Cato 04 - The Eagle and the Wolves Read Free

convoy?’
    ‘I don’t know, sir. I just deal with the casualties. I heard someone say that what was left of the escort was still on the road, a short way off, trying to save the last few wagons. Stupid, if you ask me. Should have left them to the Britons and saved their own skins. Now, sir, do you mind . . .?’
    ‘What? Oh, yes. Go on, bugger off.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’ The orderly made a small smile and, shoving his partner ahead of him, he left the cell and closed the door behind him.
    The instant the door was shut Macro swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his boots.
    ‘Where are you going, sir?’ Cato asked drowsily.
    ‘To the gate, to see what’s happening. Get up. You’re coming too.’
    ‘I am?’
    ‘Of course you are. Don’t you want to see what’s going on? Or haven’t you had enough of being shut up in this bloody hospital for the best part of two months? Besides,’ Macro added, as he began to tie his straps, ‘you’ve been asleep most of the day. Fresh air’ll do you good.’
    Cato frowned. The reason he slept most of the day was because his room-mate snored so loudly that sleep was almost impossible at night. In truth, he was heartily sick of the hospital and was looking forward to being returned to active duty. But it would be some time before that happened, Cato reflected bitterly. He had only just regained enough strength to get back on his feet. His companion, despite an appalling head wound, was blessed with a tougher constitution and, barring the occasional shattering headache, was almost fit enough for duty.
    As Macro looked down at his boot straps Cato gazed at the livid red scar stretching across the top of Macro’s head. The wound had left knotty lumps of skin and no hair grew around it. The surgeon had promised that some of the hair would return eventually, enough of it to hide most of the scars.
    ‘With my luck,’ Macro had added sourly, ‘that’ll be just in time for me to start going bald.’
    Cato smiled at the memory. Then a fresh line of argument that might justify staying in bed occurred to him.
    ‘Are you sure you should go out, what with you fainting the last time we sat in the hospital yard. Do you really think it’s wise, sir?’
    Macro looked up irritably, fingers automatically tying his straps as they had almost every morning for the best part of sixteen years. He shook his head. ‘I keep telling you, it’s not necessary to call me “sir” all the time - only in front of the men, and in formal situations. From now on, it’s “Macro” to you. Got it?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Cato responded immediately, winced and smacked his forehead. ‘Sorry. It’s all a bit hard to adjust to. I still haven’t got used to the idea of being a centurion. Must be the youngest one in the army.’
    ‘In the whole bloody Empire, I should think.’
    For a moment Macro regretted the remark, and recognised in himself a trace of bitterness. Much as he had been genuinely delighted when Cato had won his promotion, the older man had soon got over his enthusiasm and every so often let slip some remark about a centurion’s need for experience. Or he would offer a few words of advice about how a centurion should conduct himself. It was all a bit rich, Macro chided himself, given that he had been promoted to the centurionate barely a year and a half before Cato himself. Granted he had already served sixteen years with the Eagles, and was a well-respected veteran with a generally good conduct record, but he was almost as new to the rank as his young friend.
    As he watched Macro tie his boots Cato was uneasy about his promotion. He could not help believing it had come too soon for him, and felt shamed when he compared himself to Macro, a consummate soldier, if ever there was one. Cato already dreaded the moment when he would have recovered enough to be appointed to the command of his own century. It took very little imagination to anticipate how men far older and more