‘Not quite so impressive as they looked at Bruccium,’ he commented.
Cato scanned the ranks before he responded. The new legionaries were well turned out in their new kit. Their helmets gleamed and were not yet marked by the scores of small dents, scratches and other imperfections that characterised the helmets of the veterans just returned from a campaign. The same was true of their shields. Nor had they customised their sword belts and scabbards like their more experienced comrades, and the plain leather and brass trims were all fresh from the armouries back in Gaul. Most of the men had already received their basic training after they landed at Isca Dumnoniorum, but they would need much more before they would be fit to stand alongside the veterans of the two cohorts.
‘Let’s have a closer look,’ Cato decided.
They paced to the end of the front rank of the legionaries and began to walk slowly down the line. Macro had intended to allow the veterans to remain in their existing sections of eight and add to them from the new men. From his days as a ranker he knew the value of a close-knit team of men accustomed to living together and fighting alongside each other. But Cato had disagreed and instructed that the existing men were to form the kernels of the reconstituted centuries of the Fourth Cohort. They would be able to pass on their knowledge to the new men. There were six centuries in the cohort once again, albeit understrength, and it had been necessary to promote a number of men to the rank of optio, as well as promoting four existing optios to the centurionate. The dilution of experience through the cohort meant that Macro would have to train them hard to bring the unit to battle readiness, a task he was looking forward to. Today’s parade was the first formal introduction of the recruits to their new commanders and Macro’s experienced eye scrutinised each man they passed. Every so often the two officers would stop and examine one of the fresh-faced recruits in detail.
‘You!’ Macro barked, thrusting the tip of his vine cane at one man. ‘Name?’
The tall, slender legionary presented his javelin and snapped to attention. It was neatly done, Cato noted approvingly.
‘Legionary Gnaeus Lorenus, sir!’
‘Where are you from?’ Macro demanded.
‘Massilia, sir.’
‘Age?’
‘Nineteen, sir.’
‘Bollocks! You don’t look old enough to shave.’
The recruit made the mistake of turning his face towards Macro in surprise.
‘Don’t fucking look at me! Look straight ahead!’
‘Yes, sir! Sorry, sir.’
‘And don’t fucking apologise neither! You’re on parade, not at some poncey actor’s garden party!’
‘Yes, sir.’ The recruit committed his second offence by failing to stifle a smile at Macro’s remark.
Quick as a flash Macro stepped closer to the man so that their faces were inches apart. The difference in height meant that the centurion had to tilt his head back to stare up at the recruit.
‘Do I make you laugh, Legionary Lorenus?’ he bawled.
‘No, sir.’
‘Then are you saying I haven’t got a fucking sense of humour? Are you?
‘No, sir.’
‘Then you must be laughing at me, Lorenus! Is that it? Are you bloody making fun of me, you great big streak of piss?’
Again, the man’s gaze wavered towards his superior and Macro jammed the head of his vine cane hard into the mail vest of the recruit. ‘EYES FRONT! I asked if you are making fun of me?’
‘N-no, sir,’ the recruit gasped.
‘I don’t believe you. Optio!’ Macro turned to the recruit’s superior. ‘Legionary Lorenus. Fatigues. Five days!’
‘Yes, sir!’ The optio inscribed a hurried note on his waxed tablet.
Cato had stood by impassively during the exchange. He readily recalled his own harsh treatment when he had first joined the Second Legion. The aptly named Centurion Bestia had made his life a misery and Cato mentally cringed at the fear the instructor had instilled in him. At the time he had believed that Bestia had been a cruel monster, but he had long since come to recognise the true purpose of the harsh treatment meted out during training. Soldiers had to keep a cool head in any conditions. They had to be disciplined from within as well as without. That process began on the training ground where they learned to keep their eyes ahead, answer directly and not let themselves become unsettled. It ended when they coolly faced an enemy in battle and put instinct behind them and placed their trust in their training.
Macro continued along the line with Cato in step beside him. Several more men received similar treatment before Macro handed over to their officers to begin the morning drill. As the First Century tramped off, Macro turned to his friend and rubbed his hands together in glee.
‘Ah! I haven’t lost my touch. I can still put the wind up ’em.’
‘True. But I thought the point was to train them, not terrify them.’
‘They’ll pick it up soon enough, once they’ve stopped shitting themselves. Just like old times, eh? Proper soldiering. There’s nothing like it! Every drill a bloodless battle and every battle a bloody drill.’
Cato smiled indulgently. This was Macro’s ideal. The opportunity to mould men into tough, disciplined professional soldiers filled him with pride and a sense of achievement. What seemed to come to Macro so naturally was an onerous duty for Cato. He still felt self-conscious about shouting insults into the faces of fresh-faced soldiers and thanked the gods that he had been promoted to a rank that set him above such tasks.
The replacements allocated to the Second Thracian presented a different kind of problem. They were almost all from Batavia and already seasoned riders and fighters. Tall, big-boned and mostly fair-haired, their appearance was in stark contrast to the dark-featured Thracians who made up the original unit. The Batavians would need to accept the ethos of their comrades. The Blood Crows had a hard-won reputation for ferocity and had cultivated a look that made them appear more like a group of irregular cavalry than an established unit of the Roman army. That had served Cato well so far and he aimed to keep it that way.
As he began his inspection of the troopers standing with their mounts, the contrast between the Batavians and the Thracians concerned him. He stopped in front of the first of the decurions, a new man with a scarred, lined face. Clearly a veteran of some fights, not all of which he appeared to have won.
‘What is your name?’
‘Decurion Avergus.’
‘Avergus? Is that all?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s the name I was given at birth. Don’t see no reason to change it.’ The man’s Latin was good though accented and, like most of his people, he was inclined to talk more loudly than necessary. A good attribute for a soldier but a bit wearing socially, Cato felt.
He glanced at Macro. It was usual for auxiliaries from non-Roman backgrounds to adopt a Roman name on enlistment, especially as Roman citizenship was granted when the soldier had served out his time in the army. The choice to retain his tribal name meant that the decurion was either proud of his heritage or possibly disdainful of Roman ways. Cato decided he would need to keep an eye on Avergus.
‘Avergus, were most of these men recruited along with you?’
‘Yes, sir. Same tribe. Village on the banks of the Rhenus near Moguntum. The entire draught came from the settlement.’