Britannia

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Three days later, at noon, the sentry on the western gatehouse of the fortress at Mediolanum was rubbing his hands and wriggling his toes in his boots. There had been heavier snow over the last day than any before, and a thick blanket covered everything. The shingled roofs of the barracks blocks stretching out in neat rows behind the wall were gleaming white and unblemished, and piles of snow lined the passages between the buildings where fatigue parties had cleared the ground. A futile effort, as the snow merely covered it anew. Smoke trailed from the openings in the barrack block roofs as the men inside huddled round their fires to keep warm.

The barracks were crowded with extra bodies, the remains of Quintatus’s column, who had started to appear out of the blizzard over the preceding two days in a steady stream of stumbling, exhausted, starving figures led by Camp Prefect Silvanus and Tribune Livonius. Less than three thousand of them, a third of the army that had set out to humble the Druids and their allies. Many had abandoned their kit and kept only their cloaks and whatever other clothes they had to wrap around their bodies. As they arrived, they were given shelter and warmth beside the fireplaces, and supplied with food and drink, which they devoured greedily. Some just sat staring mutely into the middle distance, too traumatised to accept that they were safe and their ordeal was over.

Nor were they the only new arrivals at the fortress. A few days earlier, Didius Gallus and some of his retinue had taken up residence in the headquarters block while the freshly appointed governor tried to take stock of what his interim predecessor had been up to. There were rumours spreading of Gallus’s fury about the campaign to rid the empire of the final nest of Druids. Legate Quintatus would be severely disciplined and sent back to Rome to explain himself to the emperor, it was said. Few were under any illusions about how that confrontation would end. The legate’s days were numbered.

The sentry was not having much luck keeping warm, and decided to pace to and fro across the tower in order to keep his feet from going numb. He tried not to think about the long hours he was required to get through before he was relieved at the change of watch. Not for the first time, he wondered at the wisdom of attempting to tame this wild island with its barbaric inhabitants. His home was Hispania, and he longed for the warm shores he had left behind when he had chosen to serve in an auxiliary cohort that was sent to join the army in Britannia shortly afterwards. That had been a bitter joke of the gods, he reflected sourly, and they had continued to get their laughs at his expense ever since.

He crossed to the front of the tower and looked out into the driving snow once again. It was hard to see anything more than a hundred paces away from the fortress, and for all he knew, the enemy could be out there, watching and waiting. Though if that were the case, he smiled to himself, they were even more stupid than he had been when he had decided to join the army. No man should be abroad in this weather.

He broke off from his thoughts and leaned on the wooden rail of the tower, squinting into the snow and blinking away the flakes that landed on his eyes. There had been a movement, he was sure of it. A fleeting glimpse of something darker against the white of the winter landscape. Then there was a fresh gust of wind and he saw more clearly. Two figures walking slowly towards the fortress. The sentry hurried across to the hatch leading down into the tower and called down.

‘Optio! There’s someone approaching the fort.’

Inside the tower, the optio stirred within the folds of his cloak. He was sitting close to a grate where a small fire burned, giving off enough smoke to make the air in the room acrid.

‘More of ours, or theirs?’

‘I can’t tell yet, sir.’

‘All right. I’ll have a look.’

The optio went across to the small shuttered opening that looked out over the approaches to the gate. As he slipped the latch and drew in the solid timber cover, a blast of icy wind and snow made him curse. He peered out and saw the men approaching. There was no sign of anything that might reveal an enemy ruse. He watched a moment longer as one of the men tripped and went down on his knees and the other bent down to help him back up. Then he closed the hatch, slipped the catch back in place and made his way down to the squad room at the base of the tower where the rest of the section were taking shelter.

‘Get the gate open, boys. Some more stragglers coming in.’

‘More?’ One of the men raised an eyebrow. ‘Thought we’d seen the last of them.’

‘Apparently not. And there may be others. Let’s go. Move yourselves!’

The men grumbled as they got up and emerged from the door beside the gate. They lifted the locking bar from its receivers and made to open the gate, but the snow had drifted sufficiently to make the task impossible.

‘Fuck,’ the optio growled. ‘Clear that away!’

He stood by, arms folded, as his men used their hands to remove enough snow to draw one of the gates back and create an opening. Then he stepped outside cautiously. The two men were now no more than twenty paces away, and he could see from the medal harnesses revealed as a gust blew their cloaks aside that they were both officers. One, the centurion, was shorter than his comrade, and his beard was thick and curly where it protruded from the hood of his cloak. The other was taller, his head swathed in a strip of cloth. His face looked gaunt and was stained with streaks of dried blood. They staggered forward across the causeway over the ditch, and the optio went forward to help them.

The taller officer held up his hand. ‘No . . . need. We can manage.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The optio stepped aside as the two walked stiffly past him and into the fort. Then he followed them through the opening and gave the order for the gate to be sealed again before turning to the new arrivals. ‘Come inside, sir. There’s a fire on the second level, and I have some food you can share.’

There was no mistaking the gleam of hunger in their eyes before the taller officer nodded. ‘Thank you. We’ll do that. Then we must report to headquarters.’

‘I’ll send a man to the governor to tell him you’re here, sir.’

‘The new governor?’ The two officers exchanged a look. ‘Already?’

‘Got here a few days back, sir. Who should I say you are?’

‘Prefect Cato of the Second Thracian Cavalry, and this is Centurion Macro of the Fourth Cohort, Fourteenth Legion. I was in command of the rearguard of Legate Quintatus’s army.’

‘The legate hasn’t come in yet, sir.’

‘He won’t. He’s dead. What about our men? Have you seen any men from our units?’

The optio thought a moment. ‘Only a handful, sir. Twenty or so. That’s all.’

He left the two officers alone while he sent a runner to headquarters. For a while the new arrivals sat in numbed silence. Then Cato let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped. ‘That’s too bad . . . Too bad. Then we are the last of them, Macro. They’re nearly all gone. It’s the end of the Blood Crows. I’ve lost everything, Macro. My men . . . And Julia.’ He sat heavily on a stool and shook his head.

Macro eased himself down beside his friend and leaned his back against the wall, letting the tension drain from his body. He took long, deep breaths as his body warmed.

‘The Blood Crows will always be remembered, lad. Always. By every one of the men they gave their lives to save. I can’t begin to imagine your sorrow over Julia, but she will live on in your son. Try and take comfort in that. You still have Lucius. I am sure he’ll be a fine boy. And a man you can be proud of. Hold on to that, eh?’

Cato opened his eyes and stared at Macro bleakly before he forced himself to nod. ‘I’ll try.’

They sat in silence for a while longer, warming themselves and accepting the offering of the optio’s food and wine. It was enough to take the edge off their appetite before they had a proper meal.

There was a blast of cold air as the door opened and a heavily muffled figure entered the gatehouse then quickly shut the door behind them. He flipped his hood back and lowered the scarf that had covered his nose and mouth as he quickly looked round the room and fixed his stare on the two officers. Approaching them, he took out a stylus and waxed tablet from the folds of his cloak and addressed Cato,

‘Excuse me, sir. I’m Tribune Gaius Portius. In charge of supplies here. I was just told the final contingent of the Fourth Cohort of the Fourteenth and the Second Thracian had arrived. I need to draw their rations. But I can’t seem to find the men.’

Macro’s lips parted thinly. ‘You have found them. That’s us.’

Portius frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘We are what’s left of the rearguard. And we’ll have our rations, thank you. Right now I could eat for the rest of the lads and come back for seconds. So you see to it. You get back to headquarters directly and you make sure there’s a bloody feast waiting for us when the prefect and I get there. A feast fit for heroes. Understand?’ Macro glared at him and the young tribune wilted.

‘I- I’ll see to it, sir. At once.’

He bowed his head, put away his writing materials and pulled up his hood before leaving the gatehouse.

Macro settled back against the wall with a contented expression. ‘Thank the Gods for army regulations. Rations for each cohort, and enough to go round, for once.’ He gave Cato a nudge. ‘We’ll eat our fill and toast the lads.’

‘Yes. Let’s do that. We’ll honour the men.’

‘And while we’re waiting . . .’ Macro sat forward and rummaged in the bottom of his waist purse before pulling out the small box containing his lucky dice. He took out the dice and kissed them before turning to the auxiliaries sitting around the room.

‘So, boys . . . I’ll need plenty of coin for wine at headquarters. Who fancies a game?’