The Gladiator

CHAPTER SIX

Macro let out a weary sigh as he looked over the reports he had demanded from the officers and clerks of the auxiliary cohort.

Outside night had fallen, and from the window of the office he could see the flickering glow of torches along the walls of the acropolis. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as his mouth opened in a long, wide yawn, before returning his attention to his work. Several wax notebooks were stacked on his desk detailing the strength of each century in the cohort, with the names of the best men in each unit underscored by their centurions. Those dead or missing were marked with a cross. There was also a detailed inventory of the cohort's stores compiled by the quartermaster and a report from the only assistant assigned to the cohort's surgeon. The surgeon who had been in the port when the earthquake struck and was still missing. The barracks room that served as sick quarters was overflowing with injured, and the surgeon's assistant requested more men to help him deal with the casualties.

In addition to his other concerns, Macro had sent out a patrol to the bay to find the crew and passengers of the Horus and have themescorted back to the acropolis. They would be given shelter, and Macro would need the fittest of them to fill out the ranks of the cohort until the emergency was over.

As soon as he took command of the cohort, he had carried out a close inspection of the men formed up in their centuries in the courtyard of the acropolis. It was as Portillus had said: only half his men had survived when the earthquake struck Matala. Those that remained were badly shaken by the loss of their comrades, and the mortal terror they felt towards whichever god it was who had decided to wreak his fury upon the port. As Macro slowly paced along the ranks of the Twelfth Hispania, his experienced eye quickly saw that the cohort was typical of most of the garrison units stationed in the safer provinces of the empire. There was a mixture of worn-out veterans, impatiently awaiting their discharge, and those whose health had been broken on campaign and who had been transferred to Crete where they could manage to carry out gentle policing duties. Finally there was a handful of simpletons and scrawny youths who could just about be trusted to hold a weapon and not do themselves, or their comrades, any harm.

Macro shook his head. As things stood, the cohort was going to be little use in restoring order and helping the civilian survivors. He would need better men, and more of them, in the days to come.

Meanwhile, he resolved to do what he could with the resources at hand. Not that there were many resources, he sighed. The quartermaster's inventory revealed that the cohort had been run down in recent years. A string of governors had done their best to cut the costs of running the province right down to the bone in order to curry favour with the emperor and senate back in Rome. Worn - out equipment had not been replaced and the soldiers had had to make up the shortfall in the local markets. They wore an odd assortment of standard-issue kit and a range of old Gallic and Greek helmets and swords. There were very few slings, almost no lead shot for them, and very few reserves of essential rations and drinking water. Two of the cisterns of the acropolis were bone dry and the third only half full, and what was left was barely potable, as Macro had discovered when he accompanied the quartermaster down the steps into the cool interior of the cistern, cut from living rock.

'That is fucking disgusting!' He spat out the rank-tasting liquid and wiped his mouth dry on the back of his hand before climbing back out.' When was the last time this was drained and cleaned out?'

The quartermaster shrugged. 'Don't know, sir. Must have been before my time.'

'How long have you been here?'

'Seven years, sir.'

'Seven years, ' Macro repeated flatly. 'And you just chose to ignore it?'

'No, sir, ' the quartermaster replied indignantly He was a thin old stick, with dark, wizened features, but he carried the scars that spoke 53

of some active service, Macro conceded. The quartermaster continued.' The prefect told me not to bother. Said that how as we were a garrison unit, and the province was at peace, there was no point in preparing for a siege, sir.'

'I see. Right, well, that's going to change. At first light I want you and your clerks down here. The cistern is to be drained, thoroughly cleaned, repaired and made ready to store any rain that falls.'

'Yes, sir.'

Macro stared at the quartermaster.' Look here... what was the name again?'

'Corvinus, sir. Lucius Junillus Corvinus.'