Cato 01 - Under the Eagle Read Online Free Page B
Author: Simon Scarrow
pushed back his hood and brushed his straggling hair to the side. While they waited, Macro was aware of the youth glancing keenly about himself even as he shivered. A spark of sympathy pricked Macro as he recalled his own feelings on admission to the army; the excitement tinged with fear as he entered a completely unknown world with its strict rules, its dangers and its harsh life away from the comforts of his childhood home.
Cato busied himself with wringing water out of his cloak and a puddle soon formed about the boy's feet.
'Stop that!' Macro snapped. 'You're making a mess. You can dry out later.'
Cato looked up, hands wrapped around a tightly squeezed section of the hem. He was about to protest when he was aware that all the soldiers were looking at him with grave disapproval.
'I'm terribly sorry,' he muttered, and let go of the hem.
'Look here, lad,' Macro said as kindly as possible. 'No-one minds a soldier being in a mess when he can't help it. But what they do mind is a soldier who fidgets. It drives the army mad. Isn't that right, boys?' He turned to the guards and they nodded vigorously. 'So from now on, no fidgeting. Get used to standing still and waiting. You'll find that's what we spend most of our time doing.'
The guards sighed in sympathy.
Footsteps approached from the inner courtyard as the guard returned to the portico.
'Sir, please follow me. The boy too.'
'The legate's going to see us?'
'Don't know, sir. I've been ordered to escort you to the senior tribune first. This way please.'
He led them through a broad arch into a courtyard surrounded by a covered walkway. The rain gushed down off the roof tiles into guttering that channelled it out of the building into the street. The guard led them round each side of the courtyard until they reached a further doorway opposite the portico. Through the door, the building opened out into a large hall with offices along each side, except for the far wall where a purple curtain hid the Legion's shrine from view. Two standard bearers with drawn swords stood to attention in front of the curtain. The guard turned left, paused outside a door and tapped twice.
'Come,' a voice called and the guard quickly opened the door. Macro led the way inside, beckoning Cato to follow him. The room was narrow, but it stretched back a fair distance to accommodate a desk along one wall and a rack of scrolls at the end. A brazier glowed just inside the door, filling the room with a warm fug. Seated at the desk was a tribune. Macro knew him by sight, Aulus Vitellius, a former playboy in Rome but now on the path of a political career which began on the staff of a legion. Vitellius was an overweight man with a dark olive complexion that betrayed a southern Italian background. As his visitors entered, he pushed his chair back and faced them.
'Where's this letter?' The voice was deep and tinged with impatience.
Macro handed it over and then took a step back. Cato stood mutely at his side, next to the brazier. A faint smile of contentment played on his lips as the warmth entered his body and the shivering stopped.
Vitellius cast a quick glance at the letter and then ran his fingers over the imperial seal, consumed by curiosity. 'Do you know what this is?'
'Boy says it's…'
'I'm not asking you, Centurion… Well?'
'I believe it to be a personal letter from the Emperor Claudius, sir,' Cato responded.
Cato's stressing of 'personal' was not lost on the tribune and the latter fixed the boy with an icy stare. 'And what do you think could be so personal that the Emperor would trust its delivery to you?'
'I don't know, sir.'
'Exactly. So I think you can safely leave this with me. I'll see that the legate receives it in due course. Dismissed.'
Macro instantly moved towards the door, but the young recruit hesitated. 'Excuse me, sir. The scroll?'
Vitellius stared back, dumbfounded, as Macro quickly grabbed the youth's arm.
'Let's be off, lad. The tribune's a busy man.'
'I was told to
Cato busied himself with wringing water out of his cloak and a puddle soon formed about the boy's feet.
'Stop that!' Macro snapped. 'You're making a mess. You can dry out later.'
Cato looked up, hands wrapped around a tightly squeezed section of the hem. He was about to protest when he was aware that all the soldiers were looking at him with grave disapproval.
'I'm terribly sorry,' he muttered, and let go of the hem.
'Look here, lad,' Macro said as kindly as possible. 'No-one minds a soldier being in a mess when he can't help it. But what they do mind is a soldier who fidgets. It drives the army mad. Isn't that right, boys?' He turned to the guards and they nodded vigorously. 'So from now on, no fidgeting. Get used to standing still and waiting. You'll find that's what we spend most of our time doing.'
The guards sighed in sympathy.
Footsteps approached from the inner courtyard as the guard returned to the portico.
'Sir, please follow me. The boy too.'
'The legate's going to see us?'
'Don't know, sir. I've been ordered to escort you to the senior tribune first. This way please.'
He led them through a broad arch into a courtyard surrounded by a covered walkway. The rain gushed down off the roof tiles into guttering that channelled it out of the building into the street. The guard led them round each side of the courtyard until they reached a further doorway opposite the portico. Through the door, the building opened out into a large hall with offices along each side, except for the far wall where a purple curtain hid the Legion's shrine from view. Two standard bearers with drawn swords stood to attention in front of the curtain. The guard turned left, paused outside a door and tapped twice.
'Come,' a voice called and the guard quickly opened the door. Macro led the way inside, beckoning Cato to follow him. The room was narrow, but it stretched back a fair distance to accommodate a desk along one wall and a rack of scrolls at the end. A brazier glowed just inside the door, filling the room with a warm fug. Seated at the desk was a tribune. Macro knew him by sight, Aulus Vitellius, a former playboy in Rome but now on the path of a political career which began on the staff of a legion. Vitellius was an overweight man with a dark olive complexion that betrayed a southern Italian background. As his visitors entered, he pushed his chair back and faced them.
'Where's this letter?' The voice was deep and tinged with impatience.
Macro handed it over and then took a step back. Cato stood mutely at his side, next to the brazier. A faint smile of contentment played on his lips as the warmth entered his body and the shivering stopped.
Vitellius cast a quick glance at the letter and then ran his fingers over the imperial seal, consumed by curiosity. 'Do you know what this is?'
'Boy says it's…'
'I'm not asking you, Centurion… Well?'
'I believe it to be a personal letter from the Emperor Claudius, sir,' Cato responded.
Cato's stressing of 'personal' was not lost on the tribune and the latter fixed the boy with an icy stare. 'And what do you think could be so personal that the Emperor would trust its delivery to you?'
'I don't know, sir.'
'Exactly. So I think you can safely leave this with me. I'll see that the legate receives it in due course. Dismissed.'
Macro instantly moved towards the door, but the young recruit hesitated. 'Excuse me, sir. The scroll?'
Vitellius stared back, dumbfounded, as Macro quickly grabbed the youth's arm.
'Let's be off, lad. The tribune's a busy man.'
'I was told to
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