Free Cato 01 - Under the Eagle by Simon Scarrow Page A

'Then you are expecting trouble, sir?'
    'It's possible, you know what the Germans are like, any excuse for a fight. But I doubt it will amount to more than knocking a couple of heads together. Still, it'll give me a chance to see how Cato reacts.'
    'If what I've heard's true, he'll run.'
    'Care to make a wager on that?' Macro smiled. 'Five sestertii? I know you can afford it.'
    'Yes, sir. But can you?'
    'Five sestertii.' Macro ignored the gibe and spat on his hand. 'Five says that if there's trouble Cato doesn't run. Or are you too scared to take the bet?'
    Piso delayed no more than a moment before slapping his centurion's palm. 'Five it is!'

Chapter Six
    The night had been cold and, as the soft light of dawn struggled through the morning mist, the fortress of the Second Legion was revealed in a sparkling white frost. The men of the Third cohort were forming into their centuries in a businesslike manner as the air was wreathed in the steam of their breath. Five hundred men, in full armour and heavy cloaks, were gathered in faint filtered shafts of light, rubbing hands and stamping feet in an effort to generate a small bit of warmth against the biting winter air. Jeers and good-humoured insults were exchanged with passing legionaries from other cohorts fortunate enough to be remaining in the fortress for the day. The officers stood apart from the loose columns of men and Cato had no trouble locating Macro's stocky form.
    'This your protégé, Macro?' said the man next to him.
    Macro nodded.
    'A little young for an optio, wouldn't you say?'
    'We'll see,' Macro grunted, casting his eyes over the optio in his ill-fitting tunic and cloak. The centurion circled slowly, making a close examination of the young man's equipment, testing the buckles with a sharp tug, and tilting Cato's head back to ensure the helmet strap was fastened. 'You'll do. Right, while we're out of the base you stick by me and do whatever I say. No wandering off, no nothing without my say-so. Understand?'
    'Yes, sir.'
    'Now, join the front of the last century in line — that's the Sixth. Wait for me there.'
    'Sir?'
    'What is it?'
    'How long are we going to stand here?' asked Cato, already shivering.
    'You just can't wait, can you?' Macro shook his head. 'Not long now, boy, we're just waiting for the tribune.'
    One of the other centurions spat on the frozen ground. 'Bet the bastard's still in bed.'
    'Doubt it,' Macro replied. 'The legate's on his case. Seems he wants to test Vitellius. But this little trip's nothing more than an exercise in command. Even Vitellius would struggle to screw it up.'
    'Macro, old son, never underestimate the incompetence of staff officers. They're born and bred for disaster…'
    The exchange fell out of earshot as Cato made his way towards the standard rising over the Sixth Century. A few of the men eyed him curiously as he approached.
    'You're Macro's optio?' the standard bearer asked.
    'Yes.'
    'He mentioned he had a new boy, but I didn't dream he was being so literal.'
    Cato opened his mouth to reply before he got control of his feelings. Then he blushed and fumed silently.
    'Just stick close to the centurion and me, lad, and you'll be all right.'
    As Cato stood at the head of the century the other optios had been given the nod and were now moving down the ranks quietly ordering the men into column of fours, and dressing the lines so that in a short time the cohort was formed up, at ease, and ready to move off. Cato could not help but be aware of the growing sense of impatience as the men stood and waited. The sun had cleared the dawn mist lingering along the battlements and was washing the cohort in a weak orange glow.
    And still they waited. For long enough that the cold began to take numbing advantage of their stillness.
    At last the clatter of a walking horse sounded from the centre of the fortress and Cato turned to see a red-cloaked officer approaching, feathered plume bouncing from the crest of his helmet. At his approach,