Britannia

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

‘A trap, you say?’ Quintatus frowned. He had listened to Macro’s report without interruption as they stood a short distance apart from the other officers, at the legate’s insistence. ‘Perhaps you are mistaken.’

‘I don’t think so, sir. We interrogated the prisoner very thoroughly. I would place good money on him telling us the truth. And then there’s the strong force we saw marching north, towards your line of communication with Mediolanum.’

‘You may have overestimated their strength, Centurion.’

‘No, sir. The leader of the patrol who spotted the enemy is a good man. A reliable soldier. I trust his judgement.’

‘Patrol? Then you didn’t see the enemy with your own eyes?’

‘No, sir,’ Macro admitted. ‘The presence of the enemy was reported to me by Optio Pandarus. He had gone forward to observe a village and saw the enemy column. He had estimated their strength when he encountered and captured one of their scouts. He took the man prisoner and returned to the fort to make his report. I grasped the significance of his sighting and had one of my best men interrogate the prisoner for the full story.’

‘Just a moment, Centurion. Your optio was the only witness to the sighting of the column?’

‘Yes, sir. But that’s not the point.’

‘Oh, I think it is. The man was probably tired and may have misjudged the size of the enemy force for any number of reasons.’

‘But what about the prisoner’s story, sir? There were witnesses enough to that.’

‘And how many of you speak the prisoner’s tongue?’

Macro was starting to get a sinking feeling about the legate’s cross-examination of his account and had to compose himself as he continued. ‘I used an auxiliary from the Eighth Illyrian to translate for us, sir. He has some mastery over the local dialects.’

‘An auxiliary. I see . . .’

‘I saw no reason to doubt that he was doing his job as accurately as possible, sir.’

Quintatus sniffed. ‘I’m sure. That’s just one reason why you are a centurion and not a legate. Has it occurred to you that your prisoner might well have been spinning you a story? I can think of nothing the enemy would like better than for you to believe a pack of lies and come racing up here to warn me that the natives are setting a trap for me, and then for me to retreat out of these accursed mountains just as I am on the point of achieving a final victory over the Druid scum and their followers.’ He paused briefly. ‘Can you not see that, Centurion?’

Macro clamped his lips together and seethed in silence as he reflected that one of the main reasons why he was a centurion and Quintatus was a legate was because the latter had been born with a fucking silver spoon in his mouth. He wished that the infant Quintatus had bloody well choked on it and saved them all a lot of trouble. All the same, he went over the details of what he had reported, step by step, and concluded that if the legate was right in his suspicions, then the enemy had to be very devious indeed. Not only that, but they would have been depending on a chain of coincidences to bring their plan to fruition. It was hard to believe that he had been gulled by them, but equally his story seemed to cut little ice with Quintatus.

‘I do not doubt that your interrogator was thorough,’ the legate continued, ‘but add it all up, Macro. One man, your optio, sees some enemy soldiers, and one of them just happens to fall into his lap. When he gets the prisoner back to the fort so that he can be questioned, there is only one man who is able to translate both the questions and the answers the prisoner gives. It hardly sounds very reliable. And then your prisoner could simply have been lying to mislead us. Isn’t that possible?’

‘It’s possible, sir.’

‘Then isn’t it also possible that the very last thing the enemy would want is for me to continue the campaign while we are on the very cusp of a great victory?’

‘I suppose so.’ Macro glanced towards the crossing point, which was fast disappearing as the tide began to come in. Already the second century had abandoned their work of removing the obstacles and were backing away from the enemy-held shore. They picked up their wounded as they clambered through the mud, and left their dead to the rising sea as the last of the enemy’s missiles began to fall short. The crossing point was still thick with obstacles and the enemy would almost certainly do their best to set up more stakes under cover of darkness. To Macro’s experienced eye it looked as if the legate was very far from being on the cusp of a great victory. It was much more likely that he was on the cusp of a great defeat, unless he took the warning seriously and acted to remove the army from the enemy’s trap.

‘Then why, in the name of Jupiter, best and greatest, didn’t you make the connection between the information that was fed to you and the wider strategic situation? You have been played by the Druids, and played handsomely, I might add.’ Quintatus softened his tone. ‘There’s no shame in admitting it, Macro. The Druids are devious fellows and you have to pay them due credit for orchestrating the whole thing in order to force me to break off and retreat. They knew they would never be able to stop us fighting our way to the shores of their sacred island. They knew that they would never be able to hold the island against us. So they confected this plan to try and divert us from our goal. Surely you can see that?’

Macro briefly considered the legate’s argument and had to admit to himself that it made some sense. As he did so, he felt a flush of shame that he could have been manipulated by the enemy into sabotaging the Roman campaign. But then he checked himself. The legate might be right, but there was an equal possibility that the prisoner had revealed the truth about the enemy’s intention to set a trap for the Roman army. He had to stand firm on that possibility, not for reasons of pride, but out of concern for the safety of his comrades.

‘Sir, I hope you are right. All the same, I think it would be prudent to consider the possibility that our prisoner’s information is accurate.’

Quintatus eyed him coldly. ‘What would you have me do? Halt the attack on Mona while we send patrols to find this enemy army of yours? Look around you, Centurion. Winter is here. This snow is but a precursor of worse weather to come. We have a brief opportunity in which to crush the Druids and return to winter quarters before the mountain tracks become completely impassable. I will not give up the chance of eradicating the single greatest obstacle to establishing peace in Britannia. Now, I have wasted enough time on this matter. You may remain in camp for the night, but you are to return to your fort at first light and resume command.’

‘But sir, my place is here, with my lads in the Fourth Cohort.’

‘Your place is where I say it is,’ Quintatus concluded, then looked over Macro’s shoulder. ‘And now tell me, who the hell is that?’

Macro glanced over his shoulder. ‘Tribune Gaius Porcinus Glaber, sir. Sent from Rome. I came across him on the way to find you.’

‘Tribune Glaber, over here!’

Glaber hurried across and saluted, but did not get a chance to formally introduce himself.

‘Centurion Macro tells me that you have been sent from Rome.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why?’

Glaber was momentarily taken aback by the legate’s directness. ‘I have been sent on the orders of the emperor to inform you that the new governor of the province has been appointed and will be arriving in Britannia shortly. I am to liaise with you and your staff to arrange the handover.’

‘New governor?’ Quintatus looked shocked. ‘Already? That can’t be possible . . . Damn the man, why so soon? Who is he?’

‘Aulus Didius Gallus, sir.’

‘I know of him. Why Didius Gallus? The man has never stepped outside of the Mediterranean. He has no experience of fighting the Celts, or of a climate like this. A poor choice, made by meddling politicians to settle some debt or curry favour, no doubt. I am perfectly capable of governing the province until spring.’

‘I wouldn’t know anything about the timing of it, sir,’ Glaber responded flatly. ‘I am just the messenger.’

Quintatus sniffed. ‘You are Gallus’s man. And you will have to wait until my work is completed here before we can begin to consider the process of handing over power.’

‘My orders are to begin making preparations for the arrival of the new governor immediately. Gallus requires that you provide a full inventory of military and civil personnel, their disposition and functions.’

‘He requires that, does he?’

‘That, and a number of other requests, sir. The full documentation is in my travel chest, and I am ready to begin working with your staff at your earliest convenience.’

Quintatus laughed. ‘Does this look like a convenient moment to entertain any such bureaucratic exercise, Tribune Glaber? I am fighting a war. I will deal with your queries when I am good and ready. In the meantime you are welcome to enjoy the hospitality of my camp. Unless you would prefer to return to Londinium to await the arrival of your master?’

‘Having witnessed the hazards of these mountains, I prefer to remain with the army, sir.’

‘Very well, but be so good as to stay out of my way. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The legate turned back to Macro. ‘You see? There’s even more reason to move to crush those Druid bastards as quickly as possible. Now, I have an army to command. You two are dismissed.’

He did not wait for a response, but turned and strode back towards his command post, crunching across the snow. Glaber waited until he was out of earshot before he let out a low whistle.

‘Touchy character, our legate. Is he always like this?’

‘Only when someone is after his job, I should imagine, sir.’

Glaber turned to him with an amused expression. ‘No doubt you think this is all about politics and the endless round of backstabbing that passes for after-dinner entertainment in polite circles.’

‘I, er . . .’ Macro shifted uncomfortably on to his bad leg, winced at the discomfort and shifted back to his good one.

‘Well you’d be right. That’s exactly what it is all about. My man is on his way up and Quintatus has yet to make his mark. It’s too bad for him that the credit for his efforts will probably be pinched by Gallus, but that’s the way it goes. I can well understand his mood.’

‘That’s all very well for you and your class, sir, but for the rest of us it’s a bit of a sore point when we’re concerned with doing our duty and fighting for Rome and our comrades. When your arse is in the grass and you’re knee deep in blood and the only thing between you and the barbarians like that lot over there is your shield and sword, then it’s a little disappointing to know that your betters just see you as a piece in their game. You know what I mean?’

They stared at each other for a moment before Glaber nodded. ‘Fair point, Centurion. I will try to remember that.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Glaber cleared his throat. ‘Since I am surplus to requirements, I think I might find myself a nice fire to warm me up back at the camp. What about you?’

Macro took a deep breath. ‘I need to find Prefect Cato and report to him. Whatever the legate may think, I’m not convinced that the enemy have played me for a fool. Cato will have a view on it. He usually does.’ He smiled fondly. ‘That’s what he’s good at.’

‘It seems you admire your superior.’

Macro stiffened. ‘He’s a bloody fine officer, sir. One of the best in the army, and anyone who knows him would say the same.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. It’ll be interesting to make his acquaintance.’

Macro was still for a moment, caught up in the anxiety about the burden of what he must reveal to his friend when he found him. He coughed and looked at Glaber. ‘Sir, would you do me a favour?’

Glaber’s brow rose slightly in surprise. ‘A favour? What is it?’

‘What you told me, about his wife. Would you care to come with me to break the news to the prefect? He will want details. It would be better coming from someone who knows more about it than me.’

Glaber eyed him shrewdly. ‘You can’t face telling him?’

Macro’s expression was fixed for an instant before he shook his head slowly. ‘It’s a hard thing for a man to inform his friend that his wife has died. Cato loved her dearly, sir. She was a good woman. Well, you know that for yourself.’

‘You knew her as well, then?’

‘I was there when they met in Palmyra.’

‘Ah yes . . . That fracas with the Parthians a few years back. I heard about it. I had no idea Julia was caught up in that business. I dare say she kept her wits about her. She was always a tough character as a child, I recall.’

‘That she did.’ Macro smiled sadly. ‘As brave as any soldier. They were a fine match . . . I’d give anything not be the one who breaks his heart.’

Glaber pursed his lips before he replied. ‘I’ll come with you.’

They returned to their horses, remounted and rode back to the camp’s main gate. Macro spared a last look towards the crossing and saw that the tide now covered the muddy route across to the island and only the tips of the stakes appeared above the water. Out to sea, the sky had cleared, and a thin blue hue seeped across the snow-covered landscape. On the near bank, the casualties from the last attack were having their wounds dressed, while the rest of their comrades were scraping the mud from their kit. Their lethargic demeanour spoke eloquently of the poor state of their morale, and from the far side of the channel came the sound of the enemy’s jeering. That stuck in Macro’s throat in the way that all such reverses chafed the sensibilities of soldiers who had suffered a setback. The trick of it was to turn the sentiment into a cold determination to win through and prove yourself better than the enemy. The alternative was to sink into despair and watch, dull-eyed, as any prospect of victory faded and it all became a matter of grinding endurance.

They entered the camp and asked the duty centurion for directions to the tent lines of the Blood Crows. The auxiliary unit had been assigned an area alongside the other mounted units, down the slope from the legionary tent lines, close to the drainage run-off and the latrines. What little warmth the day had brought had turned the surface of the snow to slush in places, but the temperature was dropping rapidly in the gathering dusk and the men were building up the campfires with the proceeds of the day’s foraging.

Macro soon spotted the standard of the Blood Crows rising above the large tent that served as the cohort’s field headquarters. Rather than feeling pleasure at the prospect of seeing his closest friend again, he felt his heart contract into the pit of his stomach, and a dreadful weariness settled over him. Beside him, the young tribune pointed to the standard.

‘Is that Cato’s lot? Have to say, I like the standard. Very dramatic. No wonder the natives quail before you, eh?’

Glaber’s tone was forced, and Macro realised that the tribune too was apprehensive. He wished Glaber would just keep quiet and accept the dreadful nature of the task that lay ahead. There was no place for levity in the situation. None at all.

They walked their mounts over to the standard and dismounted before handing the reins to one of the headquarters sentries.

‘Is the prefect here?’ asked Macro.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. See that the horses are watered and fed.’

The sentry nodded and led the beasts away as Macro hesitated outside the threshold to the headquarters tent. Through the narrow gap in the oiled goatskin flaps he saw two clerks sitting at a trestle table, one rubbing furiously as he worked the marks out of a waxed tablet. His colleague was lighting some lamps on a stand with a taper. Smoke trailed upwards to a vent at the top of the tent from a brazier just out of Macro’s field of vision.

‘Are you ready for this?’ Glaber asked gently.

‘No. How could I be?’ Macro sighed heavily, then ducked through the flaps into the tent. The clerks looked up and Macro turned in the direction of the screened section set aside for the cohort’s commander. He could hear Cato’s voice, in quiet conversation with someone, and sensed his friend’s exhaustion from his tone. He paced over to the gap in the leather screen and saw Cato bending over his campaign desk, Decurion Miro standing to one side.

‘You’ll have to tell Pausinus I need every man,’ said Cato as he tapped a finger on a tablet. ‘Every man who can still get in the saddle is to be declared fit for duty. We’re below half-strength as it is.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The leather rustled lightly as Glaber pushed through and joined Macro. Cato looked up, and there was the slightest of pauses before he straightened up with a broad smile. ‘Macro! What in the name of the gods are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the fort.’ His smile faded as he noted Macro’s leaden expression. ‘What’s happened? An attack? Is the fort taken?’

‘Nothing like that, sir.’

‘Thank Fortuna. And who is this?’

‘Tribune Glaber. I plucked his arse out of the fire when I came across him and some others who had been ambushed.’

‘We had the situation under control,’ Glaber protested.

‘Anyway,’ Macro continued, ‘I had urgent intelligence I felt obliged to pass on to Legate Quintatus. At least I thought it was urgent.’

‘Tell me.’

Macro explained as briefly as he could, not omitting any detail of the legate’s dismissal of his report. Cato listened with an intense expression, nodding at salient points. As soon as Macro concluded, he sucked his teeth. ‘I think you were right to warn him. Quintatus is grasping at straws. All he cares about is putting an end to the Druids. If the enemy are trying to cut across our communications, then we’re going to be in a sticky position. I’ll send patrols out to investigate at first light. The Blood Crows are not required for anything at present, so there’s no need to put it through headquarters. If asked I’ll say they’re on an exercise.’ He winked at Macro, and when he saw no reaction, he narrowed his eyes a fraction.

‘What’s wrong, Macro? There’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘Yes, lad,’ Macro said softly. ‘There is.’

He cleared his throat to speak, but the words would not come.

Macro swallowed anxiously and gestured to Glaber. ‘Please, sir, if you’d wait outside, in case the prefect wants to speak to you later . . .’

Glaber glanced at both men, then nodded. ‘Of course. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

Once he had gone, Macro approached Cato and indicated the chair by the campaign desk. ‘Sit down, lad.’

‘What is this?’ Cato demanded, but he did as he was told, even as Macro remained on his feet. ‘What is going on, Macro? Speak up.’

‘All right then . . . After the lads and I pitched into the fight to help Glaber, I asked him where he had come from. He told me he’d been sent from Rome. He said his family knew Senator Sempronius, and Julia. It was shortly before Glaber left that he heard the news.’

‘News?’

‘About your wife.’

The atmosphere in the tent seemed to turn icy around Cato as he leaned forward and stared intently at his friend. ‘Go on.’

‘Lad, I have to tell you something bad. The worst of all things. Julia is dead.’

Cato said nothing and sat quite still.

‘Julia is dead,’ Macro repeated, to break the unbearable silence. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘I received a letter from her less than a month ago. She can’t be . . . How? How did she die?’

‘Glaber says she caught a chill. He says she was weak from the birth of your child. Lucius still lives, though. The gods have spared you that loss at least.’

‘Yes. I suppose.’ Cato sat back and ran a hand through his dark curls. ‘She’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

Abruptly Cato rose to his feet and crossed quickly to the gap, addressing the tribune waiting outside. ‘Is this true, Glaber? What exactly do you know about it?’

‘It’s true, sir. I know very little more than what Centurion Macro has already said. I was told by my father, after he had come back from rendering his condolences to Senator Sempronius. It was all over very quickly. By my father’s account, she did not suffer too badly and passed away while she slept. A great pity. She was always well liked by all who knew her. I . . . I . . .’ The tribune dried up uncomfortably.

‘Yes.’ Cato turned away. ‘That will be all, thank you, Tribune Glaber. Please find yourself some shelter and get some rest.’

‘Of course, sir. Is there anything else?’

‘No. Nothing. Go, please.’

Glaber bowed his head respectfully. ‘If I am needed, I will be at army headquarters.’ He turned away and hurried outside, and Macro heard the snort of a horse as the tribune mounted and wheeled the mount around to trot up the thoroughfare towards the heart of the camp.

Cato walked slowly back to his chair and slumped into it, still too numb to react. At length he looked up at Macro. ‘Dead?’

‘I am afraid so, sir. Here, you’re trembling. Let me get your cloak.’ Macro picked it up from where it lay over a chest, splattered with mud and a little damp. He arranged the folds about Cato and then rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I cannot tell you how it grieves me, lad. The gods should never have taken her at such a young age.’

Cato swallowed and looked up at him. ‘Please give me a moment to myself.’

Macro saw the rawness in the prefect’s eyes and nodded. ‘I’ll be outside, then. If you need me.’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Macro waited a moment to see if there was anything else, and then backed out quietly and joined the clerks in the main part of the tent. He took a last look and saw the prefect lean forward and press his face into his hands, his fingers clenched like claws into his hairline. There was a soft groan, and Cato’s shoulders convulsed.

Then Macro pulled the leather section dividers together and closed the gap to afford his closest friend in the world a little privacy to grieve for his lost love.