The Gladiator - Scarrow Simon (бесплатная регистрация книга txt) 📗

'The lads of the Twenty-Second won't let you down, sir. They'll fight well, and if the attack fails then they'll keep formation when we fall back.'

'I hope you are right,' Cato replied wearily.' Now then, that's all for tonight. I'm turning in.'

Fulvius drained his cup and stood up. 'I'll have one last turn round the camp, sir. So I can sleep easy'

'Very well.' Cato nodded. Once the centurion had left the tent, he took off his boots, extinguished the oil lamp and lay down on the bedroll. Even though it was a hot night, there was a gentle breeze blowing, enough to cool Cato's brow and make it worth keeping his tunic on. His head felt thick with exhaustion, and it was a struggle to think clearly as he lay and stared up at the goatskin tent overhead.

The moment he tried to settle into a comfortable position to sleep, his mind filled with images of Julia and Macro. If they were still alive, they were not more than a mile or two from where he lay. It had taken every fibre of his self-control to hide his feelings from Fulvius and the other men under his command. Inside, his heart felt like a lump of lead, weighing his body down. The worst moments came when his imagination thrust images of their torment to the front of his mind, making him feel sick with helplessness and despair until he forced such thoughts aside and concentrated his mind elsewhere.

He lay on his mattress, turning frequently, and ended up curled in a ball on his side before his weary body and exhausted mind finally succumbed to sleep.

Cato was woken by the blare of a buccina sounding the change of watch. He blinked his eyes open and winced at the stiffness in his back. Sunlight slanted through the open flaps of the tent and he instantly scrambled to his feet, furious that he had not been roused.

He pulled on his boots and laced them up before hurrying out of the tent. Before him lay the camp, the men calmly going about their morning duties as they cleaned their mess tins and packed them away in their kit sacks before making ready their armour and weapons for morning inspection. Centurion Fulvius was sitting at a table in front of one of the other tents, writing notes on a wax tablet. He stood up and saluted as Cato came striding across to him with an icy expression.

'Why was I not woken at the end of the night watch?'

'There was no need, sir.' Fulvius affected a surprised look.' The watch officers had nothing to report and there's been no sign of any movement down at the rebel camp. I was just about to complete the orders for the morning cavalry patrols before I came to wake you.'

Cato lowered his voice so that only Fulvius would hear. 'You know damn well that the senior officer should be woken at first light.'

'I had no orders to that effect, sir.'

'Damn orders, it's customary. Even when a unit is on garrison duties. On campaign there's never any question about it.', Fulvius did not respond, thereby intimating his guilt. Cato glared at him for a moment, and then snorted with derision. 'Tell me, when was the last time you served on a campaign?'

'It's been a while, sir,' Fulvius admitted. 'In my previous legion, on the Danube.'

'How long ago?'

The centurion's gaze wavered. 'Twelve years, sir.'

'And since then you have served in Egypt: garrison duty. Little to keep you occupied but spit and polish and the odd field exercise, eh?'

'Keeps the lads on their toes, sir.'

'I don't doubt it.' Cato recalled the endless drills and route marches of his earliest months in the Second Legion. It was not the readiness of the men he questioned. 'So, having ducked out of the fighting for the last twelve years, you think you are better qualified to lead these men than I am. Is that it?'

'Something like that.' Fulvius was still for a moment and pursed his lips. 'Permission to speak freely, sir?'

'No. Centurion, I am the commander of this column and that fact ends any discussion on this matter. If you question my authority, or undermine established procedures again, I will have you removed from your position and sent back to Gortyna. Is that understood?'

'Yes, sir,' Fulvius replied sourly.

'I will not warn you again,' Cato growled through clenched teeth.

'Now get out of my sight. I want you to do a spot inspection of the first three legionary cohorts, and report back to me once you've done. Go.'

Cato saw a glimmer of anxiety in the veteran's eyes. Then he stood at attention, saluted and strode off to carry out his orders. Cato shook his head, then turned and marched back to his tent, barking at one of the orderlies to bring him some bread, meat and watered wine for breakfast. As he sat and stared down towards the rebel camp, he considered the stand-off once again. Ajax had the grain fleet, and therefore no need to attack the Romans, while Cato risked the loss of the grain fleet if he attacked, as well as having the added concern of commanding toofew men to guarantee victory. Yet time was on the rebels' side, and there was no avoiding the conclusion that Cato would have to attack, whatever the odds.

As he was dipping the last hunk of bread into the bowl of wine, he noticed a movement down at the enemy camp. A small column of riders had emerged from the sprawl of tents and haze of smoke from the camp fires. They passed through their picket line and continued steadily up the slope towards the Roman camp. Cato soon lost sight of them behind the rampart and left the table to fetch his mail vest, helmet and sword belt from the tent, before making his way down to the rampart facing the rebel camp. By the time he reached the rampart the duty centurion had ordered his men to stand to. A cohort of legionaries were spreading out along the beaten earth of the walkway to face the approaching horsemen. Cato glanced at them as he climbed the ladder on to the platform constructed over the timber gates. Fulvius was already there and nodded a greeting to Cato as the latter joined him.

'Looks like the rebels want to talk,' said Fulvius.

Cato saw that there were ten of them, wearing good tunics, scale armour and Roman pattern swords - the spoils of Centurion Marcellus's column. One man carried a long standard with a bright blue pennant, which he waved steadily from side to side as he and his companions walked the mounts forward.

'Nice to see them observing the appropriate formalities,' Fulvius muttered. 'Just like a proper army, eh, sir?'

'Well, they certainly look the part, in our kit.'

'Our kit?' Fulvius's expression darkened.' Oh, yes...Want me to order some of our boys to loose some slingshot in their direction?'

'No,' Cato replied firmly. 'I don't want them touched. The rebels have hostages.'

Fulvius shrugged. 'Assuming they're still alive, sir.'

'They're alive.'

The riders stopped fifty paces from the gate, and then one edged his horse a little closer. Cato saw that he had the dark features of the east, and he wore a curved sword at his side.

Fulvius cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed,'Stop there!'

The rider reined in obediently.

'What do you want?'

'My general wishes to talk with your commander. Here, in the open.'

'Why? Tell us what he wants and go!'

The rider shook his head. 'That is for my general to say'

'Bollocks to him,' Fulvius muttered and drew a deep breath to shout his answer.

'Wait!' said Cato. He turned to Fulvius. 'Keep the men on the rampart, but have a cavalry squadron brought up to the gate, mounted and ready to charge. If I raise my left hand, send them out at once. But only if I give the signal. Is that clear?'

'You're not going out there?' Fulvius arched an eyebrow. 'For fuck's sake, sir. It's a trap. They'll get you out there and cut you down before turning tail and running.'

'Why would they do that?'

'To undermine the column, sir. Take out the commander and it's bound to hit morale, and disrupt the campaign.'