Britannia

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘The vanguard?’ Decurion Miro sighed. ‘Why us? Haven’t we been in action enough in recent months?’

Centurion Crispus raised an eyebrow. ‘You join the army, you do as you’re told and that’s the end of it. There is no why, just orders.’

Miro opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it and then puffed his cheeks as his shoulders slumped. Watching him, Cato could well understand the decurion’s reaction. The previous year the two cohorts had been sent to an outpost deep in the heart of the mountains, and the unit had been in action almost ever since. The enemy had only eased their attacks in the last months to take in the harvest and store their crops for the coming winter. Now that was over, they intended to resume their war against Rome in earnest. Cato had come to understand that Miro was the kind of man who foresaw only the dangers and difficulties in the tasks he was required to carry out. But once in action, his training and instincts took over and served him well. It was no doubt why he had been promoted to decurion in the first place, but also why he had never been entrusted with any further promotion. He was too open about his anxieties, and that kind of sentiment was easily communicated to those he commanded, affecting their confidence and morale.

There was a brief silence in Cato’s tent as his subordinates took in the implications of their assigned position in the army’s line of advance. For his part, Cato was relieved not to have to trudge at the rear again in the muddy wake of the units marching ahead of him. Moreover, he would not have to contend with the constant need to cajole the baggage train drivers to keep closed up. Of course, there would be different strains to cope with. Those at the front of the column had to have their wits about them in order to avoid ambush. Moreover, they were tasked with scouting ahead to find the best route forward for the rest of the army, following the advice of the traders who Quintatus had questioned regarding the best route to take through the mountains towards the island of Mona. It was also the vanguard’s duty to locate the most suitable ground for the construction of a marching camp at the end of the day. It would be demanding work, but it was more engaging than the drudgery of guarding the baggage train.

Cato cleared his throat. He felt tired. The hour was late and the men had only just finished their main meal of the day and retired to their tents for the night. Miro’s mounted squadrons had settled their horses and tethered them to the lines, and the musty odour of their sweat and dung carried into the tent. The army would march at dawn, and it was important that Crispus and Miro understood the roles their men would play in the days ahead.

‘Apart from being the eyes and ears of the army, Quintatus wants us to be its cutting edge too,’ said Cato. ‘We’re to go in hard whenever and wherever we encounter the enemy. He wants to cut a swathe of destruction through the lands of the Deceanglians, right up to the island of Mona.’

‘But that’s the Druids’ lair,’ Miro interrupted.

Cato quelled his irritation and nodded. ‘I am well aware of that, Decurion. That’s one of the main reasons why the legate is launching this campaign. If we can break the spirit of the tribesmen, and crush the Druid cult, then who will there be to unite the tribes against us in future? You know what the Celts are like. They’re never happier than when they’re knocking their heads together. That’s always been their weakness. But give them a figurehead to rally behind and they will fight like furies. Now that Caratacus is out of the picture, that leaves the Druids as the only force able to unify the tribes against us. Without them, we’ll be able to contain the enemy and finally have the chance to bring peace and order to the new province. The gods know it’s taken long enough already. Once we have that, then there can be discharges for the veterans, and some of us will be able to get home on leave.’

Crispus mused. ‘Been nearly ten years since I last saw my family, back in Lutetia. I have a woman there, and two daughters. Doubt any of them will recognise me any more.’

Cato felt dread at such a prospect. To be so long from home. Not to see his son grow from an infant into a boy. To have never been known by Lucius, and to be forgotten by Julia. That was worst of all. The thought made him more determined than ever to fully play his part in ending the conflict in Britannia. Every enemy he cut down would bring him one step closer to home, and the embrace of his wife and child.

‘But the Druids,’ Miro continued. ‘You know what they’re like. They’re demons in human form. And they have magic. I’ve heard how they can summon the powers of their gods to strike us down with storms and monsters. And now Quintatus wants to lead us into their most sacred realm, where they will be at their most dangerous. I’m telling you, it’s a mistake.’

‘Magic? Fuck that.’ Crispus sniffed with contempt. ‘Hasn’t done them much good as far as I can see. Either their gods are sleeping on the job, or they’re a bunch of milk-livered pansies not fit to kiss the feet of Jupiter and Mars.’

Miro was not persuaded. ‘I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I’ve seen the effect they have on their followers. They turn ’em into frenzied beasts.’

Cato had had enough. ‘They’re men, just like us. They can be just as easily killed. I’ve done that myself. I can assure you they’re no more dangerous than any other barbarian. So I’ll have no more of that talk, Decurion. Understand?’

Miro clicked his tongue, then nodded. ‘If you say so, sir. I hope you’re right.’

Cato ignored the last remark as he turned his attention to more immediate concerns. ‘Since we’ll be leading the march, there will be no place for baggage in our column. Our carts will travel with the main baggage train. And I don’t want our men laden down with yokes. I’ve managed to get the supplies tribune to allocate us some extra carts for our kit. So we’ll march ready for action. That’ll please the men.’ He smiled, and Crispus responded in kind. The marching yokes were the bane of every infantryman’s life on campaign. Laden down with kit and rations, they weighed half as much as the men carrying them, and as a consequence were roundly cursed.

‘Just armour, shield and javelin will do for the legionaries,’ Cato continued. ‘Same for my foot soldiers. The cavalry will leave their feed bags on the same carts, Miro. Along with their kit. We have to be light on our feet, and not so exhausted that we can’t put up a good fight, or mount a vigorous pursuit. And we shall want prisoners, when we can take them. I must provide headquarters with good intelligence about the lie of the land ahead of us, and the men we are up against. Given that the legate wants to push forward as far as Mona, we’ll need to know precisely what we’re facing at every step.’

Cato saw Miro flinch at the name of the Druids’ stronghold and felt uneasy that such a man was following him into battle. He’d far sooner have Macro. Someone he could trust with his life. In fairness, Miro had not let him down yet, but neither had he revealed so much fear of his enemy, and Cato wondered how far the sentiment spread through his column, and indeed, the rest of the army.

‘One further thing. We will be joined by an officer from army headquarters. Tribune Livonius. He will be mapping the route day by day.’

Crispus frowned briefly, then nodded. ‘Livonius. He’s a narrow-striper serving with the Twentieth, isn’t he?’

‘That’s right. Do you know anything about him?’

‘If it’s the same Livonius, then I’ve heard he’s handy in a fight. He led a woodcutting party into the foothills a month ago and they were attacked by a war party of Silurians. Could have ended badly, but the tribune held the lads together and they cut their way free and made it back to the nearest outpost without losing too many men. Sounds to me like he has a cool head. Though why he’s been given a job as a cartographer is a puzzle. Men like that should be commanding troops in the line.’

‘An accurate map might well be a very valuable commodity, particularly in the mountains,’ Cato countered. ‘Still, if he’s as reliable as you say, then he’s a welcome addition to the column. Just as long as he doesn’t hold us back. All right, gentlemen, I’d offer you the chance to lose some money at dice, but we have an early start and a long day ahead of us. So unless there’s anything more to say?’ He glanced at Crispus and Miro, but neither man responded. ‘Then I’ll bid you good night.’

They rose from their stools and exchanged a salute before leaving the tent. As the flap slid back into place behind them, Cato let out a long sigh and stretched his shoulders until he heard them crack. Almost all the preparations had been made at the fort, and his men were ready to march at dawn. He had some misgivings about Miro, but it was too late to change anything now. To send him back to join Macro would demonstrate to all that he had lost confidence in the decurion. That was the kind of blow to a man’s esteem that was hard to overcome. Better to give him the chance to prove himself and gain the confidence that might eventually allow him to get the better of his innate nervousness and caution. After all, Cato reminded himself, he had had to face his own fears earlier in his career. He recalled all too vividly the cold, sinking dread that clenched in his guts during his first combat against the German warriors on the Rhenus frontier. Even now, he still experienced the same moment of fear before a fight, but knew that he must never reveal it to the men who followed him. Even if that meant taking more risks than some of his rank were inclined to do. He must be seen to be courageous and confident, whatever he felt beneath such a hardened veneer.

The tent flaps opened and Thraxis stepped across the threshold. ‘Will you be needing anything else, sir?’

‘What?’

‘Before I turn in? Is there anything you need?’

Cato thought about the one last task he had been putting off, and nodded. ‘Some heated wine, and give my cloak a brush. I want the mud off it when we lead the army out of camp tomorrow.’

Thraxis hissed softly to himself, but loudly enough that Cato heard.

‘Problem?’

‘It’s just a little mud, sir. And it’ll be in the same state as it is now when we’re no more than a mile from the camp.’

‘Look, I’m not asking you to comb every fibre out, tread it in urine and rinse it in spring water before drying it in the sun and doing the whole fuller’s special. Just get the bloody mud off and hang it with my armour.’

‘As you will, sir.’ Thraxis crossed to the cape lying bundled on a stool. He picked up the folds of red wool and turned to leave, muttering darkly about the pointlessness of the task.

After he had gone, Cato reached down into his document chest and rummaged until he found a clean sheet of vellum, a pot of ink and a stylus. He laid the sheet on the desk, unstoppered the ink and dipped the nib, taking care to tap the excess off before he poised the stylus over the vellum. Then he wrote neatly, ‘To my beloved wide Julia, mother of my beloved son Lucius, greetings.’ He cursed, and erased ‘wide’ with several quick strokes, writing ‘wife’ above. He was tired and needed to focus his thoughts. This was too important a letter to be composed carelessly. He breathed deeply, then began to write again. He told her that he had heard the news of their son’s birth from another officer; he had no doubt Julia had sent a letter relating the same event, only it had not yet arrived. And since the army was about to march, he was taking the chance to write to her expressing his delight at becoming a father and his pride and love for his wife for bearing him a fine son.

That part of the letter was easy to write, and a joy to do so. What came next required much more thought, since his missives to Julia were bound to be scrutinised by an agent of Pallas, or Narcissus, or both, before they were passed into the hands of his wife. He dipped his stylus again and continued, writing that he hoped Julia was well and being careful not to permit too many visitors to their house in case they had an adverse effect on her health. That he trusted her father, the good senator, would look after her affairs while she concentrated on the well-being and raising of Lucius. He paused and read his words back to himself, trying to imagine Julia doing the same and understanding the covert warning he was attempting to convey. Not knowing who would be likely to intercept his letter, it was imperative that he did not name any names, or give any sense of who commanded his loyalties, and yet Julia had to be made aware that she was being watched. She was certainly shrewd enough to guess, and knew about his previous dealings with Narcissus. What she could not know was that Pallas’s man had made overtures to her husband, backed up with threats to his family. How to convey that without saying it vexed Cato’s weary mind, and at length he set down his stylus and sat back in his chair.

‘Fuck . . .’

A moment later, Thraxis entered and set down a steaming cup. ‘Had to get that off Centurion Crispus’s slave. I owe him a favour now. If you’d given me some coin earlier, I could have got some from one of the traders in the vicus. But-’

‘Thank you. That will be all. Go and get some sleep.’

‘Sleep? Still got the cloak to do first.’

‘Isn’t it done yet?’

Thraxis glared at him. ‘It will be done as soon as it can be done, sir.’

‘Then don’t let me stop you.’

Thraxis muttered something in Thracian as he left the tent, and Cato turned his attention back to the letter, scratching his jaw irritably.

He struggled on by the pale flame of the lamp until the oil began to run out and the flame slowly shrank. He concluded with a brief reaffirmation of his love and then signed his name and read over the letter. It was barely adequate for the purposes he intended – to state that he pined for her and to warn her to stay away from the cross-currents of politics in the capital. Nevertheless, he folded the vellum carefully and then reached for the sealing wax. He dripped it over the fold and pressed his equestrian ring into the swiftly hardening wax, leaving the impression of a mounted soldier hurling a bolt of lightning. Julia had helped him choose the symbol when he had finally been confirmed in his present rank by the emperor and entered the equestrian tier of Roman society. He caressed the seal lightly and left the letter on his desk for Thraxis to take to headquarters in the morning with instructions for the staff remaining at Viroconium to ensure that it was sent to Rome at the first opportunity. He knew that it might take as much as four months at this time of year, and offered a quick prayer to Minerva that Julia would be wise enough to steer clear of political intrigue in the interim.

Sinking down on to his wooden-framed camp bed, Cato shivered in the cold night air. He gratefully pulled up the blanket and sheepskin cover that Thraxis had left out for him, and lay on his back staring up at the dark ceiling of the goatskin tent as a light shower began to patter above. His last thought before he fell asleep was of the expression on his servant’s face when he saw the inevitable mud that would result from the rain falling during the night.

He was awake an instant before Thraxis entered the tent, as if by some innate sense of the appropriate time to return to consciousness. It was still dark outside, and the rain was falling in earnest now, making the air chilly and damp as he yawned.

‘Your cloak,’ Thraxis said as he laid the folded woollen garment on the table. ‘Clean, though it might as well have been dragged through the mud instead, given the weather. Do you require food, sir?’

‘No time. You can bring me something once we set off.’ Cato stood up in his tunic and held out his arms so that Thraxis could fasten on his shoulder padding before helping him to struggle into his scale-armour shirt. The servant carefully fastened the ties that ran down the shield-arm side of the shirt, and then Cato stood still as his sword belt was placed over his head and arranged on his shoulder. Lastly there were his boots and his cape, which he fastened at his shoulder with a brooch.

‘How do I look?’

‘Like Julius Caesar himself, sir,’ Thraxis answered in a weary monotone.

‘Just as long as I don’t end up like the man.’

‘Sir?’

‘Never mind. Pack up the kit and have my cart join the main baggage train. I’ll see you in camp at the end of the day.’

Thraxis bowed his head. ‘Yes, Prefect.’

Cato eased the tent flap aside and looked out over the lines of the Blood Crows and the Fourth Cohort of legionaries. The men were already up, barely visible in the first glimmer of the coming day. Rain drizzled steadily from an overcast sky in a soft hiss as the soldiers took down their tents and carried them to the waiting carts. Cato glanced back over his shoulder.

‘And I’ll want warm, dry clothes and a fire.’

‘Yes, sir. Anything else?’

‘Is a sunny countenance too much to ask for?’

Thraxis stared back bleakly.

‘Fair enough.’ Cato emerged from the tent and made his way over to his horse. One of the Thracians was holding his horse’s reins and handed them to Cato before helping him into the saddle. From his elevated position Cato looked out towards the vast sprawl of the fortress of Mediolanum and the surrounding marching camps of the units concentrated there for the campaign. Thousands of men toiled to break camp in the gloom and then form up in their marching columns, hounded into place by the bellows of their centurions and optios. The vanguard was waiting just outside the main gate, and Crispus snapped an order to stand to attention as Cato rode up to join his men. The prefect cast an eye along the ranks of legionaries before he turned to address the centurion loudly enough for all to hear.

‘The men are looking hungry for glory, Crispus.’

‘Yes, sir! Hounds straining at the leash. That’s the men of the Fourth Cohort all right.’

‘Then may the gods show mercy to the enemy, because your men surely won’t!’

Crispus grinned and drew his sword, punching it into the air as he bellowed the legion’s title: ‘Gemina! Gemina!’

His men instantly joined in, giving full throat to their cry, and the other soldiers of the army briefly paused and turned towards the din before continuing to break camp.

Cato smiled at the legionaries, happy to indulge their keen spirits. He gave them a salute and rode on to the head of the column where the Blood Crows sat in their saddles. The two centuries of foot auxiliaries had been assigned to protect the vanguard’s baggage train. An officer in a red military cloak was with them, together with a swarthy-looking servant on a horse laden with saddlebags.

‘You must be Tribune Livonius,’ Cato called out as he trotted up. ‘Come to chart the army’s passage through the hills and mountains.’

The officer nodded. ‘Prefect Cato?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’ Livonius smiled. ‘I’ve heard plenty about your exploits and those of the Blood Crows since I joined the legate’s staff. It’s an honour to serve with you.’

‘An honour?’ Cato shook his head, immediately suspicious of easy praise. ‘My men and I only do our duty and carry out our orders. No more or less than any other soldiers of Rome.’

Livonius pursed his lips with an amused expression. ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I do. Now wipe that foolish smile off your face.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The tribune looked a little crestfallen.

‘And who is this?’ Cato gestured towards the man at Livonius’s side.

‘Hieropates, sir. My private secretary and drafter of maps. He’s the real brains behind our double act.’

‘Is he now?’ Cato looked the man over more closely. Hieropates was clearly from the Eastern Empire, and didn’t look as if he was enjoying being sent to the far end of the emperor’s domain. His dark curly hair was streaked with grey, above a heavily lined face out of which two dark eyes gleamed. His cloak appeared bulky due to the layers of clothing beneath, and his head seemed to hunch into the folds of cloth about his neck, like a bird withdrawing into its nest. ‘You have experience of map-making amid such mountains?’ Cato gestured towards the grey outlines of the ridges stretching away to the west.

Hieropates bowed his head gracefully. ‘Indeed, sir. I and my master Livonius have mapped the eastern frontier from Cappadocia to Nubia, at the command of the Prefect of Syria.’

‘A slave, then?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And a bloody good teacher,’ Livonius intervened. ‘Old Hieropates has taught me all I know about making maps. And he taught Tribune Plinius before me, on whose recommendation my father bought Hieropates.’

Cato felt a pang of sympathy for the man. He was clearly well educated and might well believe that he deserved to be freed after giving many years of good service to his masters. As it was, he had been passed from one aristocratic family to another to educate the scions of their bloodline. And now here he was in Britannia, far from the warm comforts of the Eastern Empire. Cato smiled faintly at Livonius. ‘Then I am pleased that you are assigned to my column. I trust that you and your maps will serve the army well.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Livonius. ‘An army needs good maps just as much as it needs regular supplies, fortitude and the blessings of Fortuna. Between Hieropates and myself, we shall detail every step of the route the army takes in bringing the war to the enemy. We shall measure distances and sketch prominent landmarks so that we can shine a light into the darkest valley of the barbarians’ mountainous lands.’

‘Just as long as you don’t hold my column back in any way. We can’t afford to stop and wait for you to complete your little sketches and pacing-out of distances. You will need to keep up with us. If you don’t, I’ll leave you behind. Is that understood?’

The tribune looked chastened and nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Very well. You’ll ride with the fourth squadron of the Blood Crows. The decurion will remain in command and you will regard yourself as supernumeraries.’

Livonius was clearly struggling to contain his discomfort at being placed under the command of a man several ranks beneath his own, and Cato relented.

‘How long have you been in Britannia, Tribune?’

‘Nearly three months, sir.’

‘Three months . . .’ The prefect sighed. It was unlikely that Livonius had much grasp of conditions in Britannia. While Cato appreciated the need for such young men to get some military experience early on in their careers, they tended to serve for too short a time. Most were attached to legions on garrison duty and merely had to adjust to the daily routine of such a life. Livonius had picked the short straw, thrown into a posting where he would need to learn fast just to stay alive. Still, it might be the making of him, if he survived the experience. And Crispus had vouched for him at least. Cato forced himself to smile encouragingly. ‘Well then, you’ll have something to tell your family when you return to Rome. Observe all that you can, Livonius, and listen to any advice the veterans give you. That’s the best way to learn the craft of soldiering.’

‘Yes, sir . . . Thank you.’

Cato wheeled his mount around and glanced back down the column. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of the men he was about to lead against their adversaries, the vanguard of the entire army launching itself against the enemy warriors and their Druid allies. He had fought and shed blood alongside these men and knew that they shared his pleasure in the hard-fighting reputation that both units had garnered since he had taken command. It was a pity that Macro was not here to share the moment with him, he reflected briefly.

He raised his arm and drew a deep breath. ‘Blood Crows! Fourth Cohort! Prepare to advance!’

The legionaries and auxiliary infantry bent down to lift their shields, while the riders eased their mounts into two columns and adjusted their reins. Cato waited until the last of the men was ready before he turned his horse away from the army’s camp and swept his arm down to point along the track leading towards the hills and mountains. A dull overcast made them seem more distant, and already he could see a broad band of darker clouds rolling in from the north, threatening rain.

‘Column . . . advance!’