‘Cato, can I trust you?’

‘Sir?’

‘Can I trust you with a secret? Something I dare not tell anyone else?’

Cato gulped nervously, and instinctively took a step away from the centurion’s bed. ‘Well, that depends, sir. I mean, naturally I’m flattered, but you know how it is, some men do and some don’t. It just happens that I don’t, sir. No offence or anything.’

‘What the fuck are you going on about?’ Macro frowned as he raised himself up on an elbow. ‘If you think, for one moment, that I’m some kind of arse bandit then I’ll take your fucking head off. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Cato relaxed. ‘So how can I help?’

‘You can help… You can help by teaching me to read.’

‘Read?’

‘Yes, read, damn it! You know, all those bloody words and stuff. I want to learn how it all works. All right, that’s a bit too strong. I don’t want to read any more than the next man. Fact is, I have to read and write, if I’m going to stay a centurion. And that bitch of woman nearly had me by the short and curlies tonight. But some day it’ll come out and, when it does, I’ll get busted back to the ranks. Unless I learn my words.’

‘I see. And you want me to teach you?’

‘Yes. And you promise not to tell a soul. Will you do it?’

Cato thought it over a moment and inevitably his nature led him to the answer. ‘Of course I’ll teach you, sir.’

Under The Eagle

Chapter Seventeen

The winter wore on towards spring and the snow melted; for several weeks frequent heavy showers of rain turned all unmetalled roadways into muddy quagmires. The only traffic in and out of the fortress was the constant stream of imperial staff messengers rushing to the far-flung Second Legion with the latest instructions for the impending relocation. Having delivered the despatches they returned burdened with requests for permission to buy draught animals, fodder and slaves to cover the spring campaign.

Anticipating the assent of the staff corps in Rome, the Legion had hired a cadre of muleteers to buy up the necessary livestock from the towns and villages in a wide sweep south of the Rhine. The men were hand-picked and could be trusted to select only the fittest animals for the long journey ahead. They could also be trusted to haggle for the lowest possible price and, as long as the cost remained reasonable, those in authority generally overlooked the unofficial ‘commission’ that found its way into the purses of the muleteers. So it was that the mules, and other draught animals, arrived to swell the ranks grazing in the pastures hastily constructed outside the fortress.

Inside, most of the space between the walls and the barracks was filled with the Legion’s transport vehicles. Each century was allocated a wagon for engineering tools, administrative baggage — namely, the centurion’s tent and all the personal items he desired to make the campaign comfortable — and the pointed entrenchment stakes. Then there was the medical convoy for the carriage of sick and non-walking wounded, the artillery company with their carriage-mounted catapults and bolt-throwers, large grain wagons for the portable food reserve of barley, the vast headquarters baggage train and, finally, the staff officers’ convoy of personal effects. Even as things stood the Legion was travelling light. No time could be spared for foraging and so a number of grain dumps had already been established along the route.