Brothers in Blood

CHAPTER SIX

The spell broke and he raised his left arm. The arrow was still notched, but slipped loose as his arm came level.

‘Shit!’ Cato hissed, frantically fumbling to refit the shaft. He was aware of the blur of movement a short distance away and the bellowing breath of the stag. When he looked up it was no more than ten feet from him. There was a flicker of movement from his left and a sharp thud as an arrow struck the stag in the chest and the iron barb tore through its heart. The stag fell forwards and rolled on the ground before crashing into the panel in front of Cato, flattening it and knocking him back on to the ground. An instant later Macro grabbed his arm and pulled him up, struggling to suppress a grin.

‘All right, lad?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me. Thank the tribune there. If he hadn’t acted you’d be all over that stag’s horns right now.’

Cato looked round and saw Otho watching him, bow in hand, and another arrow already plucked from his quiver. ‘I’m grateful.’

Otho shook his head. ‘An easy shot. Think nothing of it.’

‘LOOSE ARROWS!’ the hunt master bellowed from the neck of the funnel. The tribune turned back to the funnel and prepared his next shot. By the time Cato had picked up his bow and retaken his place, the open ground in front of the funnel was thick with flying arrows. The does went down in quick succession, shafts protruding from their hides, and then there was a brief pause before more game came rushing forward, driven on by the beaters. Cato saw several more deer, and the first of the boars, head down as it launched into a charge. There were hares as well, bounding through the heather and into the expanse of grass in front of the hunters. He took a calming breath and securely fitted his arrow and raised the bow. Choosing the boar as his target, Cato lined up the tip of the arrow, drawing his hand back until he felt the back of his thumb come up against his cheek. He led the boar, aiming a short distance in front of its snout, then tracking it as it angled towards the opening of the funnel thirty paces away. Holding his breath, Cato closed his left eye and narrowed the right. . then released his string with a flick of his fingers. The bow lurched in his hand and the arrow sped towards its target, striking it high on the shoulder behind the head.

‘A hit!’ Cato shouted, his heart leaping with surprised pride. He glanced at Macro. ‘I hit it. Did you see?’

Macro was drawing a bead on his own target and answered through clenched teeth. ‘Beginner’s luck!’ The centurion released his first arrow, and swore as it went wide of the mark. Cato turned to Otho, but the tribune’s concentration was fixed on the game rushing towards him. For a moment Cato watched in admiration as the young man loosed arrow after arrow in quick succession, never pausing to celebrate a hit or curse a near miss. It was as if he was born to be an archer, thought Cato.

‘Stand to, Cato,’ Macro urged him. ‘You’re missing the fun!’

He focused his mind on his bow once again, bringing it up as his fingers scrabbled for a fresh arrow. There was only time for three more shots before the hunt master shouted the order to cease. The sudden stillness after the frantic action was shocking and for an instant the officers stared over the open ground littered with the feathered arrows and the bodies of stricken animals, some still writhing as they bled out.

Then an officer let out a shrill whoop and punched his fist into the air. The cry broke the tense silence and others joined in or turned to their comrades to boast about their fine shooting.

‘What did you get?’ asked Macro.

‘Just one shot on the boar. The rest were misses.’ Cato clicked his tongue.

‘That big fellow must have unsettled your aim.’

Macro pointed to the stag, now lying still, head twisted to one side and tongue lolling from its open jaws.

‘Nice thought, Macro. But the misses came after the boar, and that came after the stag. No need to make excuses for me. I’ll have better luck with a spear against the boars later on.’

Macro leaned round Cato. ‘What about you, sir?’

Tribune Otho tapped his empty quiver. ‘Ran out. Shame, since I was starting to warm up nicely.’

‘Good on you. So, how many hits?’

‘How many?’ Otho cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why, all of them, of course.’

The hunt master called to his men and they entered the killing ground. The beaters headed back to their starting positions to prepare for the next shoot. Those animals that had survived the funnel were driven into the pens, with the deer and boars kept apart. Their escape was only temporary. While some men collected up the arrows that had missed and dug out the rest, others began to haul the carcasses to a spot a short distance from the carts to begin the messy work of gutting them. Servants replenished the officers’ quivers ready for the next round.

Throughout the rest of the morning Cato continued to miss most of his targets no matter how hard he tried to make use of the advice offered to him by Tribune Otho. It was deeply frustrating to make little, if any, progress and by the end he was starting to develop a wholly irrational hatred of the bow which seemed to defy his attempts at mastering it. Macro had much better fortune and his cheerful banter grated on Cato’s nerves as they made their way to the refreshment cart at midday.

The deer were hanging from wooden frames, limbs splayed with a dark slash across their stomachs. Their entrails were heaped a short distance away, a pile of glistening grey and purple that had already attracted crows who picked savagely at the unexpected bounty. Three boars lay on their sides beside the deer. A number of hares had been killed and these were thrown to the hunting dogs brought up from the camp for the afternoon’s sport. They snarled as they fought over the bloody scraps of fur and meat.

Baskets of bread and cheese were set on the ground for the officers and wineskins passed round as they talked over the morning’s shoot. Cato did his best to join in with the conversation of Macro and some of the other officers but his deplorable performance made him feel a bit of a fraud and he had to content himself with the odd nod and laugh as he stood on the fringe of the discussion. At the same time, he watched his comrades with an analytical eye and noted those who boasted freely, or seemed eager to please, and those who contributed to the conversation with the diffidence of professional soldiers. It would be useful to know more of the quality of the men he fought alongside.

A sudden commotion at the neck of the funnel drew Cato’s attention and he saw two soldiers dragging what, at first, looked like another animal carcass from the killing zone. Then it moved and Cato saw a face fringed with matted hair looking up from the folds of a fur cloak.

‘What’s this?’ Macro remarked. ‘Looks like the lads have found themselves a prisoner.’

The officers fell silent as the native was manhandled over to the feet of the general and thrown to the ground. The man rolled on to his side and groaned as Ostorius demanded a report from the soldiers.

‘We found him hiding up near the ridge, sir. There at the end of the vale. Lying in the heather.’

‘He didn’t try to escape?’

‘No point, sir. We were all round him. Didn’t have a chance.’

‘And he didn’t try to resist?’

‘He couldn’t, sir. He’s been wounded. Look there.’ The legionary leaned over the prisoner and grasped his arm and pulled it up for the general to see. There was a dark, crusted mouth of a large stab wound on his bicep. Ostorius examined it briefly before he spoke.

‘Looks like it was caused by one of our weapons. Most likely as a result of a skirmish with some of our scouts. He’s one of Caratacus’s men.’

Otho edged towards Cato and muttered, ‘How can he tell if it was a Roman weapon?’

‘The Silurians fight like the rest of the tribes in Britannia: they like a long sword. That tends to lead to slashing wounds. Not a pretty sight. A lot of blood and a large gash. Whereas our men are trained to use the point, so you end up with wounds that look like that. Not so spectacular, but the blade goes in deeper than a cut and tends to cause more damage.’

‘I see,’ said the tribune.

‘What shall I do with him, sir?’ asked the legionary. ‘Take him back to the camp? If we can sort the wound out, he could fetch a decent price.’

Ostorius stroked his chin as he considered the fate of the man lying before him. The Silurian was muttering away in his tongue in between groans caused by his wound and the rough handling he had received from the legionaries who had discovered him.

‘Does anyone understand this uncouth wretch?’ He looked round at his officers and men. ‘Well?’

No one replied and the general stared down haughtily at the native. ‘Then I have no use for another prisoner. We have enough already, and soon we’ll have many more of them to sell to the slave dealers. Once we’ve dealt with Caratacus. But this one can add to the day’s entertainment. It’s time my hounds were given some exercise.’

Cato felt the hairs on his neck rise in foreboding as the general turned to the hunt master.

‘We’ll use this fellow. Get him up and take him into the funnel. We’ll let him have a head start and then set the dogs on him.’

Cato took a step forward. ‘Sir, wait.’

Ostorius turned to him with a scowl. ‘What is it, Prefect Cato?’

‘We have native scouts back at the camp. They can help with the interrogation of the prisoner.’

‘There isn’t going to be any interrogation.’

‘But he might give us information about Caratacus, sir. At least he might have some idea where the enemy is heading.’

Ostorius shrugged. ‘The scouts will discover that soon enough. We don’t need this scum.’ He prodded the Silurian with his boot. The man had grasped that his fate was in the balance and that it was Cato who was trying to save him. He shuffled closer to the prefect and raised his hands imploringly as he continued muttering.

‘Why wait for the scouts to report, sir, if this man might give us the answer today?’

‘Because this devil could just as easily lie as tell us the truth.’ He crossed his arms and continued with a slight sneer, ‘Now, if you have done with it, Cato, I’d like to continue with proceedings.’

Cato had no wish to see the prisoner torn apart by dogs but realised that he had already tested the general’s temper as far as it was sensible to. He took one last glance down at the pathetic individual huddled by his boots and tore his gaze away as he saw the man’s limbs trembling. Before he could protest any further Ostorius clicked his fingers at the legionaries and the soldiers grasped the man, pulling him to his feet and shoving him towards the wicker screens. The officers followed them and filed out to each side to get a good view of what was to come.

Macro fell into step with his friend and muttered, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Trying to save that prisoner’s life.’

‘Well, you ain’t achieved nothing except to piss the old man off. Ye gods! I thought I was the one who needed to watch his tongue around the quality.’

The legionaries held the man by his arms, causing him to grimace as his wound was squeezed. Fresh blood began to ooze from under the scabs.

‘Bring up the hounds!’ Ostorius ordered.

The hunt master gestured to two of his men and they unchained the dogs. There were six of them, large, shaggy hunting dogs bred by the natives. They brought them forward on leashes, fists bunched round the leather as the dogs strained against them.

‘Give ’em a scent of the prey!’

The hunt master approached the prisoner, drew his dagger and cut a large strip off his cloak. He sheathed the blade and returned to the dogs, holding the strip beneath their muzzles as they sniffed eagerly. The Silurian now fully understood what was going to happen and he stared over his shoulder at the general as he begged for his life.

‘Release him,’ Ostorius said coldly.

The legionaries did as they were ordered and stepped away. The Silurian glanced at the faces on either side, vainly looking for any sign of help. The general raised a hand and pointed to the far end of the vale. ‘Run. . RUN!’

The prisoner did not move, until one of the legionaries drew his sword and brandished it in his face.

Cato drew a deep breath and muttered, ‘You heard the general, you stupid bastard. Run!’

He took a few faltering steps into the funnel and then increased his pace and suddenly broke into a sprint, racing through the bloodstained grass. The hunt master brought the hounds forward and looked at the general questioningly. ‘Now, sir?’

‘Not yet. Let’s give the man a chance. Or at least, let him think he has a chance,’ he added cruelly.

The Silurian had almost reached the mouth of the funnel when Ostorius gave the nod. At once the leashes were slipped from the hounds’ collars and they bounded forward into the funnel and after the Silurian. Cato could see that they would catch him long before he could even reach the edge of the forest. The Silurian looked back, saw the dogs, and tumbled over, causing most of the spectators to laugh. The laughter died in their throats as the leading hound suddenly stopped and lowered its head into the grass and came up with a bloodied maw. The other dogs broke off the chase to join in and Cato realised they must have come across the remains of one of the animals killed earlier.

Meanwhile the Silurian was back on his feet and making good his escape.

‘The bastard’s getting away!’ someone shouted.

But Cato knew that the man was wrong. The first of the hounds was already resuming the chase. Then Cato’s attention was drawn to one of the officers close by. It was Otho and Cato saw him snatch up a bow. It happened almost before Cato was aware of it. An arrow flew across the grass and struck the Silurian squarely in the back, over the heart. He collapsed to his knees, one hand feebly clawing at the shaft before it fell limply to his side and he toppled face first into the grass and lay still.

‘By the gods!’ Macro shook his head in admiration. ‘Fifty, sixty paces, and he shot him through the heart.’

Cato could not share his friend’s admiration. He turned to the tribune and regarded him closely before he spoke in a flat tone. ‘A mercy killing?’

Otho stared back. ‘There are some deaths from which a man should be spared, even an enemy.’

Not to be put off by his disappointment over the fate of the prisoner, the general gave orders for the boar hunt to begin. The horses were brought forward and the officers took up their hunting spears and mounted. There were only four boars that had survived the funnel earlier in the day and they were released one at a time to eke out the entertainment. Nervous and worn out, the beasts put on a poor show and were quickly run down and piked, with no injuries to any of the horses or riders.

By mid-afternoon the panels had been packed up, the victims of the day’s hunt piled on to the bed of a wagon and the column left the vale and made its way back to the army. As they came in sight of the nearest gate Cato saw the rear of a column of legionaries entering the camp, their kit hanging from the marching yokes resting on their shoulders.

‘Looks like the boys from the Ninth,’ said Macro and at Cato’s side the young tribune straightened up in his saddle, his eyes bright with excitement.

‘So it is!’

Without further ado, Otho grasped his reins tightly and swerved his horse out of the column, spurring it into a gallop.

‘Bit keen, isn’t he?’ said Macro.

‘Yes, and I dare say it’s not to rejoin his first independent command so much as his first dependent.’

Macro gave him a long-suffering look. ‘The boy’s not thinking,’ he commented. ‘The general’s not going to like this.’

Sure enough, at the sound of pounding hoofs Ostorius had turned in his saddle, just in time to see the tribune galloping past.

‘TRIBUNE OTHO!’ Ostorius roared.

For a moment Cato was sure that the tribune would keep going, but sense prevailed and he reined in and turned his horse.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ the general demanded.

‘If you please, sir. Those are my men, and my wife is with them.’

‘That’s no reason to behave like an excited schoolboy! I will not have my officers tearing around like dogs. What kind of impression does that give the men? Get back in line, Tribune Otho. I warn you. Do not give me any further cause to upbraid you or there will be severe consequences. Do I make myself clear?’

Otho bowed his head and muttered an apology. With a last look towards the rear of the column entering the camp he trotted his horse back along the column and rejoined Cato and Macro. No one spoke until they reached the camp and passed through the gate. The reinforcements from the Ninth Legion were resting on either side of the main route stretching through the camp to headquarters. They had downed their yokes and stood stretching their backs, or sat where the ground had not been too badly churned up. The four centurions in command of the cohorts were waiting beside a covered wagon halfway along the column and saluted Ostorius as he rode up to them. The general waved the rest of the hunting party on, and gestured to Otho to join him before he turned his attention back to the nearest of the centurions.

‘I was expecting you to reach camp earlier than this.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but we had to keep pace with the wagon.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Cato saw there were two vehicles besides the standard supply wagons. One had a large wine jar painted on its cover, together with the legend, ‘Hipparchus, wine supplier to the gods!’ The other was a carriage covered with goatskin, with a laced flap over the opening at the rear. As he watched he could make out a delicate-looking hand unplucking the laces.

Ostorius sucked in a deep breath and addressed the centurions. ‘Has the camp prefect assigned you tent lines yet?’

‘Just doing it, sir. He’s shifting some of the camp followers.’

Cato shared a weary glance with Macro and sighed. There would be complaints from the civilians to deal with later on.

‘Very well. Tribune Otho!’

‘Sir?’

‘Take command of your men. Get the tents up and then report to headquarters to draw rations from the quartermaster.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Ostorius flicked his reins and trotted back to the head of the hunting party, while Otho slipped from his saddle and landed with a squelch in the muddy track. Cato and Macro were passing the wagon when the flap opened and a head and shoulders emerged from the dim interior.

‘Poppaea, my love.’ Otho grinned in delight.

A servant hurried round from behind the wagon and lowered a set of wooden steps for his mistress to descend. As she came fully into view, Macro sucked in a breath.

‘Now I understand why our boy was so keen.’

Cato nodded as he ran his eyes over the woman. She was tall and slender, with tawny blond hair plaited back behind her delicate ears. Her cheekbones were high and her features finely proportioned with sculptural precision. But he was surprised. Poppaea was beautiful, all right, but she was clearly several years older than her new husband. As she set eyes on him she smiled and it transformed her face completely so that she became radiant against the backdrop of mud and tents. Before Cato could pass any comment to Macro, he heard shouts from ahead and saw one of the headquarters clerks running towards the general. He stopped at the general’s side and spoke hurriedly. The general snapped a few questions at the man before he dismissed him and turned to the hunting party that had stopped behind him.

‘Officers! On me!’

Cato and Macro joined the others, urging their mounts forward until they clustered about the general. All trace of Ostorius’s weariness had vanished from his face as he looked over their expressions eagerly.

‘The scouts have found Caratacus! He’s gone to ground on a hill not two days’ march from here. We have him, gentlemen! At last we have him.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

The general dismounted on the gentle slope a hundred paces from the bank of the river that separated them from Caratacus’s army. The current ran swiftly for some distance in either direction, violent swirls revealing where large rocks lurked beneath the surface. At its narrowest the river was fifty yards wide, with steep banks on either side that presented a difficult obstacle to any heavily armed soldier attempting to get across. Further difficulties were presented by the stakes that the Silurians had driven into the bed of the river at every point where it was possible to ford the river.

Prefect Horatius chewed his lip. ‘It’s going to be a bugger to get across.’

‘True enough,’ Macro agreed. ‘But that’s the least of our worries. It’s what’s waiting for us on the other side that gives me the terrors.’

The officers closest to him who had heard the remark shifted their gaze to the mass of the hill that rose steeply from the opposite bank. In places sheer cliffs dropped down to the water. Where it was possible to scale the slopes of the hill the enemy had piled boulders to create crude defence works. A second line of obstacles ran along the top of the slope where it began to level out at the summit, some four or five hundred feet above the river, Cato estimated. Enemy warriors lined the defences, in their thousands, glaring at the Roman army setting up camp on the gently rolling ground a quarter of a mile beyond the river. A green standard with what looked like some kind of red winged beast flapped in the breeze blowing at the crest of the hill. Beneath stood a party of men in ruddy brown cloaks and the patterned trousers favoured by the native warriors, watching the Roman officers below.

‘There’s Caratacus.’ Cato pointed the group out.

Macro squinted at the men beneath the banner. ‘No doubt gloating over the challenge he’s set us. We’ll soon wipe the smile off the face of that bastard.’

Horatius cleared his throat and leaned to the side to spit on the ground. ‘Don’t be too sure of that, Macro. He’s picked good ground to make his stand. He’s turned the hill into a bloody fortress.’

‘It’s still a hill, sir,’ Macro maintained. ‘Which means there must be a way to outflank his defences.’

‘You think so? Look again.’

Macro surveyed the landscape before him. The hill extended at least a mile and a half before dropping away sharply at each end, and the river followed the contours, providing a natural moat for the makeshift fortress. ‘What’s on the far side of the hill?’

Cato shrugged. ‘That’s anyone’s guess.’ He indicated the squadron of auxiliary horsemen picking their way along the bank of the river. They were being shadowed on the far bank by a party of lightly armed natives who easily kept pace with the Romans. ‘We won’t know until the scouts report to the general.’

Tribune Otho had been standing a short distance away, scrutinising the enemy position, and came to join Cato and the others. He was wearing a silvered breastplate with an elaborate design of rearing horses etched into the surface. The polished strips of his leather jerkin gleamed in the sunshine and his cloak was clean and showed none of the fraying or small tears that marred the cloaks of the other officers. The rest of his armour and equipment was equally new and to cap it all he wore closed leather boots dyed red that laced up to the top of his shins.

‘As bright as a newly minted denarius,’ Macro muttered with a disapproving shake of his head. ‘He’s going to stand out like a swinging dick at a eunuch massage parlour. Every Silurian warrior worth his salt is going to be after his head.’

Cato had to agree. Soon after first setting foot on British soil he had discovered the natives’ fondness for collecting the heads of those they defeated in battle. The head of a Roman officer was a most desirable trophy to display in their crude wattle and daub huts. With his good looks and his gleaming helmet with its bright red crest, Otho would draw the attention of every Silurian warrior that caught sight of him.

‘Hello, chaps!’ Otho waved a greeting as he strode up to them. ‘Must say, those natives have a good eye for ground. But they’ll be no match for the men of the Ninth, or even the other legions, I’ll wager. Soon as the general gives the order we’ll clear Caratacus and his mob off that hill.’

‘Is that so?’ Horatius sucked a breath in through his teeth. Cato saw the look of irritation flash across his expression before he smiled coolly at the tribune. ‘Well, I’d be more than happy for you and your men to show us all how the job’s done. Why don’t you ask the general for the honour of leading the attack? I’m sure he would be impressed.’

Otho considered the idea briefly. ‘Why not? About time I had a chance to do my duty.’

‘Why not?’ Macro frowned. ‘Because you don’t just go ploughing into the enemy, sir. There’s a right way to go about this. And a wrong way.’ He turned to Cato. ‘Ain’t that right, sir?’

Cato quickly understood the implied meaning of his comrade’s remark. He nodded and addressed the prefect in a gentle tone. ‘This is your first battle, I take it.’

‘Well, yes. As it happens.’

‘Then take the chance to watch and learn. You can prove yourself another time. Good soldiers learn from experience. Or they pay the price.’

Otho stared at him earnestly and turned back to scrutinise the enemy position. ‘I understand.’

A moment later General Ostorius decided he had seen enough. He issued curt orders for pickets to be posted along the riverbank before mounting his horse and riding back into the camp. His staff officers scrambled to follow him and the others were left to ponder the formidable obstacles before them a while longer before they, too, turned away and returned to their units. The men toiled to construct the ditch and rampart that surrounded the vast area required for the two legions, the detachment from the Ninth, eight cohorts of auxiliary troops, the baggage train and the camp followers. It was more like a modest town than a camp, Cato mused as he approached the site of the main gate. The tower supports had already been driven into the earth and men were busy easing the crosspieces into position. As they reached the tent lines of the cohorts from the Ninth, Otho waved a hand and spurred his horse into a trot as he made for his headquarters tent, the first to be erected by the men before they turned to their own, far more modest section tents where eight men slept cheek by jowl.

‘The boy’s keen to get back to his wife,’ Macro chuckled. ‘Not that I’m the marrying kind, but I can see the advantages of having your wife with you on campaign. Saves a fortune,’ he added with a sly wink.

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Cato. ‘She looks like the kind of woman who is expensive to keep.’

‘Your good lady excepted, name one artistocratic bit who isn’t.’

Cato smiled. ‘And that, my friend, is just one reason why I married her. As for the other reasons — don’t ask.’

‘As if.’ Macro rode a short distance in silence before he added, ‘Had any news lately?’

‘Not since we landed.’

‘That was nearly five months ago.’

Cato shrugged. ‘We’re fighting a war on the very fringes of the known world. It could take several months for a letter to reach me from Rome.’

‘True. But I’m sure she’s fine. Julia’s a healthy girl. And loyal as veteran. Not that I’m suggesting there’s any question. .’

‘Well, yes. Quite,’ Cato responded tersely. ‘But I can’t be thinking about that. Not now. Not until we’ve defeated Caratacus.’

Macro nodded but glanced sidelong at his friend, not fooled for an instant by Cato’s dismissive response. The lad had found his love, and it was typical of life in the army that he should be forced to leave her behind a mere month or so after their marriage. It was likely to be some years before Cato saw her again. Anything could happen in that time, Macro mused sadly as they reached the tent lines of the baggage escort detachment.

As the light faded in the evening and there was no sign of any imminent assault, most of the enemy warriors began to filter away from their barricades, climbing the slope to their encampment at the top of the hill. Fires were lit as the sun set and the glow of the flames lined the ridge. The Roman soldiers along the riverbank could just make out their opposite numbers on the far side. While most held their tongues, every now and then insults were traded across the water until an optio, without any irony, bellowed to his men to keep watch in silence. Faint snatches of singing and laughter carried down the slope as Caratacus and his warriors worked themselves up into drunken fervour ahead of the battle they expected the next day.

In the Roman camp the mood was more subdued, more purposeful, as the soldiers went through the daily routines of military life. Once the tents were erected, they prepared their simple evening meals before those assigned to the first watch put on armour, took up weapons and marched to their posts. Their comrades sat around cooking fires, cleaning kit and sharpening weapons for the coming fight. In the main they talked quietly and those soldiers who had not yet put their hard training into bloody practice sat in silence, nurturing their courage and trying to put aside their fears: fear of death, fear of a crippling wound, fear of the terrible cold thrust of an enemy spear, sword or arrow, or the crushing blow of slingshot; and worst of all, fear of not being able to hide their terror in front of their comrades. Others sat with the veterans, earnestly seeking advice and guidance about how best to face what was to come. The advice was always the same. To trust their training, put their faith in the gods and kill every living thing that stood in their path.

In the headquarters tent the mood was equally sombre as General Ostorius and his senior officers also contemplated the morrow’s events. His subordinates were sitting on stools and benches around the edge of the tent. The pale light of oil lamps added to the sense of gloom as the general addressed them.

‘The cavalry patrols followed the river for ten miles in either direction. There seem to be no viable crossing places for the army. If we break camp and follow the river until we can turn Caratacus’s position then he will of course be forced to abandon the hill and continue retreating. However, while he is retreating on his lines of supply into Ordovician territory we are extending ours, so the logistical advantage now belongs to the enemy. We’ve already seen how easily he has managed to elude us in previous campaigns.’ Ostorius paused, before continuing with feeling, ‘I do not want to spend another year in these wretched mountains chasing shadows. I do not want to see our legions and auxiliary cohorts slowly bleed to death in endless skirmishes and raids. The gods have placed Caratacus in front of us and we will fight him here. I will not give him any excuse to break contact and escape. He has offered us battle on his terms, and like it or not, that is what we must accept, gentlemen.’

He looked round the tent to make sure that his intent was understood. ‘Since that is the situation, we are obliged to make a frontal attack across the river. I have decided that the first wave will go forward at noon tomorrow. That will give us time to site our artillery to bombard their barricades. Once we have opened some breaches we will be able to break through and take the hill. . Any questions?’

‘Plenty,’ Macro whispered to Cato. ‘But I know better than to ask.’

‘Then I’ll have to,’ Cato said quietly. He leaned forward on his stool and raised a hand to draw the general’s attention.

Ostorius faced him and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Prefect Cato, what do you have to say?’

‘Sir, the first line of barricades are just about in range of our artillery. But not the second line. We will not be able to batter those down.’

‘I realise that. Our men will have to fight their way over the defences.’

‘But in order to do that, they are going to have to cross the river, find a way through the stakes in the river bed, climb on to the far bank, and up the hill in full armour. Then fight their way through the breaches in the first line and climb the rest of the way up the slope to the second line. No doubt they will be subjected to the enemy’s missiles as they climb. Sir, I’d wager that by the time they reach the second line they will be too exhausted to fight.’

‘Nevertheless, they will fight. And they will break through and win the day.’

‘But the casualties are bound to be heavy, sir. Very heavy.’

‘That may be so. If that is the price of finally defeating Caratacus then it is a price worth paying. But that need not concern you unduly, Prefect Cato. After all, you and your men will be guarding the baggage train and will not be playing any part in the battle. You will come to no harm.’

Some of the officers could not help smiling at the comment and Cato felt a surge of anger pulse through his veins. They might take offence at his swift promotion through the ranks but they had no right to sneer at his courage. He had to force himself to speak calmly. ‘In view of the challenge facing the army tomorrow, I respectfully submit that my men join in the attack, sir. They have already proved themselves against the enemy.’

‘That will not be necessary. I think you overestimate the difficulties we face. Besides, your men are needed here. It would put my mind at rest knowing that the camp is being protected by men who are used to facing their enemy with a wall and rampart between them, as you proved so adeptly at Bruccium.’

This time the general had gone too far and for all his good judgement Cato’s pride would not let the slur pass unanswered. He made to reply but Macro nudged him sharply and hissed under his breath, ‘Leave it, Cato.’

For an instant Cato was on the verge of open confrontation with his commanding officer. Then he bit down on his injured pride and anger and eased himself back on to his stool. Ostorius regarded him haughtily, then shifted his gaze round the tent. ‘Anyone else?’

It was a challenge as much as a question and every man in the tent understood that and did not wish to share in the dismissive scorn directed at Cato. There was silence. Ostorius nodded.

‘Very well. Then the attack will be carried out by our legionaries. It’s too tough a job for auxiliary cohorts. Instead, the auxiliaries will be leaving the camp under cover of darkness and marching round the hill to cut off the enemy’s retreat.’

That caused murmurs to ripple amongst the officers seated around the tent. Night manoeuvres were difficult to carry out at the best of times. The Romans knew little of the ground they had to cover and would be vulnerable to any ambush that the enemy might have set. Equally, units might lose their way and not reach their assigned positions on time. It was a risky enterprise.

‘I understand your concerns,’ said Ostorius. ‘But I will not give Caratacus and his men any excuse to abandon their position and escape. If that happens due to the negligence of any officer then be sure that they will be answerable to me, and to the Emperor. Every man will do his duty. You will be given your orders as soon as my clerks have them ready for distribution. You are dismissed, gentlemen.’

He returned to his desk at the far end of the tent and sat heavily on his cushioned chair. His officers rose and shuffled towards the open tent flaps. Cato hung back, even now ready to try and dissuade his superior, until Macro muttered, ‘Don’t do it, sir.’

Cato rounded on him and spoke quietly. ‘Why did you stop me?’

‘Jupiter have mercy. . He was goading you. Surely you can see that? If you had answered back, you would only have been playing into his hands and made yourself look foolish in front of the others.’

Cato thought briefly and nodded. ‘You’re right. . Thank you, Macro.’

As they left the tent, one of the general’s clerks saw them and respectfully eased his way through the officers. ‘Prefect Cato, sir.’

‘What is it?’

‘A package of letters arrived with the reinforcements from the Ninth, sir. This one is for you.’

He held out a slim, folded leather case, fastened by the wax seal of the Sempronius family. Cato’s name, rank and the provincial headquarters of Camulodonum were written in a neat hand beside the seal. He recognised the writing at once as that of his wife, Julia, and he felt his heart give a lurch.

‘Thank you.’ He smiled at the clerk, who bowed and turned to find the next recipient of letters from the package.

‘From Julia?’ asked Macro.

Cato nodded.

‘Then I’ll leave you to read it. I’ll be in the officers’ mess.’

Outside the general’s tent was an open area bounded by the other tents that made up the army’s headquarters. The area was lit by the flames rising from iron braziers. It was a warm night and the only clouds in the sky were away to the west, leaving the stars to shine down unobstructed. It felt peaceful, and Cato was reminded of the last night he had spent with Julia in Rome, up on the roof terrace of her father’s house. Even though it was winter, they too had been warmed by a fire, and each other, as they lay and gazed up at the heavens. He smiled fondly at the memory, before the familiar ache for her returned.

Moving close to the glow of the nearest brazier, Cato held the letter up and touched the smooth wax around the impression of the Sempronius motif, a dolphin. Then he tugged the leather cover and broke the seal, carefully opening the cover to expose the sheets of papyrus inside. He angled them towards the flames and began to read. The letter was dated barely two months after he had left Rome and had taken another two months to reach him.

My dearest husband, Cato,

I take this chance to write to you as an acquaintance of my father who is leaving for Britannia and knows of you has asked if he might carry a message from me to you. Time is short so I fear I cannot express the emptiness in my heart that your absence causes. You are my all, Cato. So I pray daily for your safety and your swift return to me once you have completed your service in the army of Ostorius Scapula. I know that it may be years before we can be in each other’s arms again, and I know I must be strong and constant in my affections, and I will be. And I would have you know that, with all my heart.

The news in Rome is that Ostorius is seeking an end to the campaign in Britannia to coincide with the end of his generalship. Father says that the Emperor has let it be known that such a victory is worthy of an Ovation. Inevitably the senators will vote accordingly. If so, then you are sure to be amongst those officers honoured alongside Ostorius in Rome. I pray so. It is no more than you deserve for your service to the Emperor.

Meanwhile, the Emperor grows old and the city is rife with rumour over who will succeed him. Though Britannicus is his natural child, it seems that the Emperor’s new wife is doing all in her power to push the interests of her son, Nero. I cannot say I care for him. He lavishes praise and affection on his adoptive father way beyond the bounds of sincerity. And behind the scenes, Father says, the real struggle is between Claudius’s closest advisers, Pallas and your old acquaintance, Narcissus. When there is a new Emperor one of them is not likely to survive the event.

But I grow weary of politics. Especially as I have been writing this while steeling myself to give you news of more import to the two of us. Father and I have found a house on the Quirinal that will suit us. No palace to be sure, but large and airy, with a small garden courtyard. A fine home for my dearest husband to return to, who, by the time he does, will be more than a husband. My darling Cato, I am with child. I am certain of it. Our child. The seed of you grows within me and it makes me feel closer to you, though you be on the far side of the empire. I must finish this message now, the merchant is ready to depart. I send this, with all my heart, your loving wife, Julia.

Cato felt a surge of ardour and affection swell in his heart. A child. Their child. It would be born in the autumn. Cato felt a sense of loss. He would not be there with Julia when the child came. In fact it was likely that he would not see the child for some years. The moment passed and the prospect of being a father lifted his spirits beyond all measure and banished all thought of weariness and the coming battle. He re-read the letter, this time savouring every phrase, every word, hearing Julia speak them in his mind. At length he refolded the letter and replaced it in its cover before carefully tucking it into his belt. He must tell Macro. He had to share his joy and they must celebrate.

The tent set up for the army’s officers was a short distance from headquarters and as Cato strode towards it he could hear the sounds of laughter and the hubbub of lively conversation. He was surprised, given the dour mood in the general’s tent shortly before. Perhaps the officers were drowning their anxieties in wine and the sweet beer brewed by the natives that had become popular with the soldiers serving in Britannia.

Ducking through the tent flaps, Cato was enveloped in the warm fug inside. The smell of drink mingled with the men’s sweat and the acrid odour of woodsmoke. The sound of men’s voices was deafening, but Cato’s attention was instantly drawn to the individual who dominated the scene. In the middle of the tent stood the wife of Tribune Otho. She was surrounded by younger officers and a handful of older veterans, somewhat sheepishly enjoying the rare charm of a woman’s company. She had just finished some remark and the men around her roared with laughter. At her side, his arm lightly about her waist, stood Otho, beaming with pleasure.

‘And who is this dashing character?’

Cato’s gaze flicked back to Poppaea and he saw that she was smiling at him. He hesitated, anxious to find Macro and share his news, but at the same time mindful of social niceties. He approached the woman, and the officers parted before him until he took her hand and bowed his head. Her skin was soft and white and just before she released her formal grip on his hand she gave it a quick squeeze.

‘Prefect Cato, my lady. Commander of the Second Thracian Cavalry.’

‘And guardian of the army’s column of whores!’ a voice called out from the crowd.

There was a quick chorus of laughter from some of the officers before Otho spoke. ‘And this is my wife, Poppaea Sabrina.’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Prefect. As it is to meet any of my new husband’s comrades.’

Cato fumbled for an appropriate reply and gushed, ‘The pleasure is mine, my lady.’

‘Spoken like a happily married man,’ she replied with a mischievous smile. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you.’

Cato bowed his head and backed away and she turned her attention back to the other officers. He glanced round and saw Macro over at the wine counter buying a small flask from the trader who had won the contract to supply the mess. Macro was reaching for his purse as Cato joined him.

‘Put that away. This one is on me.’ Cato turned to the merchant. ‘What is your best wine?’

‘Sir?’ The merchant was a dark-skinned easterner, wrapped in thick tunic and cap, despite the heat inside the tent.

‘Your best wine. What have you got?’

‘There’s the Arretian, but it’s five denarians a flask.’

Cato rummaged in his purse and slapped down the silver coins. ‘Fine. We’ll have that.’

‘A moment please.’ The merchant ducked under the counter and stood again, holding a slipware amphora. He carefully extracted the stopper and filled a jug before replacing the amphora in its place of safety.

‘What are we celebrating?’ Macro asked with a puzzled expression.

Cato did not reply but filled them each a cup before handing one to Macro. ‘There.’

Macro shook his head. ‘What’s this about, lad?’

‘It seems that I am going to be a father. . Cheers!’

Macro’s eyebrows rose in surprise before a delighted expression creased his face.

Cato raised his cup and drank deeply, swigging down the fine wine as if it was water. As the last dreg dripped into his mouth he set it down on the counter with a sharp rap. ‘Ahhhh!’

Macro grinned widely, revealing his uneven stained teeth. He downed his drink in half the time it had taken his friend and then threw his arms round Cato in a quick, crushing embrace.

‘Why, that’s bloody marvellous, lad! Bloody marvellous news!’ He released Cato and stood back, still grinning. ‘When?’

‘I–I don’t know. Julia just says that she is with child.’

‘That’s wonderful. . I suppose that makes me a kind of uncle figure.’

‘No chance!’ Cato joked. ‘Julia won’t want our child swearing like a veteran before it can even walk.’

Macro growled and punched his friend lightly on the chest.

‘Gentlemen!’ a voice called from the entrance to the mess tent. All eyes turned towards the clerk holding a basket of waxed tablets. ‘Unit commanders! Your orders!’

The cheerful mood died instantly as the senior officers clustered round the clerk and waited their turn to receive their tablet.

Cato’s smile faded.

‘Never mind, lad. We’ll celebrate properly tomorrow night.’

‘Yes.’ Cato nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’

He took a deep breath and left Macro to pour another cup of wine as he crossed the tent and joined the others waiting to discover their role in the coming battle. A battle he would experience as a mere spectator.