The Legion

'I know that look on your face. The body's there but the mind is off with the muses. So, what are you thinking?'

'We should go and see the survivor of the ambush.'

'Why?'

'There's something not quite right about it.' Cato chewed his lip. 'The decurion seemed to know his business and I could see he wasn't convinced that either the Arabs or the Nubians were responsible for killing the legate. Come on, Macro.'

The hospital had been set up in a large airy pavilion to the rear of the temple complex. The legion's surgeon was doing the rounds of the men on the army's sick list when Cato and Macro located him. Like most of those who served in the same capacity in legions across the Empire, the surgeon was an easterner. His dark face was rimmed with silvery hair, cropped short over his scalp and along his jawline. The creases in his skin told of the long years he had served in the profession. He regarded the two Roman officers coolly as he heard Cato's request to see the wounded man who had been brought into the hospital shortly before.

'He's resting. The man is exhausted and cannot be questioned.'

'It won't take long. I just need to find out one thing. Then he can rest.'

'No,' the surgeon replied firmly. 'I will send word to you when he is in a fit state to talk.' He paused to look at them. 'I do not know your faces. You must be new appointments to the Jackals.'

Cato nodded. 'Senior Tribune Cato and First Spear Centurion Macro.'

'Senior tribune?' The surgeon looked surprised, then bowed his head. 'My apologies, sir. I took you for a more junior officer.'

Macro stifled a smile.

Cato ignored him as he confronted the surgeon. 'And you are?'

'Chief Surgeon Archaelus, sir.'

'Look here, Archaelus, I must speak with your patient. Urgently.'

'I appreciate that, sir, but it is my professional view that it would be detrimental to his recovery, his survival even, if he is put under any further distress.'

Cato had exhausted his cordiality, and hardened his tone. 'I have no time for this. I order you to let me see the patient. At once.'

As chief surgeon, Archaelus carried the notional rank of centurion and was outranked by the legion's senior tribune. An order had been given and there was little he could do but obey. He bowed his head reluctantly. 'If you'd follow me, sir.'

He turned and led them through the pavilion's colonnade and into the more sheltered part of the structure where the priests had held their banquets in the years when Karnak was at the height of its influence. Unlike much of the rest of the temple complex, the walls were covered with painted symbols. Overhead the ceiling was dark blue and covered with five-pointed representations of stars in yellow. Linen screens had been erected around the most severe cases in the hospital, and they kept out the worst of the hot wind and dust.

'Here is your man.' Archaelus indicated a man laying naked, except for his loincloth, on a low cot in the middle of the pavilion's banquet hall. One of the orderlies sat beside the patient, gently daubing an ointment on to the sunburned flesh. Cato could see the blisters on the legionary's face. He had lighter skin than most of the other men and Cato guessed that he must be Alexandrian. As well as the burns on his face and limbs, the man's thighs were bandaged and there was a dressing on the side of his chest. Beneath the blisters and ointment on his face, it was clear that the soldier was strikingly handsome with fine bones beneath his skin.

'What's his name?' asked Cato.

'Optio Carausius.'

Cato looked round, saw a stool, and drew it across to the side of the cot. He sat down and leaned closer to the optio. The man's breathing was light and ragged and his brow was creased. Perspiration pricked out in the hairline and his dark hair was plastered to his scalp in thick dark ringlets.

'He has a fever,' Cato observed.

'Yes, sir. His wounds were not cleaned until he reached the hospital. I fear they are poisoned. However, he may recover.'

'Is that likely?' asked Macro.

The surgeon shrugged. 'We have done what we can. His life is in the hands of the gods now. I have made a brief offering to Serapis on his behalf. If it is accepted then he may recover. But even if he does, he will be a cripple for the rest of his life.' Archaelus indicated the bandaged thighs. 'The attackers severed his hamstrings so that he could not leave the site of the ambush. It would seem that they intended him to survive and remain to be found.'

Cato glanced at Macro. 'Something we've encountered before.'

Macro frowned. Then his expression altered and he stared at Cato. 'Are you saying it's him, Ajax? He did this?'

'It could be. We pursued him upriver as far as Memphis before the trail went cold. He could have continued along the Nile as far as here. And he's certainly bold enough to attack the legate and his party, and good enough to come off best. He's even left someone to tell the tale.'

'Only this time, he won't be able to pin it on us,' Macro sneered. 'But why take the heads? He's a mad, cruel bastard, I know, but he's not done that before.'

'Perhaps the decurion was on the right track with regard to the Arabs. It's possible that Ajax took the heads as proof of the dead, to offer them to the Nubians.'

Cato turned back to the optio and leaned closer to him. He spoke softly. 'Carausius… Can you hear me?'

The soldier did not stir, so Cato gently laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke again. 'Carausius… You must tell me who attacked you.'

With a faint groan the man turned his head away from Cato and mumbled.

'What's that?' Macro moved round to the other side of the cot and leaned over. 'What did you say? Speak again.'

Archaelus intervened. 'Centurion, go easy on him.'

Cato ignored the surgeon and shook the optio's shoulder gently. 'Tell us. Who attacked you?'

The optio's eyes flickered open, clenched shut and then opened again, darting around as he tried to speak through cracked lips.

'We didn't have a… chance,' he whispered. 'They… fought like… demons. Came at us out of the dusk.' His voice fell away into an incoherent mumble.

Cato waited briefly and then tried again. 'Who?'

The legionary slowly rolled his head towards Cato and licked his lips. 'No name. Just said he was a gladiator.' He paused, wincing at a sudden wave of pain. Then, as it passed, his eyes focused again. 'A gladiator…'

'What else?' asked Cato. 'Come on, tell us.'

'Told me to be sure that… Cato and Macro knew it was… him.'

'Thank you, Carausius. Rest now.' Cato leaned back and looked across at Macro. 'Now we know.'

Macro nodded. 'And he sends us a direct challenge. Whatever we may think of Ajax, you have to admit that he has balls of steel.'

Archaelus cleared his throat. 'It seems you have what you need. Would you mind continuing your discussion elsewhere now?'

Cato stood up and beckoned to Macro and the two left the banqueting hall and stepped out of the pavilion into the bright glare of the sun. The harsh light forced them to squint until their eyes began to adjust.

'On the upside, at least we know Ajax is nearby,' said Macro.

'True, but not very comforting. And if he does join the Nubians then I fear our situation has taken a turn for the worse.'

The prefects of the four auxiliary cohorts, together with the centurions of the Twenty-Second Legion and the remaining tribunes, sat on benches at one end of the colonnaded pool at the army's headquarters. Word of Candidus's death had got round the camp and the men were conversing in low, anxious tones. Cato and Macro sat slightly apart, and the latter regarded the other officers with a critical eye.

'Too many old men and too many who look unfit.'

Cato said nothing, but he knew that his friend was right. The long years of untroubled garrison duty had made the men of the Twenty-Second soft. A large number of the officers were running to fat – there were clear gaps between the front and back plates of their cuirasses, which could not accommodate their heavy torsos. Their fleshy jowls and veined noses betrayed their fondness for drink. There were others who looked more like the centurions Cato was familiar with from the other legions he had served with since he had joined the army. Powerfully built men who shared the steady, unflappable demeanour of the centurionate. They at least looked as if they would serve well enough when the campaign got under way. However, Macro was right that rather too many of them looked as if they were nearing the end of their careers. It was sad to see how a legion's combat readiness could be so badly eroded by the benefits of a prolonged peace.