‘A good unit, that. One of my best. Has been ever since the temporary commander took charge. Centurion Quertus has been hitting the enemy hard, by all accounts. I’ll expect you to do the same when you take charge.’ Ostorius turned his gaze to Macro. ‘And you?’
‘Appointed to the Fourteenth Legion, sir.’
‘I see.’ The governor nodded slowly and then continued, ‘Then you’ll both be joining the main column commanded by Legate Quintatus. He’s a fine officer, but he doesn’t tolerate those who fail to come up to the standards he sets. Be that as it may, I need every man I can get now. Officers more than ever, given the rate at which we have been losing them. I dare say there’ll be a vacancy amongst the senior centurions of the Fourteenth for you, Macro. In fact, I imagine you’ll be one of the most experienced in the legion, for as long as you survive.’
Macro felt a surge of irritation at the governor’s comment. He did not deserve to be spoken to as if he was some no-hoper, rear-echelon outpost commander.
‘I intend to survive long enough to get my discharge and the gratuity that’s coming to me, sir. No barbarian is going to stop that. Many have tried in the past, and paid the price.’
‘Bold words, Centurion.’ A faint smile flickered across the governor’s lips. ‘And tell me, exactly what makes you such a dangerous proposition to our enemies in this cold, forsaken island that Rome insists on adding to the empire?’
Macro was momentarily stuck for an answer as his mind flashed back over recent years. The street fighting in Rome, then the campaign in the sweltering heat, glare and dust of southern Egypt. Before that, the suppression of the slave revolt in Crete and the defence of Palmyra against a horde of Parthians. And earlier, dealing with fanatical Judaean rebels, a secondment to the imperial navy in a campaign against a nest of pirates plaguing merchant ships in the Adriatic Sea. That was after a long period of service with the Second Legion which had guarded the Rhine frontier, before being assigned to join the army that had invaded Britannia and crushed the native armies led by Caratacus. It was a notable period of service by any standard and Macro had won his promotion to centurion on merit — unlike some, who owed their position to powerful family connections. Yet Macro was not prepared to make a song and dance about it in front of the governor. He cleared his throat.
‘I’ve been on detached service for the last few years, sir. Before that I served with the Second, on the Rhine, and afterwards here in Britannia.’
‘Detached service? That is something of a euphemism for spying these days. What exactly was the nature of your, ah, detached service?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell you the details, sir.’
‘Then at least tell me who you were working for.’
Macro felt uncertain, and glanced quickly at Cato, but his friend’s expression was fixed and unreadable as he faced forward. Macro took a deep breath. ‘The imperial secretary, Narcissus.’
‘You worked for that snake?’ Ostorius’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you here on his orders?’
Macro was angered by the suggestion and sucked in through gritted teeth, but before he could respond Cato spoke up.
‘If that were the case, sir, then we’d hardly divulge that information. In any case, I give you my word of honour that we no longer serve Narcissus. We are here as soldiers. To serve you, the Emperor and Rome. Nothing more.’
‘Your word of honour, eh?’ Ostorius sniffed. ‘There’s precious little of that commodity being traded in Rome these days.’ He leaned back on his stool and rubbed the small of his back. ‘I have little choice but to take your word for it. But I warn you, if I get one hint that either of you are here for any reason other than soldiering, I’ll throw you to the natives and let them deal with you. The Druids have some very interesting ways of disposing of their prisoners.’
‘We know that, sir. We’ve seen it with our own eyes,’ Cato responded, resisting the urge to shudder as he recalled his encounter with the Druids of the Dark Moon, back in the early days of his life in the legions when he served as a lowly optio in Macro’s century. Brief visions of the sacrificial victims and the wild appearance of the Druids flitted before his mind’s eye and Cato hurriedly thrust all thought of them aside.
‘And what about you, Prefect?’ The governor stared at Cato. ‘How much action have you seen? That scar on your face tells part of the story, but you seem a little young to have reached the rank you hold. Is your father a senator? Or some wealthy freedman, anxious for his family to have a leg up the path of honour? How old are you?’
‘I am in my twenty-sixth year, sir.’
‘Twenty-six? Younger than I thought. And who in your family has influenced your rapid promotion to prefect?’
Cato had long since accepted that he would be a victim of his humble birth throughout his life. No matter how good a soldier he was, no matter that his father-in-law was a senator, he would never be allowed to shake off the stigma of being the descendant of a freedman who had once been a slave at the imperial palace.
‘I have no family, sir. Other than my wife, Julia Sempronia, whom I married when I achieved my present rank. Her father is Senator Sempronius. But I have never approached him to seek preferment.’
‘Sempronius?’ The governor’s eyebrows lifted briefly. ‘I know him. He served as my tribune in the Eighth Legion. A good man. Hard-working and, more to the point, trustworthy. Well, if he’s prepared to let you wed and bed that precious daughter of his then you must have some quality. But do you have the experience to go with the rank of prefect, I wonder?’
‘I have had the honour of serving at the side of Centurion Macro ever since I joined the army, sir. My friend is inclined to be modest about his experience. Suffice to say that we have fought German tribesmen, Britons, pirates, Judaeans, Parthians and Numidians in our time. We know our trade.’
Ostorius nodded thoughtfully before he responded. ‘If that is true then you have a truly enviable record, Prefect Cato. I welcome such men. They are needed more than ever if we are to settle our affairs here in Britannia and turn this bloody wilderness into something that bears a passing resemblance to civilisation.’ He waved a hand. ‘At ease, gentlemen.’
Cato and Macro relaxed their postures as the governor collected his thoughts and then addressed them again. ‘It’s important that you are aware of the situation here. I don’t know what they told you back in Rome, but any notion that we are merely engaged in a mopping-up operation before the conquest of Britannia is complete is — how shall I put it? — a little wide of the mark. It’s been seven years since Emperor Claudius had his Triumph to celebrate the conquest. Seven long years. . In all that time we have pushed forward the frontier one painful step at a time. Even those tribes we have conquered, or made treaties with, can’t be trusted any further than you can comfortably spit a rat. Just two years back, when I was about to launch an offensive against the Silures and Ordovices, I gave the order for the Iceni to be disarmed to make sure our backs would be safe from treachery. A reasonable request to make of someone who calls themselves an ally, you might think. But those bastards rose up in rebellion the moment I led my army into the mountains. I had no choice but to abandon the campaign and turn back to deal with them. The fools had holed up in one of their ridiculous earthworks. They soon gave in after we broke into their defences. It was all over soon enough, but I was forced to spend the rest of the campaigning season constructing forts and roads across their territory to keep watch on them.’
Cato pursed his lips as he recalled the proud but touchy Iceni warrior who had acted as a guide when he and Macro had undertaken a mission deep into enemy territory for the commander of the army that had invaded Britannia. Cato could well imagine how Prasutagus might have been outraged by the order to hand over his weapons. The native tribes of the island were ruled by a warrior caste who would consider being disarmed the gravest insult to their prickly sense of pride. No wonder there had been an uprising.
‘While I dealt with the Iceni,’ Ostorius continued, ‘Caratacus took full advantage of the respite to win over the mountain tribes and become their warlord. By the time I could turn my attention back to him he had gathered an army large enough to defy me. Which is why I had to send a request to Rome for reinforcements. Now that I have them it is time to deal with Caratacus and his followers once and for all.’
Macro nodded approvingly, relishing the prospect of the coming campaign, and the chance to win some booty and possibly further promotion. Though he was reluctant to speak of his ambition, Macro, like many soldiers, dreamed of becoming the senior centurion of a legion, a rank that conferred many privileges and much honour on its holders. With it came social elevation to the equestrian class; only the senators were more exalted, apart from the Emperor, Macro conceded. If there was much fighting in the months ahead then the ranks of the centurionate
