Macro paced forward, followed by the rest, four ranks abreast. He led them across the training ground and down the rough track that joined the Nile road. Even this early in the morning the farmers and merchants who were making their way into Diospolis Magna to sell their wares were on the road and they hurriedly pulled aside as the legionaries turned right and began to head north, along the road that followed the course of the Nile.
A few boats were already out, the skiffs of fishermen rowing across the current to inspect their nets, and the larger broad-beamed vessels that carried goods up and down the great river. On the far bank was a thin strip of green vegetation and then the rocky mass of the lifeless mountains rising above the desert.
An hour after the column had set off, the sun had risen over the horizon and the pale yellow disc hung in the haze like an eye surveying the ribbon of water and crops that threaded its way across the great desert of northern Africa. Cato had settled into an easy rhythm; and an early ache that had started at the bottom of his back had faded away and he was starting to feel confident about completing the march. Sweat pricked out from his scalp, saturating his felt helmet liner, and every so often a trickle escaped, coursing down his brow, and he blinked it away rather than transferring the javelin to his shield hand so that he could mop his brow.
Glancing round he saw that some of the officers were already struggling to keep up with the pace. The nearest, a centurion from the First Cohort, was puffing out his full cheeks as he laboured under his kit. One of Macro’s training optios fell into step beside him.
‘Come on, sir. Put some bloody effort in! I’ve seen old men march better than that.’
The centurion clamped his lips together and struggled on. Cato turned back, feeling slightly guilty over his plan to break men like that centurion. However, if the man made it through the day then there was obviously more to him than met the eye – though given his girth, Cato thought wryly, that would be something of a challenge. Up ahead, Macro led the way, striding steadily down the road without the slightest sign of tiring.
The heat from the rising sun began to burn the haze and light mist away from the banks of the Nile and the marching men were exposed to its direct rays. The temperature began to rise swiftly and added to the discomfort of the dust kicked up by the passage of thousands of iron-nailed army boots. Every so often the road passed through small villages and little gangs of children would work their way along the column, begging for money in their chirping voices, hurriedly moving on from those soldiers who spat curses or swung a boot at them. Cato just ignored them, concentrating on placing one boot in front of the other as he followed in Macro’s tracks. As the sun rose higher, the heat became intense, searing the landscape in its harsh glare. Cato felt the sweat on his back soak through his tunic and plaster it to his skin. Occasionally a cold trickle dribbled down from his armpits and traced its way over his ribs until it caught in a fold of his tunic. His mouth was dry and it was hard to resist the impulse to call ahead to Macro and suggest that he permit the men a short rest to take some water.
After the second hour there was a groan and a clatter and Cato looked back to see that one of the officers had collapsed on the road. A companion stopped and leaned down to help his friend, before an optio pounced, cracking his staff down on the officer’s shield.
‘What the fuck are you doing? Don’t stop, sir! Keep moving!’
‘You can’t leave him there,’ the centurion protested.
‘Move!’ the optio bellowed into his face, and raised his staff.
The centurion hurriedly straightened up and moved on. The optio remained by the fallen officer and gestured for the legionaries to march round the fallen man. ‘Keep moving! Don’t stop and gawp! What, you’ve never seen an officer fall on his face before? Move!’
The column rippled round the prone man and continued its advance without breaking its step. Macro had slowed so that he was just ahead of Cato and muttered with satisfaction. ‘There goes the first one. Won’t be long before we lose others. Wonder how many more will fall out.’
Cato licked his lips. ‘Just as long as I don’t.’
‘Don’t worry. Like I said, I won’t let you.’
‘Thanks, friend.’
‘No need to get sarky, sir. This was your idea, remember?’
‘Next time I have a good idea, tell me to mind my own business, eh?’
Macro smiled, but growled, ‘Shut up and save your breath.’
Late in the morning, the column passed through a long grove of tall date palms and Macro called a halt and ordered the men to down packs. Cato stepped to the side of the road and let the yoke drop into the grass. He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, and panted for breath. Macro, sweating and breathing heavily but otherwise himself, shook his head pityingly. ‘You’re going soft. That’s what promotion does to a man.’
‘Bollocks.’ Cato reached for his canteen, pulled out the stopper and raised it to his lips.
‘Two mouthfuls.’ Macro pointed a finger at him as he strode past to have a word with his instructors. ‘Not a drop more.’
Cato nodded, and drank what he was allowed, letting the second mouthful swill round his parched mouth before he swallowed. He looked back along the column. Scores of men lay stretched on their backs, gasping. Amongst the officers he noticed a few absences, the faces of men he had hoped would fail to complete the march. The rest looked grim and determined.
As Macro returned to the front of the column, he stopped beside Cato and took a sip from his canteen. ‘Four officers and eighteen of the men have dropped out so far. Not at all bad considering the heat. But then these men are used to it. Eight miles done, I make it. Time for a short rest and then we’ll turn back towards the camp.’ Macro was silent for a moment before he raised a hand to shield his eyes and squinted briefly up at the sun before he took his second sip and capped his canteen. ‘That will be the real test of the men. The heat in the afternoon will be crushing. Can’t say I’m relishing the prospect. How are you holding up, sir?’
‘I’m managing.’ In truth Cato’s feet were throbbing with pain from the prolonged march on a hard surface and he felt slightly dizzy from his exertions and the heat. But he forced himself to stand upright and look Macro squarely in the eye.
‘And you?’
‘No problems,’ Macro replied as he took in his friend’s blanched face. ‘If I were you, I’d sit down and rest your legs while you have the chance.’
‘Not before you do.’
Macro shook his head. ‘Suit yourself.’
He paced slowly along the column, looking down at the officers and men of the First Cohort. They were mostly the product of a blending of the Greek and Egyptian races, darkly featured yet not quite as dark as the natives of the upper Nile. In general they had a somewhat smaller build than the legionaries of the northern frontier of the Empire where Macro had served most of his time. However, they looked tough enough, and they had stayed the distance, so far. But then they should, Macro reflected. The First Cohort was supposed to be the best in every legion. Twice the size of other cohorts, it was entrusted with the defence of the right flank when the legion went into battle. Still, it would be interesting to see how many remained in the column when it returned to camp. The men of the Seventh and Ninth Cohorts had fared as well as their comrades and only a handful had dropped out. Cato had been right to make a point of including the officers, Macro accepted. It had certainly perked the men up—a useful bonus over and above the opportunity to weed out those who were not fit enough for active commands.
As he made his way back down the line to the small group of officers resting beside the road, Macro saw Hamedes sitting to one side. Macro had always assumed that priests were a soft bunch of wasters and was surprised that Hamedes had kept up with the column.
‘How are your feet coping?’
The priest stood up as he was addressed and smiled infectiously. ‘A most welcome excursion, sir. Though I have to wonder that men who have to carry so much on their backs have any strength left to conquer and hold an empire.’
Macro smiled back and tapped him on the chest. ‘That’s the secret of our success,’ he responded conspiratorially. ‘It’s
because
we have the strength left that we win.’ Macro took a step back and glanced over the priest. ‘You’ve done well, lad. I’ll make a legionary of you yet.’
The young man’s face was still for a moment before his smile returned. ‘An honour, to be sure. Yet I am a man with spiritual, rather than martial, ambitions. When the campaign is over I fully intend to return to the priesthood.’
‘We’ll see. My instinct is that you are getting something of a taste for this life. Why else would you stick with us, eh?’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder and returned to the head of the column. He picked up his yoke and heaved it up on to his shoulder with a grunt before turning to face back along the column.
‘The rest break’s over! On your feet!’
There was a chorus of groans and swearing that made Macro smile, then the men stood up and raised their yokes as the optios strode down the line bawling out those who responded too slowly to the order. Each century formed up and stood ready, waiting for the order to resume the march. Macro waited until they were still and silent, then bellowed down the line, ‘Column! Advance!’
They shuffled forward, gradually picking up the pace. Macro led them a short distance beyond the belt of palms before leaving the road to march round a shrine and then turning back towards the camp, passing down the tail of the column and the covered carts carrying those who had collapsed on the outward leg. Midday passed and the afternoon breeze picked up, bringing with it the lightest of dust from the desert. The grit caught in the men’s mouths and their eyes, adding to the discomfort of the scorching heat that beat down on them. Worse still, the glare made the road ahead shimmer as if a perpetually receding sheet of water lay before them, tormenting them with the prospect of assuaging their growing thirst.
More men fell out of line, and this time fewer of them could be coaxed back into place by the blows of the optios and were left for the carts to pick up. Cato had slowed a little so that he was now marching amid the other officers, a short distance behind Macro. Most of the centurions were coping with the strain of the march well enough, some struggled, and the last of those officers who had been avoiding the drills soon gave in and slumped to the side of the road to await the carts.
Cato had never known such heat, not even when he and Macro had crossed the Syrian desert to Palmyra. His tunic, encased in armour, felt tight against him, constricting his breath as he laboured under the weight of the yoke and the broad shield hanging from it. His feet and legs felt leaden and each step became an effort of will. They passed back through the villages near Diospolis Magna and out came the noisy clusters of children again. This time they were met with silence as the soldiers ignored them, unwilling to waste any breath telling the children to go away.
In the middle of the afternoon Cato looked up to see the pylons and standards of Karnak wavering in the distance. His heart lifted at the sight, and he gritted his teeth and looked down again, concentrating on each step in turn, not wanting to look up and see the temples seeming as far off as ever.
‘Step up the pace, lads!’ Macro called out cheerfully. ‘We’re almost home. Let’s show the other cohorts how real soldiers march!’
His words were met with silence and Macro paused and turned back to face them. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are we happy?’
Those centurions who had served in the northern legions, and Cato, answered him in a chorus. ‘Are we fuck!’
Macro laughed, and turned to lead them the final mile back to the training ground outside the temple complex. The optios hurriedly ordered the men to dress their ranks and raise their chins as they turned off the road and the column trudged on to the open ground, back to the positions they had occupied before they had set off at daybreak.
‘Column! Stand to attention!’ Macro’s bellow echoed back off the mud-brick wall. He set his pack down, reached for his canteen and took a long swig before stoppering it. Then he slowly paced along the lines of sweating, panting legionaries, inspecting their ranks. One more man collapsed as he stood waiting for the column to be dismissed. Macro ignored him. He put his hands on his hips and addressed the exhausted men.
‘That is but a taste of what is expected of you once the campaign begins. I know that the Jackals are keen to test themselves in battle with the Nubians. You have the spirit of true soldiers, but you must also have the body. It is the army that marches hardest that also fights hardest, and wins.’
Macro’s words died away with the late afternoon breeze. He stared at them a moment longer and then shouted the order. ‘Column! . . . Fall out!’
As soon as the order was given the men seemed to sag under the weight of their yokes and then in ones and twos they began to stagger across the training ground towards the north gate of Karnak. Macro watched them for a moment before he caught sight of Hamedes and nodded a greeting to him.
‘Well done, lad! Seems you’re as fit as any man here.’
Hamedes puffed his cheeks. ‘I think I may not take you up on that offer of a place in the legion, sir.’
‘Hah!’ Macro jerked his thumb towards the gate. ‘Get in there and have a good night’s rest. When the morning comes you’ll wonder what you were complaining about. And then you’ll try and get up and feel like a complete cripple.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Hamedes said flatly, and walked stiffly away.
Cato was draining the last drops of his canteen when Macro approached him. ‘You went the distance after all.’
‘Did I?’ Cato’s feet burned so much it was an effort to stand up. ‘So this is what being dead on your feet feels like . . .’
‘Ah, don’t make such a fuss.’ He nodded towards the carts trundling across the training ground. ‘At least you did it. Some didn’t. I’ve had one of the optios draw up a list of those who dropped out.’ Macro reached into the sling hanging round his neck and fished out a small waxed slate. ‘Here you are.’