Britannia

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Macro tried hard not to reveal his misgivings as he glanced at the officer doing the rounds at his side in the half-light of dawn. Centurion Fortunus had been informed that he was taking command of the fort shortly before, and had reacted precisely as Macro had feared he would. Life had been too easy in the Illyrian cohort for too long, and most of the men and officers had grown used to garrison duty in the comfort of a settled province. Even after being transferred to the army in Britannia, they had served as part of the reserve and had yet to face battle against the island’s warlike natives. That particular experience might be closer than they wished, Macro reflected ruefully. The fort was on the frontier, and enemy warriors lurked in the surrounding hills and mountains. It was possible that the natives might have concentrated their forces against the main Roman column. Equally, it was possible that they might have much wider ambitions that included an offensive against the frontier forts and outposts. If they attacked Fortunus and his men, Macro had serious doubts that the Illyrians would prevail. Even though his efforts to toughen them up had gone some way to improving their fitness and fighting skills, they were far from ready to lead into battle. More worrying still was the fact that command of the fort would be entrusted to Fortunus, as the senior remaining officer.

Macro paused at the foot of the steps leading up to the gatehouse tower and leaned on his vine cane to take the weight off his wounded leg. He could still walk no more than a mile before the pain became acute and the joint grew stiff. He waited a moment and breathed out calmly before he addressed Fortunus.

‘Get another locking beam fitted to each gate. If there’s trouble, that’ll help keep the bastards out. And while you’re at it, have the blacksmith turn out as many caltrops as possible and sow them in the grass around the walls. That’ll put a stop to any attempt to rush the fort and take it by surprise. I’ve yet to meet the man who has impaled his foot on a caltrop and not screamed his guts out.’ Macro smiled fondly as he recalled the effect the vicious iron spikes had had on the Parthians he and Cato had once faced in the eastern deserts of the empire.

‘Do you really think there will be trouble, sir?’

Macro sighed. ‘Who knows? The point is that we have to be ready to face it at any moment. That’s what soldiers do, Fortunus. Professional soldiers, at any rate. You take the emperor’s coin and now it’s time for you to earn your pay.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand.’ Fortunus hesitated and glanced at Macro anxiously.

‘But? Spit it out, man.’

‘It . . . it’s you I’m concerned about, sir.’

Macro cocked an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, sir. You’ve not recovered from your wound. Better that you remain here and send another officer in your place to warn the legate.’

Macro felt an instinctive disdain for the transparency of the other man’s suggestion. He had little time for officers who did not step up to take the burden of responsibility that came with their rank, not to mention their enhanced pay. He was damned if he would let Fortunus hide behind him and lead his men from the rear. Still, it would do little good to berate the man out here in the open, in earshot of those who would be left in his charge. He bit back on his irritation and shifted his weight slightly so that he stood erect before the other man.

‘It is vital that the legate is informed of the enemy’s plans, and I am the best man to lead the effort to make sure the warning gets through. That is why I must go and why you must assume command.’

Fortunus stared at him bleakly and then cast his eyes down. ‘Sir, I am not sure if I am the best man for the job. It might be better if you chose another.’

Macro’s brow creased in an angry frown and he thrust a finger into Fortunus’s well-padded gut. ‘Shut your mouth. There’s no choice in the matter. I am ordering you to take command, and you will fucking well take command. Is that understood? You are a bloody centurion. Act like one. These men will be looking to you. Depending on you. And you will do your duty and lead them as well as they deserve. Their lives depend on it. So does yours, Fortunus. We’re all in this together. The difference is that officers must lead by example. You will set the example, give the order, and if need be, die at the head of your men.’

Fortunus winced and Macro paused, disappointed by the man’s lack of moral fibre. It would serve little purpose to fuel his anxiety. Fortunus needed a more subtle approach. Encouragement, perhaps. Macro softened his tone.

‘Look here, it’s no accident that you were promoted to the centurionate. Whoever decided to hand you the job must have had their reasons. I’ve been a soldier long enough to know that such men lead from the front and are the last to leave the fight when in retreat. You’re supposed to be a fire-eater, Fortunus. It’s your job to frighten your men just as much as you frighten the enemy. Maybe you’ve forgotten that and you need to find it in yourself again. But you will. You have to.’ He paused and made himself smile. ‘Of course, you’ll have to do a few more laps around the drill ground before you are fit enough to outpace your lads!’

Fortunus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you saying I’m fat, sir?’

‘Well, I’m not saying you’re thin.’

They stared at each other for an instant before the auxiliary officer’s face creased into a smile. Macro joined him and they both laughed.

‘Right then, the job’s yours. Look after my fort, Centurion.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.’

‘I expect nothing less. And if you need a word of advice, then sound out Diomedes. He’s a good man, and he’ll make a fine centurion one of these days. You could do worse than listen to what he has to say.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, sir.’

‘Good.’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder and turned to climb the steps to the tower, gritting his teeth each time he had to flex his wounded limb. He was sweating slightly as they reached the top and moved over to the crenellations overlooking the fort. He leaned on the rail and pointed to the three other gatehouses. ‘I know the quartermaster doesn’t like having our artillery set up during the winter months, and the cold and damp does the kit no good, but get a bolt-thrower mounted on each tower. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the natives it’s that they have a mortal terror of our bolt-throwers and catapults. Especially when we use fire bolts. You should see them, Fortunus. Like fire from the heavens flashing into their ranks and bursting into flame and sparks. Nothing quite like it. So use them at the first sight of the enemy. If they get past those and over the ditch to the rampart, then it’s down to cold steel, brute strength, courage and good training. It’s the last that gives us the edge over the enemy, so keep the men drilling and push them to the limit. It’s when a man thinks he has reached the point of exhaustion that he finds that last reserve that will give him the confidence to face anything.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Macro looked the centurion in the eye and held out his hand. They clasped forearms and Macro nodded his satisfaction. ‘You’ll do fine, Fortunus. Trust me.’

‘Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.’

‘If you do, I’ll have your bollocks for breakfast.’

Fortunus chuckled, his jowls trembling with mirth. Then the laugh faded. ‘If we are attacked, do I take it that will mean the legate has been defeated?’

Macro thought a moment and shrugged. ‘Whether Quintatus has been defeated or is victorious makes no difference. You hold the fort until it falls, a relief column arrives or the enemy gives up and buggers off back into the mountains. That’s all that need concern you.’

‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

Macro caught sight of Optio Pandarus leading his section of mounted men towards the gate and straightened up. ‘Time for me to go. As of this moment, you are the garrison commander. The fort is in your hands, Centurion.’

Fortunus cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sir.’

They made their way down from the tower and emerged just as Pandarus and the others drew up. Macro ran his eyes over the Blood Crows and their latest recruit, the giant Lomus. The latter was leading a second mount and brought it forward to Macro. Like the other horses, it was laden with feed bags and the minimum kit that Macro would need for the ride to track down Legate Quintatus. He stood beside the horse, holding the reins and his vine cane in one hand, the other resting on the saddle horn. Instinctively he made to thrust himself up into the saddle, but his wounded leg refused to answer the call and he did not even leave the ground. Swearing under his breath, and embarrassed by the need to call for assistance he gritted his teeth and growled at Lomus.

‘A hand up, here!’

The auxiliary released his own reins and cupped his hands for Macro’s good foot. As if he was lifting a child rather than a grown man weighed down by armour, he swept Macro up and on to his mount. The centurion grunted his thanks and settled himself in place, adjusting his cloak so that it fell across his saddle roll.

‘Open the gates.’

The section of Illyrians on gatehouse duty hurried to remove the locking bar and ease the gates open, allowing the dawn light to flood in at an angle. Macro tapped his heels in and urged his horse forward. Pandarus ordered the others to mount, and they trotted out behind the centurion. A moment later the gates thudded back into place and the bar thumped into its brackets. Macro turned briefly in his saddle and saw the bulk of Fortunus on the tower. The new commander of the fort half raised a hand in farewell, and Macro nodded before facing forward and striking out for Mediolanum along a narrow trail that wound up into the hills to the north of the fort, heading for the line of march taken by Legate Quintatus and his army. Macro winced. With difficulty he had adjusted to taking the strain on his good leg and did his best to ignore any pain in the other. Soon the discomfort faded from his mind as he fixed his thoughts on finding the legate and saving his comrades, and Cato, before they fell into the trap being set by their enemy.

For two days they drove their mounts on as hard as they dared, alternating between a steady trot and walking, as the ground permitted. There was too much urgency to advance with caution, and Macro put his trust in a good sword and fierce determination should they run into any armed natives. They passed several villages nestled in valleys, skirting round them without provoking the natives into any attempt to pursue them, and his heart grew heavier as he realised that this could only be because the enemy was gathering every available warrior to hurl against the Roman column when they decided to close the trap. For all he knew, that might already have happened, and the crows and ravens were even now picking over the stiff, cold corpses of the Roman army, their sharp beaks plucking at torn flesh. If that was the case, then he and his small party were riding to their deaths, but the thought did not daunt him. If there was the slightest chance of saving Cato and the others, he was content to put his life at risk, and he drove his men on and fought back against the throbbing agony in his leg. He was gratified to see that although the scar tissue flushed red at times, there was no sign that the hard riding was holding back his recovery.

Each night they camped in whatever shelter they could find, not daring to light a fire for fear of attracting unwelcome attention. They chewed on strips of dried meat and hard bread, washed down with spring water, before doing their best to find warmth, huddled in their thick cloaks as sleep came fitfully.

The morning of the third day, the discomfort of the cold, clammy air of the mountains was made worse by the gathering of dark clouds. By noon it was raining heavily, and the gloom was such that it might have been the thin light of dawn or dusk. Macro, not wishing to run into the enemy, sent Lomus a short distance ahead, then hunched down into his saddle and stared ahead over the straggling mane of his horse as he swayed gently from side to side. As far as he could estimate, they had covered sixty miles, and should strike across the route taken by Quintatus at any moment. There would be no mistaking the passage of such a large body of men. The ground would have been churned up by nailed boots, hooves and the wheels of heavy carts, leaving a wide scar etched across the landscape. They would only have to follow that to catch up with the column, or encounter one of the outposts constructed in its wake to protect the line of communication back to the fortified supply depot at Mediolanum.

He had almost ridden into Lomus before he realised it, and reined in sharply as the auxiliary saluted and thrust an arm back the way he had come.

‘Sir, we’ve found it. The track’s just over there.’

Macro felt a surge of warm relief in his heart. ‘Let’s see.’

They rode on and stopped at the edge of the broad swathe of mud in which myriad puddles shimmered dully in the falling rain. Macro looked in both directions along the line the army had taken, but saw no sign of life. He gestured to the men to follow him, and turned his mount to the left to follow the route, keeping clear of the glutinous strip of mud that would suck down the horses’ hooves. There was no knowing how far ahead of them the army lay, but at least they would be able to find them easily enough now, he reflected contentedly. When they did, and he had reported to the legate, there would be hot food, warming fires and shelter from this pestilential rain.

Late in the afternoon, the rain eased off into a fine mizzle and they passed the outline of a vast marching camp, levelled as far as possible, in accordance with Roman practice, to deny the enemy any potential field fortifications. The ground where the remains of the camp lay was flat and close to a river winding through the valley. Beyond, the route climbed a gentle ridge, and Macro’s party urged their weary mounts to make one last effort before they stopped and made camp for the night. There was a forest of tall pine trees running off the ridge towards the steep side of a hill, and Macro decided that would be a good place to halt. He was bone weary and his leg ached abominably, and the prospect of sleeping on a mattress of pine branches, partly sheltered from the elements, seemed like luxury.

Lomus was riding out ahead once again as they reached the crest of the ridge, and Macro was about to order him to make for the treeline when the auxiliary abruptly reined in and craned his neck. An instant later he turned and waved frantically.

‘Up here, sir! Quick!’

Macro spurred his tired mount up alongside Lomus and stared down the far slope into the shallow vale below. Half a mile ahead lay a small wagon convoy, perhaps five of the large four-wheeled vehicles drawn by oxen that were used to move supplies. There was also one small covered cart halfway down the line. Around them, the remains of the convoy’s escort, a half-century of auxiliaries, Macro estimated, were fighting for their lives against a contingent of native warriors, perhaps sixty or seventy strong, hacking and slashing at the hated Roman invaders.

The rest of Macro’s men reached the ridge and fanned out on either side of the centurion.

‘What should we do, sir?’ asked Pandarus.

‘Do?’ Macro’s lips stretched into a smile as he reached up to check his helmet strap was secure. His first thought was the need to complete his mission and warn Quintatus of the trap he was marching into. And then there was the enemy in front of him and comrades in peril. Macro and his men might be enough to turn the tide, he calculated. He drew his sword and held the blade against his thigh, where there was little danger of it causing harm to his comrades. ‘What do we do? We get stuck into those bastards. But first, you there!’

He pointed to one of his men. ‘You stay here out of the fight. If it goes badly for us, you find a way to get through and warn the legate. Clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. The rest of you – on me!’

He kicked in his heels, and his horse snorted before it plunged down the slope towards the beleaguered supply convoy.