Under The Eagle

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.

– =OO=OOO=OO-=

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 wine 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.'