The Legion - Scarrow Simon (книги читать бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

'And you?'

'No problems,' Macro replied as he took in his friend's blanched face. 'If I were you, I'd sit down and rest your legs while you have the chance.'

'Not before you do.'

Macro shook his head. 'Suit yourself.'

He paced slowly along the column, looking down at the officers and men of the First Cohort. They were mostly the product of a blending of the Greek and Egyptian races, darkly featured yet not quite as dark as the natives of the upper Nile. In general they had a somewhat smaller build than the legionaries of the northern frontier of the Empire where Macro had served most of his time. However, they looked tough enough, and they had stayed the distance, so far. But then they should, Macro reflected. The First Cohort was supposed to be the best in every legion. Twice the size of other cohorts, it was entrusted with the defence of the right flank when the legion went into battle. Still, it would be interesting to see how many remained in the column when it returned to camp. The men of the Seventh and Ninth Cohorts had fared as well as their comrades and only a handful had dropped out. Cato had been right to make a point of including the officers, Macro accepted. It had certainly perked the men up-a useful bonus over and above the opportunity to weed out those who were not fit enough for active commands.

As he made his way back down the line to the small group of officers resting beside the road, Macro saw Hamedes sitting to one side. Macro had always assumed that priests were a soft bunch of wasters and was surprised that Hamedes had kept up with the column.

'How are your feet coping?'

The priest stood up as he was addressed and smiled infectiously. 'A most welcome excursion, sir. Though I have to wonder that men who have to carry so much on their backs have any strength left to conquer and hold an empire.'

Macro smiled back and tapped him on the chest. 'That's the secret of our success,' he responded conspiratorially. 'It's because we have the strength left that we win.' Macro took a step back and glanced over the priest. 'You've done well, lad. I'll make a legionary of you yet.'

The young man's face was still for a moment before his smile returned. 'An honour, to be sure. Yet I am a man with spiritual, rather than martial, ambitions. When the campaign is over I fully intend to return to the priesthood.'

'We'll see. My instinct is that you are getting something of a taste for this life. Why else would you stick with us, eh?' Macro clapped him on the shoulder and returned to the head of the column. He picked up his yoke and heaved it up on to his shoulder with a grunt before turning to face back along the column.

'The rest break's over! On your feet!'

There was a chorus of groans and swearing that made Macro smile, then the men stood up and raised their yokes as the optios strode down the line bawling out those who responded too slowly to the order. Each century formed up and stood ready, waiting for the order to resume the march. Macro waited until they were still and silent, then bellowed down the line, 'Column! Advance!'

They shuffled forward, gradually picking up the pace. Macro led them a short distance beyond the belt of palms before leaving the road to march round a shrine and then turning back towards the camp, passing down the tail of the column and the covered carts carrying those who had collapsed on the outward leg. Midday passed and the afternoon breeze picked up, bringing with it the lightest of dust from the desert. The grit caught in the men's mouths and their eyes, adding to the discomfort of the scorching heat that beat down on them. Worse still, the glare made the road ahead shimmer as if a perpetually receding sheet of water lay before them, tormenting them with the prospect of assuaging their growing thirst.

More men fell out of line, and this time fewer of them could be coaxed back into place by the blows of the optios and were left for the carts to pick up. Cato had slowed a little so that he was now marching amid the other officers, a short distance behind Macro. Most of the centurions were coping with the strain of the march well enough, some struggled, and the last of those officers who had been avoiding the drills soon gave in and slumped to the side of the road to await the carts.

Cato had never known such heat, not even when he and Macro had crossed the Syrian desert to Palmyra. His tunic, encased in armour, felt tight against him, constricting his breath as he laboured under the weight of the yoke and the broad shield hanging from it. His feet and legs felt leaden and each step became an effort of will. They passed back through the villages near Diospolis Magna and out came the noisy clusters of children again. This time they were met with silence as the soldiers ignored them, unwilling to waste any breath telling the children to go away.

In the middle of the afternoon Cato looked up to see the pylons and standards of Karnak wavering in the distance. His heart lifted at the sight, and he gritted his teeth and looked down again, concentrating on each step in turn, not wanting to look up and see the temples seeming as far off as ever.

'Step up the pace, lads!' Macro called out cheerfully. 'We're almost home. Let's show the other cohorts how real soldiers march!'

His words were met with silence and Macro paused and turned back to face them. 'What's the matter with you? Are we happy?'

Those centurions who had served in the northern legions, and Cato, answered him in a chorus. 'Are we fuck!'

Macro laughed, and turned to lead them the final mile back to the training ground outside the temple complex. The optios hurriedly ordered the men to dress their ranks and raise their chins as they turned off the road and the column trudged on to the open ground, back to the positions they had occupied before they had set off at daybreak.

'Column! Stand to attention!' Macro's bellow echoed back off the mud-brick wall. He set his pack down, reached for his canteen and took a long swig before stoppering it. Then he slowly paced along the lines of sweating, panting legionaries, inspecting their ranks. One more man collapsed as he stood waiting for the column to be dismissed. Macro ignored him. He put his hands on his hips and addressed the exhausted men.

'That is but a taste of what is expected of you once the campaign begins. I know that the Jackals are keen to test themselves in battle with the Nubians. You have the spirit of true soldiers, but you must also have the body. It is the army that marches hardest that also fights hardest, and wins.'

Macro's words died away with the late afternoon breeze. He stared at them a moment longer and then shouted the order. 'Column!… Fall out!'

As soon as the order was given the men seemed to sag under the weight of their yokes and then in ones and twos they began to stagger across the training ground towards the north gate of Karnak. Macro watched them for a moment before he caught sight of Hamedes and nodded a greeting to him.

'Well done, lad! Seems you're as fit as any man here.'

Hamedes puffed his cheeks. 'I think I may not take you up on that offer of a place in the legion, sir.'

'Hah!' Macro jerked his thumb towards the gate. 'Get in there and have a good night's rest. When the morning comes you'll wonder what you were complaining about. And then you'll try and get up and feel like a complete cripple.'

'Thank you, sir,' Hamedes said flatly, and walked stiffly away.

Cato was draining the last drops of his canteen when Macro approached him. 'You went the distance after all.'

'Did I?' Cato's feet burned so much it was an effort to stand up. 'So this is what being dead on your feet feels like…'

'Ah, don't make such a fuss.' He nodded towards the carts trundling across the training ground. 'At least you did it. Some didn't. I've had one of the optios draw up a list of those who dropped out.' Macro reached into the sling hanging round his neck and fished out a small waxed slate. 'Here you are.'