executed over the death of some mere provincial levy, surely?’

  Macro felt his blood pound through his veins as his rage swelled at this description of his men as provincial levies. They were the Second Illyrian. The men who had fought off a rebel army, backed by Parthia, and crushed the uprising in Judaea the previous year. The men were tough and had guts, and they had proved themselves where it counted, in battle. Macro was proud of them. Proud enough to place his loyalty to them above anything he owed to the brotherhood of the legions. That thought came to him in a rush and took him by surprise. Then he realised it was true. He had taken to his new command more than he had thought. Macro felt a strong sense of responsibility and duty to his men and he was damned if he was going to let a pampered aristocrat like Amatius try to drive a wedge between him and the men of the Second Illyrian.

  Macro took a deep breath to calm himself before replying. ‘No legionary I know of would stoop low enough to make that kind of appeal … sir.’

  There was a sharp intake of breath as Amatius sat bolt upright and glared at Macro. ‘That’s gross insubordination, Prefect. If you were in my legion I’d break you for that.’

  Longinus cleared his throat. ‘But he’s not in your legion, Gallus Amatius, so he’s not under your jurisdiction. However,’ Longinus smiled, ‘he is under my command and I will not tolerate such dissension between my officers. So, Prefect, I will ask you to withdraw that last remark and apologise.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Go to Hell, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure I will. But not on your say-so. Now you will apologise, or I shall have to find someone else to command the Second Illyrian.’

  ‘I’m sure one of my officers would relish the chance to whip those auxiliaries into shape,’ Amatius added with relish. ‘One of my tribunes perhaps.’

  Macro clenched his jaw. This was unbearable. The two aristocrats were using him for their sport, but much as he would like to openly reveal his contempt for them and their kind – politicians playing at soldiers – he dared not let his pride come before the best interests of his men. Some smart-arsed tribune from the Tenth Legion with a taste for glory was the last thing the cohort needed when it went up against the Parthians. Macro swallowed hard and turned to Amatius with a frigid expression.

  ‘My apologies, sir.’

  Amatius smiled. ‘That’s better. A man should know his place.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Longinus added. ‘But there, that’s settled. We still have to decide what to do about this legionary of yours.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Amatius composed his face. ‘A punishment along the lines I suggested is sufficient, given the circumstances. While I can understand the prefect�
�s feelings on the matter, we are talking about the life of a Roman citizen after all.’

  Macro decided to make one last attempt to reason with the governor and leaned towards him as he spoke. ‘Sir, you cannot allow this man to escape the punishment he is due. You have to think about how it will be seen by the entire army. Unless you make it clear to the men what the consequences will be if they break regulations and carry knives off duty, then they’ll continue doing it, and with things the way they are this won’t be the last death on the streets of Antioch. Believe me, sir, it gives me no pleasure to ask for the man’s death, but you must consider how much damage will be done by sparing him.’

  Longinus frowned, then abruptly stood up and strode across the room to the balcony that overlooked the garden courtyard of the house. Beyond the tiled roof of the slave quarters that backed on to the garden he stared out across the city, over the walls to the long palisade that enclosed the army’s camp on rising ground a short distance beyond. A faint cloud of dust to one side of the camp indicated some activity: a patrol, or one of the units training on the expanse of ground that had been cleared and flattened for exercises and the occasional parades. He stared for a moment longer and then turned back to the two officers still seated in front of his desk.

  ‘Very well, I’ve made my decision.’

  Cato slowly made his way down the line of posts set to one side of the huge exercise ground. The infantry contingent of the Second Illyrian stood in lines in front of each post, every man armed with a wooden training sword with a heavy lead weight in the pommel, and another just ahead of the wide rim of the guard. In their left hands they clutched the handles of their wicker shields, also designed to be heavier than their battlefield equivalent. If a man could learn to wield such equipment with ease while training then he would fight with greater strength and confidence against an actual enemy. But for now, the auxiliaries just charged at their practice posts with a roar and set about them with a savage flurry of blows until Cato blew his whistle, and then each man would recover, and retire to the end of the line while the next man charged the post.