Under the Eagle Read online

  The recruits self-consciously did their best to adopt the pose while the drill instructors went down the ranks, making adjustments where necessary. Once they were content Bestia continued. ‘Next thing. When standing at attention you must at all times fix your eyes straight ahead – whatever happens. And I mean whatever happens, ladies. If bloody Venus herself rides past accompanied by a thousand naked virgins and I see any one of you so much as flicker his eyes to one side, I will beat the living shit out of him. Understand? I SAID, DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’

  The recruits flinched before nervously replying in an overlapping wave of yesses.

  ‘Louder! I want to fucking hear you this time!’

  ‘YES, SIR!’ The recruits roared.

  ‘Better . . .’ Bestia smiled. ‘Think of yourselves as a part of one body. You will move, talk and think as one from now on . . . Right then, over to the armourer for your weapons. Now, when I say, “Prepare to march . . . march!” you will lead off on your left foot and follow me keeping in position. I will call out the step and I’ll keep it slow. Right then, ladies. Prepare to march! March! Left. Right. Left. Right . . . Left . . . Left . . . Left.’

  Led by the centurion and flanked by the drill instructors, the recruits ambled off in a long straggling column. Cato tried to keep in time but found that the recruit in front of him, Pulcher, had a short stride, and Cato had to concentrate hard on shortening his pace so as not to collide. It took a considerable act of faith to believe that any army could get two such differently proportioned men to march at the same pace. Almost as if the gods had decided to prove the point Cato scraped his boot down Pulcher’s ankle.

  ‘Shit! Watch it, you bastard!’ Pulcher turned angrily.

  ‘You! No speaking in ranks!’ A drill instructor shouted. ‘You’re on a charge! Get moving!’

  The stocky recruit scowled once at Cato and quickly fell back into step. A moment later Pulcher hissed over his shoulder, ‘You’ll pay for that, mate.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cato whispered back.

  ‘Sorry ain’t good enough.’

  ‘It was a mistake.’

  ‘Tough shit.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth, before you get me into any more trouble.’

  Cato marched silently behind Pulcher, making sure that his feet kept a safe distance behind the man’s heels.

  The recruits looked confused, Macro reflected with a smile as he watched them from the chief armourer’s desk. They had all received, and signed for, their issue of helmet, mail shirt and dagger, and swaggered around the armoury the way he had seen thousands of new recruits do before. The thrill of wearing a soldier’s uniform for the first time was ageless and the recruits looked at each other admiringly. Then, the armourers had started issuing the weighted wooden swords, large rectangular wicker shields and training spears. The recruits were staring at their weapons dumbfounded, holding them at arms’ length in disgust.

  ‘Always the same, isn’t it?’ Macro grinned.

  ‘One-day wonders.’ Scaevola complained. ‘They never learn. What is wrong with young men today?’

  ‘Same problem as ever. Even you were like them once.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Scaevola spat from his toothless mouth. ‘Now tell me, young Macro, what are you doing here? Don’t see you from one year to the next. Last time we had a quiet drink, you were a bloody legionary. Now look at you. Centurion Macro. Bloody legion’s gone to the dogs.’ He looked up and caught sight of the twinkle in the centurion’s eyes. ‘If you’ve just come by to wind me up . . .?’

  ‘Not this time.’ Macro smiled and raised his cup. ‘Just to share some wine with a veteran, and exchange the odd scrap of news.’

  ‘The odd scrap of news!’ Scaevola said contemptuously. ‘I know why you’re here.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be anything to do with the bloody inventory the legate’s ordered, would it?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Macro reached over with the flask and topped Scaevola up. ‘Why would I be interested in that?’

  ‘You’d be the only one in the legion who wasn’t.’ Scaevola took a swig. ‘Anyway, I’m not saying nothing. Orders.’

  ‘Yes,’ Macro repeated thoughtfully. ‘Orders. I wonder where we’re being sent? Hope it’s somewhere warm for a change. I’m bloody sick of Germany. Freezing in winter, baking in summer and it’s impossible to get any decent wine – cheaply that is.’

  The last remark was pointed. The wine they were drinking was from Macro’s last jar of Falernian, not the acidic Gaulish brew the local traders peddled. He hoped Scaevola appreciated the gesture, and also hoped that it might loosen the veteran’s tongue. It wasn’t just for curiosity – a centurion needed to plan ahead. It was useful to know where the Legion was being sent so that he could prepare for the transfer and buy in whatever he needed for the journey before the news broke officially and supplies were snapped up and the local traders charged premium prices. With a tip of his head Scaevola emptied his cup and Macro instantly refilled it. ‘Wherever we go, I hope there’s something decent to drink.’

  ‘Fat chance!’ Scaevola snorted. ‘You’d better enjoy this stuff. Won’t be much booze over there.’

  ‘None at all?’ Macro feigned horror.

  ‘None.’ Scaevola replied, then abruptly stood up and shouted over Macro’s shoulder. ‘There’s nothing bloody wrong with that sword! Hold it properly!’

  Macro turned on his stool and searched out the target of Scaevola’s anger. Standing out, as usual, was that infernal new boy, examining his wooden short sword as he held it by the tip of the point.

  ‘But, sir. This isn’t a proper sword. It’s wood.’

  ‘Of course it’s bloody wood.’

  As Centurion Bestia pushed his way through the crowd of recruits to see what the fuss was all about he bawled out. ‘What? You causing trouble again? What’s the matter now? Sword the wrong size?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s wooden. Not a proper sword, sir.’

  ‘Wooden? Of course, it’s bloody wooden. It’s not a proper sword because you’re not a proper soldier. If you become a real soldier, then you get to play with the real thing.’

  Bestia filled his lungs to address all the recruits. ‘As some of you may have realised, like sonny boy here, the weapons you have been given are not real. Because you do not yet deserve the real thing. If we just handed out dangerous weapons to you ladies you’d be injuring each other in no time. The army does not wish to save our enemies the effort. Before you can hold a sword you must respect it. You must learn how to use it properly. Same goes for the spear. You may find your weapons heavy. That’s because they’re twice the weight of the standard issue. You are soft, idle scum and we need to build you up and make men of you. We can only do that by training and exercise, and there’ll be plenty of it, ladies. So get used to the weight. Now then, the sword belt is fastened with the sword hanging to the right, NOT to the left – like I’ve got it. That’s for officers only . . . Hold your spear in your right hand, shield in the left and get into four ranks outside . . . Now!’

  The recruits placed their shields and spears down and struggled with the stiff buckles of their swordbelts before grabbing their equipment and fleeing towards the door.

  ‘Excellent stuff this wine,’ Scaevola hinted. ‘Shall we have another?’

  There was hardly any left in the flask and Macro made sure that Scaevola had the lion’s share, saving the dregs for himself.

  ‘What were we talking about?’ Scaevola asked.

  ‘Drink. You were saying there’s no good drink where the Legion’s going.’

  ‘Did I?’ Scaevola raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I suppose that means the far east,’ Macro carried on casually. ‘Nothing decent to drink, just that crap they make out of fermented goat’s milk, so I’ve heard. Or worse, it might even be Judea.’

  He watched Scaevola’s face for any flicker of response, but the chief armourer merely took another draught of wi
ne and nodded. ‘It might be Judea . . . It might not.’

  Macro sighed with frustration – getting information out of the canny old veteran was harder than getting the clap off a vestal virgin. He decided to attempt a new line of enquiry.

  ‘Well, have you indented for any lightweight tunics?’

  ‘Now why would I do that?’ Scaevola frowned. ‘Why on earth would I indent for those?’

  Macro took a deep breath, fighting back his growing irritation at Scaevola’s smug avoidance of the one answer he sought. ‘Look here, Scaevola. Just tell me what you know. Just one word. Just the name of the place we’re going. Just the name of the province will do. And I promise I won’t tell another soul. You have my word.’

  ‘Sure.’ Scaevola smiled. ‘Until someone comes up to you with a flask of wine and tries to loosen your tongue. I have my orders. The legate wants to keep it quiet for as long as possible.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Let’s just say that the men won’t be best pleased when they find out where we’re being sent.’ Scaevola drained his cup. ‘Now I must get back to work. Vespasian wants the inventory completed as soon as possible.’

  ‘Well, thanks,’ Macro said bitterly as he rose from the table. ‘Thanks for nothing.’

  ‘Not at all!’ Scaevola beamed. ‘Drop by any time.’

  Macro didn’t reply as he turned and made for the door.

  ‘Oh, Macro!’ Scaevola called after him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you do drop by, feel free to bring some more of that wine along.’

  Macro ground his teeth and stamped out of the armoury.

  Chapter Four

  Vespasian was wearing the full dress uniform of a legion commander as he mounted the podium at the side of the parade ground. The silvered greaves, breastplate and helmet caught the light of the midday sun and shone brilliantly. The red crest and cloak lifted to a faint wind and behind him stood the standard bearers carrying aloft the golden eagle of the Second Legion and the image of the Emperor Claudius – a rather over-flattering likeness, thought Cato, who had last seen the Emperor spluttering food while attempting to conduct a conversation at an imperial dinner. Below the eagle hung a bottom-weighted square of red leather upon which the words ‘Augusta’ had been embroidered in gold letters.

  The recruits faced the podium in four ranks with Bestia and his drill instructors five paces to front. All were standing silently, spears and shields grounded to the sides, as demonstrated to them shortly before. Chests were thrust out, chins raised and shoulders squared, even though Cato couldn’t help feeling slightly ridiculous with what seemed to be an over-large wicker basket to one side and a child’s wooden toy to the other. But still the sense of occasion filled his breast as he gazed solemnly at the podium where Vespasian was making the ritual offering of two cockerels to the gods. He washed his hands in the ceremonial bowl, dried them on a silk cloth and turned to face the assembled recruits.

  ‘I, Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasian, Legate of the Second Legion, Augusta, by gracious decree of the Emperor Claudius, pronounce favourable omens on those here assembled for the purpose of enrolment in the Second Legion, and do hereby request and require those here assembled to undertake the oath of allegiance to the Legion, to the legate, to the Senate and People of Rome as vested in the body and person of the Emperor Claudius. Legionaries, raise your spear and recite the oaths with me . . .’

  Two hundred right arms swept straight up and sunlight glinted on the shimmering spear tips.

  ‘I swear by the gods of the Capitol, Jupiter, Juno and Minerva . . .’

  ‘That I will faithfully execute the orders of those placed over me . . .’

  ‘By the will of the senate and people of Rome

  ‘As embodied in the person of the Emperor Claudius . . .’

  ‘Furthermore, I swear by the same gods . . .’

  ‘That I will defend the standards of my legion and my century . . .’

  ‘Unto the last drop of my blood. This I swear!’

  As the last echoes died away, all was still for a magical moment and Cato felt a lump rise in his throat. The oaths had made him a different man. He was now set aside from the rest of society, in a new order of existence. He could be ordered to his death on the legate’s whim and he would be compelled to obey. He had pledged his life to protect an inanimate lump of gold atop a plain wooden staff. Cato doubted the sanity of the oath he had taken. It was wanton irresponsibility to pledge unquestioning obedience to any man that fate, nepotism or merit placed over him. Nevertheless . . . there was something else, an overwhelming gush of excitement and a feeling of belonging to a group imbued with the mystique of an exclusively male society.

  At a gesture from Vespasian, Bestia ordered the recruits to ground spears.

  ‘New recruits to the Second Legion,’ said the legate. ‘You are joining a unit with a proud tradition and I demand that you honour that tradition every waking moment for the next twenty-six years. The months ahead of you will be hard, as I’m sure Centurion Bestia has already told you.’ He smiled. ‘But they are crucial in making you into soldiers I can be proud to command. A legionary is the highest trained, hardest fighting man in the known world – and that means we must mould you into a very special kind of person. Years of experience will see to the rest. As I look down at you, I see countrymen and men from the cities. Most of you are volunteers, some conscripted. Your past is your own affair, not the army’s. Whatever you were in civilian life you are soldiers now and that is how you will be judged. You are fortunate men. You have joined the Legion at a time when it is about to make history.’

  That made Cato’s ears prick up.

  ‘In years to come you will be celebrated as conquerors, as men who dared to challenge one of the last great mysteries at the edge of the known world. Think on that, and let it be your inspiration while you train. You are in good hands. You could find no better person to train you than Centurion Bestia. I wish you luck and have every confidence that you will succeed.’

  Back to the clichés, Cato groaned inwardly.

  ‘Carry on, centurion.’ Vespasian nodded to Bestia and then left the platform followed by the standard bearers.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Bestia turned to face the recruits. ‘Well, ladies, that completes the enrolment. You are all mine now. And training begins immediately after the midday meal. I want you back here then. Any later and I’ll stripe your back with my cane. Dismissed!’

  The entire afternoon had been spent on basic drill without a moment to sit down and Cato’s legs and arms ached abominably from the strain of holding his heavy training equipment. He desperately wanted to sleep, to rest his body and drift away from the hard world he had been forced into. But sleep would not come. Strange surroundings, reflections on the day and anxieties about the future all combined in a whirling bout of mental activity that drove sleep away. He turned on to both sides to try and find the most comfortable arrangement afforded by the uncomfortable bunk, but either way the hard wooden slats could easily be felt through the worn woollen cover of the mattress. His sleeplessness was compounded by the frequent roars and cries from the dice game that was going on in the next section room. Not even the thick bolster pulled over the head could do much to keep the noise out.

  But finally sleep came, despite all, and Cato had slowly rolled on to his back, mouth opening in a snore – when a pair of hands roughly shook him back into consciousness. His eyes flickered open to see a thick mop of oily black hair, dark eyes and broken teeth in a mouth stretched into a cruel grin.

  ‘Pulcher. . .’

  ‘On your feet, you bastard!’

  ‘Do you know what time . . .?’ Cato began lamely.

  ‘Fuck the time. We’ve got business to settle.’ Pulcher grabbed Cato’s tunic near the throat and hauled him down from the bunk on to the floor. ‘I would’ve got here sooner, but Bestia put me on latrine fatigues, thanks to you. You really did drop me in the shit, didn’t you?’

  ‘I-I’m s
orry. It was an accident.’

  ‘Well then, let’s call what I’m about to do to you an accident. Then we’re quits.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cato asked nervously as he scrambled up off the floor.

  ‘Just this.’ Pulcher pulled a short-bladed knife from inside his cloak. ‘A little cut to remind you not to fuck with me again.’

  ‘No need!’ said Cato. ‘I promise I’ll keep out of your way!’

  ‘Promises get forgotten. But not scars . . .’ Pulcher tossed the knife up and caught it by the handle – the point aimed at Cato’s face. ‘On the cheek, that way you’ll remind others not to mess with me as well.’

  Cato glanced around the room, but he was trapped in the corner with nowhere to run to that Pulcher couldn’t reach first. A sudden roar of laughter from the next room attracted his eyes to the wall.

  ‘You shout and I’ll gut you here and now!’ Pulcher hissed. Then he shifted his weight forward.

  Cato could see the attack was imminent and, in desperation, lunged forward, grabbing at the wrist behind the blade with both of his hands. Pulcher had not been expecting the terrified boy to move first and tried to withdraw his hand – too late. The boy’s grip was surprisingly strong and no amount of shaking and jerking could free his knife arm.

  ‘Let go!’ Pulcher snapped. ‘Let go you little piece of shit!’

  Cato made no reply and, instead, suddenly sank his teeth into Pulcher’s forearm. Pulcher cried out and instinctively smashed his free hand into the side of Cato’s head, knocking him back against the bunk. There was an explosion of white inside Cato’s skull before the room swirled back into vision. Pulcher was looking down at a dark oval patch on his arm where Cato’s teeth had broken the skin.

  ‘You’re dead!’ Pulcher stooped into a crouch, knife at the ready. ‘You’re fucking dead!’

  Suddenly a broad shaft of light from the corridor flowed into the room as the door was swung open.