Britannia

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The heavy snow of the previous day had made it hard going for Macro and the small convoy he was leading through the mountains to Legate Quintatus and his army. After his party had joined the survivors of the enemy ambush, Macro had driven them on as speedily as possible. The wagons, and Tribune Glaber’s raeda carriage, were kept closed up while the auxiliary infantry escort marched alongside them, screening the flanks. Macro had divided his mounted party, tasking Pandarus to scout ahead with three men while Lomus brought up the rear, hanging back a quarter of a mile to keep watch down the track in case the enemy decided to follow them. Macro’s horse was hitched to the rear of the raeda, and the centurion sat on the bench beside Glaber, who held the traces since the tribune had lost his driver during the skirmish. Glaber’s personal chests had been piled behind the driver’s bench to make way for three of the wounded, who were forced to endure the constant jolting of the light carriage as well as the pain from their injuries. Distant figures were sighted from time to time, but it was impossible to divine if they were the enemy, or merely the inhabitants of the mountains warily giving the Romans a wide berth. Not that it made much difference, Macro reflected. In these lands, everyone seemed to be an enemy of Rome.

The snow had started no more than an hour after they had left the site of the ambush, a few light flurries at first, and then a continual fall of soft downy flakes that quickly began to settle and blanket the landscape in a winter mantle of white. Soon the track was covered and they had to follow their instincts where it was not possible to discern the route that led through the valleys. As night fell, the snow stopped and Macro gave the order to halt when they reached an abandoned farmstead. Anything of value had been carried off when the natives had fled, or had been looted by the Roman soldiers passing by. At least the structure had been spared and offered the small party shelter for the night. Sentries were posted and a fire was lit in the hearth of the largest hut, and the men huddled round it to get warm and cook their rations.

Tribune Glaber had been content to allow Macro to take command and made no secret of the fact that his was a purely political appointment. He was keen to serve the minimum amount of time that he could in the army before resuming his career in Rome the moment the new governor gave him permission to quit Britannia. As they sat in the glow of the fire, Macro had gently pressed him for any more details about Julia, but all Glaber could tell him was that the illness had come on suddenly and she had lived a few more days before dying at her father’s house in Rome, in the same bed in which she had been born. At least her child, Lucius, had survived, Macro mused. According to Glaber, the infant boy was thriving in the care of a wet-nurse purchased before Julia had fallen ill. Macro hoped that that at least might offer some comfort to his closest friend when Cato heard the dreadful tidings.

They were not troubled during the night and continued on their way at first light, pausing only to clear the worst of the drifts that had accumulated on the track. As the men toiled to shovel the snow to one side, Macro felt a growing sense of unease at the change in the weather. Legate Quintatus had taken a risk launching a campaign so late in the year. He had gambled on a quick knockout blow to the enemy with a view to returning to Mediolanum before winter set in. The snow had come earlier than expected, and if it remained for any length of time, then it would severely hamper the ability of the army to negotiate the mountains of the Deceanglian tribe. He glanced round at the cloud-shrouded peaks and pulled his cloak tighter about him as he spoke to Glaber.

‘The new governor, Gallus. Any idea what his plans are for the province?’

Glaber paused to cup his mittened hands and blow warm breath into them before he responded. ‘That’s his business, Centurion. However, there was a certain amount of gossip doing the rounds in Rome before I set off, and the word is that the palace is starting to get anxious about the situation here. Best part of ten years in and Britannia is still a drain on the imperial purse. There have been considerable losses in manpower, and no immediate prospect of the province turning a profit. Frankly, it’s all starting to make the original decision to invade look like a mistake. But the emperor has built his reputation on the conquest of the island and has too much invested in it to let Britannia go.’

Macro nodded. ‘We’ve lost a lot of fine men to get this far, sir. It would be a bloody shame if it was all for nothing. Quintatus thought it could be resolved with one more push. One final effort to wipe out the Druid cult for ever. He could be right about that.’

‘He might be. Quintatus may not be my patron, but I cannot help hoping that he has already done as you say. With the Druids off the scene, maybe the will of the tribes of these mountains will be broken and your mission to warn him will be rendered moot.’ The tribune stamped his boots on the foot board and took up the traces again. ‘Be that as it may, when Claudius is gone, it will be a different matter entirely.’

Macro looked at him sidelong. ‘How so?’

‘Depends who becomes the new emperor. If it’s Britannicus, then I dare say the current policy will continue. We’ll keep piling men and treasure into the island until we have killed off every tribe that resists us and bought off all the rest. That, or Britannicus is going to have to find himself a completely new cognomen.’

They shared a brief smile before Glaber continued. ‘On the other hand, if we get Nero as emperor – and that’s what the smart money is saying – then he has nothing to lose in terms of withdrawing from Britannia. He’d be free to say that he never accepted the need to invade in the first place, and that it was all a very costly exercise in self-promotion by his predecessor. Which is a fair enough argument to make. Anyway, Nero could give the order to pull out without losing any face. Which is why I think Gallus would be wise to bide his time rather than trying to complete the conquest of the entire island. If I were him, I would definitely wait until I knew who had succeeded to the purple before I risked losing any more men.’

Macro thought about this for a moment before he puffed his cheeks impatiently. ‘If the natives got wind of the fact that the new governor was sitting on his hands, they could make life very difficult for us.’

‘Quite!’ Glaber laughed. ‘It’s going to be a tricky situation all round, until Claudius drops off the twig. I guess that is always going to be the way while we have a drawn-out succession. Much easier when emperors do the rest of us a favour and disappear from the scene quickly and unexpectedly rather than wait for natural causes. Though these days an assassin’s knife in the back is natural causes for those who would be emperor.’

Macro was not amused. He had long since decided that he hated and despised the endless conspiracies swirling around the imperial household. Moreover, he was growing resentful over the way in which soldiers on the frontiers of the empire, like himself and Cato, were regarded as no more than playing pieces to be moved by those vying for power in Rome. A reckless expenditure of life might yet win the throne for Britannicus, while a craven retreat from Britannia might benefit his rival, Nero. Either way, soldiers would die.

The way was clear ahead. The men hurriedly bundled their shovels on to the back of one of the wagons and the small convoy rumbled on over the snowy ground. An hour later they were climbing a gentle gradient when the young tribune’s keen eyes caught sight of a faint smudge of haze in the distance. He alerted Macro, and shortly afterwards the veteran was able to make it out as well.

‘Looks like smoke from campfires, sir.’

‘Then let’s hope it’s our lads, not theirs, eh?’

They reached the top of the slope and the ground began to even out. As they struggled round a large formation of rocks, there, quarter of a mile ahead, lay a fortified outpost blanketed in snow. It had been constructed to guard the pass linking the two valleys and, thanks to its position, was subject to the worst of the weather. Macro spared a brief moment of sympathy for the small garrison before his gaze extended to the valley beyond, which opened out on to the coast and the grey expanse of the sea. To the left, behind a line of hills, the smoke from the large camp was far more evident; a dark stain against the overcast.

‘Not far now, then,’ said Glaber. ‘Be glad to find some proper shelter, not to mention safety in numbers.’

Macro glanced round at the snowy landscape but could see no sign of movement, no sign of the enemy. ‘We should be safe to leave the wagons and escort now.’

They halted outside the outpost and the two officers climbed down from the raeda as Macro called in the horsemen riding ahead and behind the wagons. The outpost commander, a swarthy optio from a cohort of Dacian auxiliaries, emerged to greet them and the three exchanged a salute.

‘What news of the campaign?’ asked Macro, nodding towards the smoke from the camp. ‘I take it that’s Quintatus and the army.’

‘Yes, sir. The legate’s been having a crack at getting across to the Druids’ island. Started well enough – they shifted the lot on the near shore. But it’s been tough going since then from all reports.’ The optio gestured towards the wagons. ‘Supplies? Food supplies?’

‘That’s right.’

‘About time, sir. It’s the first supply convoy I’ve seen in days. My men are getting hungry. We’re down to the last few bags of barley and hard tack. Any chance you could spare some?’

‘Ain’t down to me, lad. That’s the purview of the army’s quartermaster. Best you send a request to him.’

‘I have. Two days ago, and had nothing back.’

Macro saw the concern in the man’s expression. ‘I’ll mention it when I reach headquarters. Best I can do.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

The muffled sound of horses’ hooves interrupted the exchange as Lomus and his men joined the convoy. Macro took a horse for himself and another for the tribune, and left orders for the men remaining with the convoy to continue to the camp. Then he led the party down into the valley towards the distant sea. As they approached the coastal strip, they saw the outline of an abandoned camp close to one of the headlands overlooking a sheltered bay. Another outpost lay in one corner of the camp, and they exchanged a brief greeting with a sentry before continuing along the coast. As they rode over the final ridge, the panorama of the struggle to take Mona lay spread out before them.

To their immediate front sprawled the army’s camp, large enough to accommodate the two legions, their attached auxiliary cohorts and the draught animals and vehicles of the baggage train. Scores of fires burned brightly, those still in camp huddling round them to warm themselves. Horses and mules stood in their roped enclosures, nuzzling aside the snow as they searched for the stunted tufts of grass beneath. A quarter of a mile from the camp lay the Roman battle lines: artillery batteries deployed on ground levelled by engineers, covering the channel over which the army must pass, and laying down a steady bombardment at long-range of the enemy positions directly across the water. Their efforts were aided by the three warships anchored in the channel, their bolt-throwers trained on the fortifications along the shore of Mona. The tide was out, and a thin sliver of exposed mud snaked across from the mainland to the island. It was no more than ten feet wide and had been thickly sown with sharpened stakes to render it impassable, though it was clear that the Romans had made some attempt to clear the obstacles.

Not without cost. Macro could see scores of corpses, some impaled on the stakes. Around the bodies lay abandoned kit – helmets, shields, swords and javelins – much of which was already half submerged in the mud. On the near side of the channel stood two cohorts of legionaries, each century formed up four abreast. More legionaries stood further back, ready to reinforce their comrades.

As Macro watched, a signal sounded from below and the trumpet call was echoed by others. The century nearest to the causeway began to advance. At the same time, the artillery batteries peppered the earthworks on the shore directly opposite. The defenders there remained hidden from sight, but further along, their comrades lined the defences to watch the attack, quite unperturbed.

‘By the gods, they’re plucky fellows,’ said Glaber.

Macro guessed that they had become accustomed to the Roman assaults and knew that they were safe as long as the missiles rained down on the defences immediately in front of the low-tide crossing point.

As the legionaries moved out on to the causeway, their pace suddenly slowed and the following ranks began to bunch up. The centurion and optio struggled alongside to cajole their men back into formation, and the century continued advancing across the narrow strip of mud. Macro could well imagine the effort it would take a heavily armed legionary to make any progress across such a quagmire. They encountered the first of the remaining stakes close to the mainland, and pairs of men peeled off to deal with each obstacle, using their swords to work the bases of the stakes free before tossing them aside.

‘I need to find the legate.’ Macro lifted his reins.

‘Me too,’ said Glaber. ‘If I’m not mistaken, he should be over there. Behind the rightmost battery. Do you see?’

Macro squinted and a moment later picked out the party of riders in scarlet cloaks. He nodded. ‘Let’s go, sir.’

They descended the slope, passing between forage parties and the cavalry pickets assigned to protect them, and skirted the outer ditch of the vast marching camp. They were still afforded a view of the legionaries wading out across the mud. As the men approached the as yet undisturbed thickets of stakes, a Roman trumpet signalled the artillery to cease shooting. The last of the bolts arced across the channel and plunged harmlessly into the turf and log rampart. There was the briefest of pauses before a war horn sounded and the enemy rose from behind their battered defences, unleashing their own barrage of missiles against the approaching legionaries. Arrows, slingshot and light javelins rattled down on the heavy curved surfaces of the legionary shields. Occasionally a missile found its way past the wall of shields and injured one of the men, who was then forced to drop out of formation and do his best to return to the friendly shore. Some were too badly injured to turn back, and instead did their best to take cover behind their shields as they waited for help.

The centurion gave an order to his men, and they paused to form a testudo before plodding slowly towards the defences, where the men inside the formations began to work on clearing the stakes away as best they could as the missiles clattered around them, splintering shields, glancing off armour and striking down any of their comrades who were unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of those weapons that found their way through a gap in the shields.

Macro turned his gaze aside and looked towards the army’s camp, knowing that Cato was most likely in there somewhere. He felt a sickening dread at the prospect of breaking the news about Julia’s death, and made himself resolve to do that the moment he had warned Legate Quintatus about the enemy’s scheme to trap the Roman army.

He dismissed the men who had ridden all the way from the fort with him and sent them to find the Blood Crows’ tent lines in the camp. Then, together with Tribune Glaber, he turned the corner of the fort and rode down the side in the direction of the artillery battery. A screen of legionaries surrounded the legate and his headquarters party, and as the two men approached, an optio stepped into their path and raised his hand.

‘Halt and state your business, sir!’

Macro reined in a short distance away. ‘Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro, Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. I have to see Legate Quintatus at once.’

The optio leaned to one side. ‘And who is the other officer?’

Glaber trotted up alongside Macro and looked down at the man. ‘Senior Tribune Gaius Porcinus Glaber, envoy of Governor Aulus Didius Gallus. I also need to speak to the legate.’ He paused and bowed his head towards Macro. ‘Though I’d say the centurion’s case is more pressing. Let us pass.’

The optio stood his ground. ‘Sorry, sir. Standing orders. No one is to interrupt the legate while he is conducting the battle. Not without the say-so of his camp prefect, Silanus.’

‘It’s vital that I speak to him,’ Macro growled. ‘Now get out of my way!’

As the centurion clicked his tongue and urged his mount forward, the optio quickly gestured to the men of his section and they hurried forward to block him, their javelin tips lowered.

‘This is bloody absurd!’ Macro thundered. ‘When I’m done speaking with the legate, I’m going to have your balls for breakfast.’

‘That’s enough of this nonsense!’ Glaber intervened sharply. ‘Optio, send one of your men for the camp prefect at once. Tell him, in my name, that we demand to see the legate. I want permission to pass, or Silanus himself down here at once. Move!’

The optio stepped back a pace, flustered, then turned and shouted an order to one of his men. The legionary left his shield and javelin in the charge of one of his mates and ran off towards the group of horsemen a hundred yards away on a rise that overlooked the battlefield. Macro turned to the tribune and nodded his thanks.

Out on the causeway, the leading century had stalled. Covered in clinging mud and still being battered by missiles, the testudo was starting to fall apart. A long string of casualties was struggling back to the mainland, nursing their injuries as they backed away behind their shields. Some helped their less able comrades, while a handful just lay in the mud, too weak to move. Another signal sounded and a fresh century started forward as the first began to fall back, losing more casualties on the way. They edged aside into the shallows as the new formation struggled past and moved closer to the obstacles they were tasked with clearing, immediately coming under the same deluge of missiles that their predecessors had endured. They stopped and hurriedly formed a testudo before proceeding.

‘The lads are getting a hammering today,’ Macro said quietly.

Glaber had also been following proceedings and clicked his tongue. ‘It does seem to be a profligate waste of men for such limited results. They can’t have removed more than ten of those stakes. With what’s left, you would need to work through more than a few legions to clear the passage at this rate, I should think.’

They watched a little longer, until the legionary who had gone to find Silanus returned and breathlessly reported to his optio. The latter turned to his squad and barked an order. ‘Let them pass!’

The soldiers stepped aside and Macro and Glaber spurred their mounts on, cantering up to the small cluster of officers and the headquarters staff gathered about Legate Quintatus. At the sound of their approach, Quintatus turned his attention away from the battlefield and glared at Macro and Glaber as they dismounted. He cleared his throat.

‘This had better be important, gentlemen . . .’