The Legion - Scarrow Simon. Страница 31

Cato frowned, furious with himself for underestimating Ajax. Rufus misinterpreted his expression.

'There was nothing else I could do, sir. I swear it.'

'I understand.' Cato quickly ran a hand through the matted locks of his hair. 'What is the butcher's bill?'

'Eight dead, and sixteen wounded. Three of those won't last the night. Eight are walking wounded. The others will need to be carried out of here.'

Cato looked down at his boots to hide his face. He had led his men into the trap. He had been too keen to get to grips with the enemy. Men were dead because of him and he felt shame at their loss.

'Very well,' he said quietly as he composed himself and looked up. 'Make sure you have that leg wound properly seen to. Then have the village searched for food and water. The men can eat their fill and rest. We'll continue the pursuit at first light.'

'Yes, sir. And what about the wounded? We can't leave them here.'

'I'll detail some of the men to bring them up behind us. Hamedes here can help out. That's all for now, Rufus.'

It was a curt dismissal and Cato sensed the man's resentment as he saluted and turned to limp back to join the rest of his men. Cato looked at Hamedes. 'Ajax killed the people of this village. Are there any rites that you need to perform for the dead?'

Hamedes stared blankly back at Cato. 'Sir?'

'You're a priest. Do what is necessary for them. Once you've finished treating the injured.'

'Yes, sir.' Hamedes bowed his head. 'I'll offer the prayers. There's no time for the full funeral rites. But we must burn the dead.'

'I thought you people believed in burial.'

Hamedes smiled uncertainly before he replied. 'Depends how much time you have.'

'Very well, tell Macro to lend you a few men to get the job done.'

Hamedes nodded and turned to follow in the footsteps of Rufus, making for the wounded lying in the street.

As he stared at the legionaries, Cato wondered how many of them would realise that he was to blame. How many would resent him and be wary of following him into the next fight?

He turned at the sound of approaching boots and saw the unmistakable stocky bulk of Macro emerging from the darkness.

'Sentries are posted, sir. I've told them to keep a good watch. Don't want anyone catching us unawares. The lads are clapped out so I'll be changing the watch regularly during the night.'

Cato forced a smile. 'So you won't be getting much rest then.'

'I suppose.' Macro shrugged. 'Nothing I'm not used to.'

'And you didn't sleep last night either.'

'True, but I've put up with worse before. Many times.' He gestured towards Cato. 'As have you.'

'I don't think I'll be sleeping much tonight either.'

'You get some rest,' said Macro. 'I'd feel better knowing your mind was fresh when we continue the pursuit tomorrow.'

'Why?' Cato asked bitterly. 'So that I can lead us into another ambush?'

'What is this?' Macro frowned and placed his hands on his hips. 'Do you think to blame yourself?'

Cato looked at him squarely. 'It was my fault, Macro. I should have known that Ajax would anticipate our attempt to flank him… I made a bloody mess of it. I was too keen to put an end to him and rushed in.' Cato shook his head at the memory of it. 'Ajax was waiting for us. He had it all worked out.'

'What did you expect? He's no fool.' Macro glanced at his friend and tried to offer a crumb of comfort. 'Still, I expect I would have done the same if I had been in your place.'

'I wonder.'

'Mind if I sit?'

'Be my guest.'

Macro unfastened the straps under his chin and removed the bulky helmet with a sigh of relief. Then he eased himself down on the edge of the trough next to Cato and leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on his knees. He was silent for a moment and then pursed his lips before speaking quietly so that they were not overheard. 'Could you take a little advice? From a friend?'

Cato looked at him. 'From a friend, yes.'

'Right… Look here, Cato, you're a bloody prefect now. You can't afford self-pity.'

'Self-pity? No, you have me wrong. This isn't self-pity. It's a question of poor judgement. I led these men badly.'

'And what? You want to take some form of punishment for it?'

'That's what I deserve,' Cato admitted.

'Bullshit. You think you are the first officer to make a mistake?'

'Mistake is hardly the term I'd use for this.' Cato waved a hand towards the casualties. 'Bloodbath, more like.'

'Shedding blood is our stock in trade,' Macro responded. 'When there's a fight, soldiers get hurt and killed. That's the way of it.'

'But if men die needlessly, then their commander should be called to account.'

Macro puffed his cheeks in frustration. 'For fuck's sake, Cato, I've seen worse cock-ups. So have you. Sometimes a fight goes your way and sometimes it doesn't. The enemy gets the better of every commander from time to time, even the very best of them. You have to accept that.'

'So you agree that I failed my men.'

'Sure, you screwed up,' Macro said frankly.

'Thanks…'

'Cato, I respect you well enough to tell you the truth. If you don't want to hear it then say so.'

'I'm sorry. Speak on.'

'All right.' Macro collected his thoughts. 'The truth is that you are a fine officer. As good as any I have met. I've watched you rise from optio, to centurion and now prefect. I'd wager you'll go further still. You've got the brains for it, and the guts, and though you look like a long streak of piss, you're as tough as old boots. But you lack something.' Macro frowned as he tried to clarify his explanation. 'Not experience – you've had plenty of that, no question about it. No, it's something else… Perspective, perhaps. That sense a soldier has once he has served long enough to see generals come and go. Maybe you have been too successful. You've won promotion before you've developed the right temperament for the job, if you see what I mean. You need to learn to accept that making mistakes from time to time – failing – is part of the job. How a soldier copes with failure is every bit as important as how he deals with success.' Macro smiled fondly. 'Do you remember Centurion Bestia?'

Cato nodded as he recalled the scarred veteran in charge of training the recruits when Cato had joined the Second Legion nearly seven years before. Bestia had died during the invasion of Britannia, fatally wounded in an ambush.

'He was a tough one, and he'd served in just about every corner of the Empire. After I was promoted to the centurionate I had a drinking session with him in the mess. He had a right skinful and, as old soldiers will in the company of their own kind, he fell to reminiscing. Anyway, I remember the most impressive story he told me was about some messed-up campaign in Pannonia. Some of the mountain tribes had decided they'd had enough of Roman tax collectors so they rebelled. The Second was sent in to put down the revolt. But the governor had no idea quite how many rebels there were, nor much about the conditions in the mountains during the winter. So the commander of the legion gets caught in a trap, loses a quarter of his men and has to retreat two hundred miles to the nearest fortified town. Took them twenty days and cost nearly half the men. But Bestia reckoned it was the legate's finest hour. He led his men to safety. That's the point, Cato. The real test of a commander is how he deals with adversity.' Macro looked at Cato and nodded earnestly. 'That's the truth of it. So you'd better get a grip on yourself, right?'

'Yes. I understand.' Cato forced a slight smile. 'And thanks.'

'Think nothing of it.' Macro punched him lightly on the shoulder. 'I'd far rather you were in charge and fucked it up than me.'

'Oh, great…'

Macro raised his canteen and took a series of swigs before he set it down. 'Ahh! That's better.' He decided to change the subject and glanced quickly round at the ruined village. 'So what's the story here? Where are all the locals?'