Read Online Brothers in Blood by Simon Scarrow - Free Book Online Page B

previous night when he returned to his tent. Instead he forced himself to think of Julia and the house he planned to build in Campania one day, once he had amassed a fortune from booty earned during his duty. There had been precious little of that so far, but if the campaign in Britannia came to a successful conclusion there would be riches to be made from selling prisoners to the slave dealers. That, and a share of any gold and silver taken. More than enough to buy a slice of the peace and quiet of Campania, where he and Julia could raise a family, and he could take his place amongst the magistrates of the nearest town. Perhaps Macro might choose to live nearby and they could drink and recall the old days. On such wistful thoughts he had easily drifted off to sleep.
    ‘What’s that?’ Macro growled, his head in his hands. He was sitting on the other stool warming himself by the freshly lit fire in front of Cato’s tent. ‘Fine morning? What’s fine about it?’
    Cato could not help smiling at his friend’s discomfort. Macro never drank with any thought of the consequences.
    ‘Clear skies, clean air and the prospect of a day’s hunt. Cause enough to feel in a fine mood.’
    ‘So you say.’
    ‘Ah, here’s Thraxis.’ Cato sat down as his servant walked up with a heavy iron pot, a thick rag wrapped round the handle to protect his hand. He placed it close to the fire before removing the lid. In his other hand he carried two mess tins and a wooden ladle.
    ‘What do you have for us?’ asked Cato with a quick wink as he craned his neck to peer into the pot.
    ‘Thought you could use something hearty to fill your stomachs for the day, Prefect.’ The servant dipped the ladle in and stirred the thick grey contents of the pot.
    ‘It’s gruel with bacon, fat and some honey I bought in the traders’ market last night.’ He leaned forward and sniffed. ‘Ah! That’s good.’
    Thraxis hefted a dollop out of the pot and flicked it into one of the mess tins with a dull splat. He handed it to Cato along with a spoon. ‘There you are, Prefect.’
    Cato nodded his thanks and raised the mess tin. He took a small spoonful and blew across it before tentatively taking his first taste. It was hot and flavoursome and he eagerly helped himself to another, while his servant filled the next mess tin for Macro and offered it to the centurion.
    ‘Sir?’
    Macro looked up, bleary-eyed and with a thick growth of stubble on his cheeks. He reluctantly took the mess tin.
    ‘Thraxis,’ Cato intervened. ‘Have our boots, cloaks and canteens ready for us once we’ve eaten.’
    ‘Yes, Prefect.’
    Cato turned his attention back to his friend. It was several days since Macro had been to the barber for his last shave and he was starting to look more untamed than the wildest of Celts, Cato mused. His friend’s hair was beginning to go grey at the temples and, if Cato was not imagining it, receding a fraction from his forehead. Hardly surprising as Macro was in his fortieth year and had spent twenty-four years in the army, having lied about his age to join at sixteen. Cato paused before eating his next spoon of gruel and cleared his throat.
    ‘Any thoughts about what you’re going to do when we get to the end of the year?’
    Macro had been staring at the mess tin in his lap, wondering if he dare try to eat some of the concoction Thraxis had produced, suspicious that Cato’s servant had deliberately gone for a meal that was guaranteed to turn the stomach of even the hardest old soak in the legions. He looked up at Cato. ‘Mmmm?’
    ‘This is your demob year. You’re on the short enlistment. So?’
    Macro worked his spoon round the gruel. The legions discharged time-served men every other year, which meant that soldiers served a twenty-four or twenty-six year enlistment. He braced himself and took a spoon and chewed it slowly, forcing himself to swallow before he replied.
    ‘Had a letter from my mum in Londinium. The inn she bought is