Free Centurion by Simon Scarrow Page B

Crispus the honours due to a fellow soldier passing from this world into the shades. Every man had turned out neatly and had made sure that his helmet had been polished the night before, along with the trim and boss of his shield and every clasp and decorated facing of his scabbard. Macro regarded them with pride. He could ask for no better body of men to command, even in the legions, he admitted grudgingly, though he would never own up to such an opinion in public. The blood he had shed in the Second Legion and the comrades he had lost over the years had left him with an engrained love of the Eagles he had known for so long.
    As he strode past the last of his men, Macro glanced round at Cato, who was the officer immediately responsible for the turnout of men on parade, as well as the numerous details of camp administration.
    ‘A fine body of soldiers, Centurion Cato!’ Macro’s best parade-ground voice carried to the farthest men in the cohort. ‘The Praetorian Guard itself couldn’t have made a better showing!’
    It was the kind of easy rhetoric calculated to lift the men’s spirits and Macro winked at Cato as he bellowed his praise. Both men knew that, easy as the words were, they worked, and the men would carry themselves with a little more pride for the rest of the day. Or at least until they had witnessed the execution, Cato mused unhappily. He understood the reasoning behind the punishment well enough but still some part of him recoiled at the thought of brutally putting a man to death. Unlike Macro, he drew little pleasure from the games that ambitious politicians put on in every town and city of the Empire. If a man had to die then it was best that he die in pursuit of a purpose. Let Crispus be placed in the front rank of the army when they faced the Parthians.There at least he could die facing his enemy with a sword in his hand, for the honour of Rome, and his own personal redemption in the eyes of his comrades.
    Cato drew a deep breath as he acknowledged Macro’s comment. ‘Yes, sir! No one can doubt that the Second Illyrian is the best cohort in the service of the Emperor!’
    He turned towards the men and shouted. ‘Let’s hear it!’
    The men let out a deafening roar and pounded their spears against their shields for a moment, and then grounded them as one. The abrupt silence made Macro chuckle with pleasure.
    ‘As mean as they come, Centurion Cato. The Gods know what they’ll do to the Parthians, but they scare the shite out of me!’
    Cato, and many of the men, could not help grinning. Then Macro raised his vine cane to attract their attention once again.
    ‘Move them out, Centurion.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato sucked in another breath. ‘Second Illyrian, right face!’
    The ten centuries of infantry and four squadrons of cavalrymen shouldered their spears and then turned on the spot.
    Macro and Cato strode to the head of the column, and took up their places just ahead of the cohort’s standard and the two bucinators carrying their curved brass instruments. Macro paused for an instant, then gave the order. ‘Advance!’
    With a rhythmic crunch of nailed boots the cohort marched towards the camp gate and out on to the parade ground. On the far side was the area assigned for the execution, where two rows of stakes ran six feet apart. Macro led the Second Illyrian across the dusty expanse and then halted the column.
    ‘Cato, have them form up on three sides of the run.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted and turned away to carry out his orders. Macro took his place at the head of the lines of stakes, on the side left open by the cohort. As the last of his men completed the open-sided box around the run Macro saw a small column of soldiers in red tunics leave the camp and march towards them. A figure, pinioned between two men, half walked and was half dragged along in the middle of the column. Every one of his comrades carried a stout wooden stave: pick handles drawn from stores. At the rear of the