Maximius pulled the stopper out of the jar, grasped the handle and, letting the jar lie across his bent arm, he raised its rim to his lips and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of wine. Cato watched as a red bead trickled from the corner of the cohort commander’s lips and ran down his cheek. Maximius lowered the jar and passed it to Tullius, and one by one the centurions echoed the toast and sealed their oath by sharing the wine. When Macro’s turn came, he took rather more mouthfuls than was required and then handed the jug to Cato as he wiped his lip on the back of his other hand.

As he lifted the jug and repeated the toast, Cato sensed every eye in the tent on him and he pursed his lips as the first trickle of wine came down the rough earthenware neck of the jar towards his mouth. As the liquid flowed over his tongue Cato resisted the impulse to gag at the sharp, burning vinegary taste. Even in the poorest quarters of Camulodunum Cato had never tasted such a rancid wine. He forced himself to take another mouthful and then lowered the jar.

‘There!’ Maximius retrieved the jar, stopped it up and placed it back under the table.’Tomorrow then, gentlemen. Tomorrow we show the rest of the army what a cohort can achieve.’

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER SIX

It was still dark as the cohort prepared to move off. Two braziers either side of the gatehouse illuminated the head of the column, but the glow cast by the gently licking flames carried only as far down the Praetorian way as the First Century. The rest of the men were shrouded in the clammy air of the pre-dawn. Cato, standing with the other centurions by the gate, could hear only the muted exchanges and dull clunk and clatter of equipment of nearly five hundred men getting ready to march into battle. On the open ground, to one side of the gate, stood the mounted contingent that was to accompany the cohort - thirty men under the command of a decurion, lightly armed and trained for scouting and courier duties rather than battle. The horses waited expectantly, ears twitching and hoofs gently scraping the ground as their dismounted riders kept firm hands on the reins. From further off came the muffled sounds of other legionaries rousing; quiet curses amid the coughs and groans of men stretching sleep-stiffened bodies.

‘Not long now, lads!’ Centurion Maximius called out as he warmed his back against one of the braziers, and cast a huge wavering shadow across the nearest line of tents.

‘He’s up for it,’ Macro remarked quietly.

Cato yawned. ‘Wish I was.’

‘Lose much sleep?’

‘Had to finish the accounts before I turned in.’

‘Accounts?’ Centurion Felix shook his head in disbelief. ‘On the eve of a battle? Are you mad?’