Britannia, page 21
‘We’re going to have to abandon at least one of the wagons,’ Macro decided. ‘And some of the supplies. Of course, we could use a couple of the mules hitched to your cart, sir.’
Glaber stiffened slightly. ‘I think not. As you said, we’re in a hurry. Best to just crack on and not waste time moving my kit to one of the wagons. You’ll need all the space for whatever supplies you can carry from the wagon you leave.’
Macro saw that he would not gain much headway against the tribune and changed tack. ‘Mind my asking why you were here with the convoy, sir? I know that the Fourteenth and the Twentieth already have senior tribunes, so you ain’t a replacement.’
Glaber was quiet for a moment before he responded. ‘Fair enough question, and as I have already put you on the spot, I suppose I owe you an answer. Very well. I am the chief of staff to the new governor of Britannia, Aulus Didius Gallus. I have been sent to inform Legate Quintatus that the governor will reach the province to take up his post before the end of the year. I’m supposed to be liaising with the legate to discuss the handover. However, I had not expected to have to track him down in the depths of these bloody mountains.’
‘Gallus?’ Macro had heard the name. ‘Wasn’t he governor in Sicily a few years back?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Nice quiet spot, I believe. He’s going to find it quite different here.’
Glaber’s brow creased into a frown. ‘He has since been decorated by the emperor following a successful campaign in Bosporus, and after that he campaigned against a brigand army in the mountains of North Africa. I think you will find that he is well placed to take command here in Britannia. The barbarians in these climes are hardly going to present much of a challenge.’
‘No?’ Macro could not help a weary smile. ‘They’ve been keeping our legions at full stretch for the best part of ten years now, sir. And this little tussle you just had is hardly an isolated event. I hope the new governor doesn’t think he’s going to breeze in and sort it all out in a few short years.’
‘Gallus knows what he’s doing, Centurion. And I suspect that he is not going to be too impressed by one of his legates rushing headlong through these mountains to grab some glory for himself while he can.’
Macro quickly reappraised his impression of the tribune. Glaber was no one’s fool and had guessed the real motive behind Quintatus’s decision to launch this campaign. Still, the centurion had learned enough from Cato to be aware of the need to discuss his superiors in as tactful a manner as he could manage. ‘Legate Quintatus is a good enough commander, sir. He saw an opportunity to crush the Druids while the enemy appeared weak and divided, and he took it. But he’s advancing into a trap, sir. That’s what I’ve come to warn him about.’
He briefly filled the tribune in on the details that had been beaten out of the prisoner back at the fort. Glaber listened intently.
‘Then there’s no time to waste. I would suggest that you and your men ride ahead and reach the army as soon as you can, but I dare say this route is being closely watched by the enemy and you’d stand a better chance of getting through if you remained with the convoy.’
‘I agree, sir.’
‘Then we’d better get moving as soon as the wagons are ready. I’ll need a driver for my cart. The previous post-holder thought he’d run for it the moment the enemy pitched up. He was the first man to be cut down.’ Glaber looked up at the leaden sky. ‘I’d say we’re due some rain before night falls.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Frankly, I’d rather be sitting in my study, in front of the fire, back in Rome.’
‘I can imagine.’
They exchanged rueful smiles before Glaber wagged a finger. ‘I remember now. You did say Prefect Cato, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Marcus Quintus Cato, the chap that married the daughter of Senator Sempronius a year or so ago? Julia, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you know Prefect Cato?’
‘Yes, sir. He is a fine officer, and a good man. I’m proud to call him a friend.’
The tribune sucked in a breath and his expression changed, becoming more solemn. ‘Then I have some bad news for you, and the prefect, I’m afraid . . .’
‘Bad news?’ Macro felt a prickle of anxiety ripple across his scalp. He dared not even guess at the nature of the tidings carried by the tribune.
‘My father is a close friend of Senator Sempronius. I heard it from him shortly before I left Rome. It seems that Julia gave birth to a child a while back. It was not an easy delivery by all accounts, and left her weak. She never fully recovered and finally succumbed to a summer chill. Damn shame. At least young Lucius was thriving though. Or was when I left Rome. Always thought Julia was a bright, pretty thing. Bit of a shock to old man Sempronius.’ He paused and continued in a more melancholy tone. ‘So I suppose I shall have to pass the news on to her husband. Poor fellow.’
‘She’s dead?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
Macro swallowed and shook his head in utter sorrow. ‘Cato . . . my poor lad.’
The optio came striding up to them with one of his men and saluted, oblivious to the strained air between his two superiors as he addressed Tribune Glaber. The other man took up the traces of the mules attached to the cart and stood ready to lead the animals on.
‘The wounded have been put in one of the wagons, sir. The dead have been placed on the one we’re leaving behind, together with the supplies we couldn’t carry. The rest of the convoy is formed up and ready to move.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. We had better get going. Centurion?’
Macro shook himself out of his stupor and stiffened his spine as he composed his features and stared at the tribune. ‘I’m ready, sir.’
‘Good. I want you and your men to scout ahead of the convoy. No heroics. You see anything, you report back at once and don’t get stuck in. Clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, then let’s get moving, gentlemen.’
Macro saluted and turned to mount his horse. As he adjusted his position, he looked round. Already a thin wisp of smoke was rising from the cart where several bodies in red tunics had been arranged on top of the sacks of grain and jars of olive oil packed on the bed of the wagon. Mule feed blazed at the tail of the vehicle, and, fanned by the breeze, the bright flames licked at the flammable material above. It was a dramatic and poignant sight, but Macro’s mind was elsewhere. He was recalling the last time he had seen Cato and Julia together, just before leaving Rome. Their mutual affection had been clear to see and had touched even Macro’s hardened heart.
Now Julia was dead.
And Macro dreaded the reaction of his friend when the news reached him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Where’s the rest of the bloody fleet?’ Quintatus fumed at Cato as he surveyed the bay below the headland. In the choppy grey water a trireme and four smaller, more slender biremes lay at anchor off the thin strip of sand that ran along the shore. The beach, such as it was, was too small and the surf too shallow to beach the vessels safely, and so they rocked, masts swaying, some fifty paces from the shore. A small fort was under construction on the opposite headland, the workforce of marines and sailors being screened by pickets from the Blood Crows. There was no sign of the rest of the warships that had been expected to meet the army on the coast, nor of the shallow-bottomed transports that were needed to ferry the troops across the channel separating the mainland from the island of Mona.
Behind the legate stood his staff officers and the mounted contingent of his bodyguard. The party had ridden ahead of the main column in response to Cato’s report that he had located the first elements of the fleet. Some five miles to the rear, the army was trudging along a coastal track and should reach the bay in good time to construct a marching camp before nightfall. The advance had slowed after they had reached the Deceanglian capital and moved on, leaving a smouldering ruin in their wake. The enemy had harried the column all the way, launching swift attacks the instant it began to string out, and fleeing to cover when the Romans formed up to repulse them. Reports had come in that the follow-up supply convoys were also being attacked. Quintatus had been obliged to keep his army in close formation, slowing its pace, and had detached one of his cavalry cohorts to patrol his lines of communication and attempt to fend off attacks on the convoys.
All of which was gravely concerning to Cato. The legate’s original plan for the campaign had been a swift strike through the heart of the mountains to destroy the Deceanglians before laying waste the Druid stronghold of Mona and then returning to base before the winter set in. But the season was now well advanced, and even though it had not rained for five days, the temperature had dropped to below freezing overnight, so that the water froze in the men’s canteens, and frost had to be swept from their goatskin tents before they were struck down. Any advantage to be gained from easier passage over the hard ground had been offset by the need to slow the advance in the face of the enemy’s harassing attacks. That morning had seen the first fall of snow, a brief flurry descending from heavy clouds before the wind had swept them away to leave a thin patina of white nestling on the boughs of trees and the rock and grass of the higher ground. There would be more, Cato knew, and should it be heavy, then the army would struggle to retreat from the mountains, let alone continue to advance deeper into enemy territory. All hinged on a rapid descent on Mona, a decisive victory, and an untroubled return to winter quarters. None of which seemed likely, especially given the misfortune that had struck the fleet as it had made its way up the coast to join the army.
Cato’s forward patrols had found the handful of ships in the bay the afternoon before and spoken with the shaken trierarchs in command before setting them to work constructing the fort. He had sent a message back to the legate with the briefest details, which had resulted in this encounter on the headland to make his full report.
‘As you know, sir, the fleet was hit by a storm three days ago and scattered. The survivors in the bay say that they witnessed some ships founder before they lost sight of the others and made the best speed they could to find the nearest shelter once they had rounded Mona. I have sent a patrol further along the coast to search for any sign of the rest of the fleet. They will return and report at dusk.’
‘Well, they had better find some more ships for me. We need them, and the transports, if we are going to take Mona.’
‘Yes, sir.’
It was an obvious point, and Cato realised that it had only been proffered out of anxiety. He could see that the legate’s expression was strained, and for an instant he felt a flicker of sympathy for his commander. This campaign was supposed to deal a knockout blow to the native tribes’ willingness to continue their ultimately futile resistance to Rome. It was intended to bring peace, and with that the acclaim that would have been bestowed on Quintatus. Instead the campaign had been beset by misfortune and was now in danger of becoming undone thanks to the onset of winter and the enemy’s stubborn refusal to meet the legions in battle. Then the moment of sympathy passed as Cato reflected that the legate might have allowed his ambitions to overreach his reason. A common failing in the political class of Rome, and a particular hazard when such ambition put at risk the lives of the men who served in the Roman army.
‘In the meantime,’ Quintatus continued, ‘how far are we from the channel?’
‘Less than a day’s march, sir. Nine, maybe ten miles along the coast from the bay.’
‘Good. Then we will make camp on the far headland.’ The legate turned to look for Titus Silanus. ‘I want a double ditch around the ramparts, since we are close to the enemy.’
The camp prefect nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to get on with it while I ride ahead with the vanguard to see Mona myself. It’ll be quite something to come face to face with the Druid lair.’ He lifted his voice so that the surrounding officers would hear him. ‘Gentlemen, when our mission here is complete, you will be dining out for the rest of your lives on tales of how you defeated the Druids!’
Some smiled at the prospect but most merely nodded dutifully, too cold and tired to make much effort to please their commander. Quintatus turned back to Cato. ‘Let’s go, then.’
For many days now, the most that the men of the Blood Crows had seen of the enemy was the distant clusters of horsemen who had tracked the Roman advance, never coming close enough to engage Cato’s outriders, always slipping away the moment the auxiliary cavalry drew uncomfortably close. Wary of having his men fall into a trap, Cato had issued standing orders that there would be no attempt to pursue, and so the two sides had kept watch on each other from afar as the column penetrated ever deeper into the mountains.
Now, as they crested the ridge that overlooked the channel separating Mona from the mainland, they caught sight of the enemy army for the first time since the campaign had begun. In the fading light no more than half a mile away, ranged along the shore of the channel, lay hundreds of shelters, and the smoke from fires swirled over the roofs of thatch and moss. The camp was protected on its landward side by a crude turf rampart and a shallow ditch that would not have passed muster in the poorest of auxiliary cohorts. Scores of wide-beamed boats were beached on the shore and three more were ferrying men across the channel, quarter of a mile wide at the narrowest point, Cato calculated. The tide was coming in, but had not yet submerged rows of sharpened stakes extending from a point on the far shore, revealing the presence of a possible route across to Mona at low tide. On the far side he could make out a further line of defences running along the shore and many more huts clustered on the sloping ground beyond. On both sides of the channel thousands of figures were visible.
‘We’ve got them!’ Quintatus made a fist. ‘We’ve finally got the bastards where we want them. Once we force them back on to the island, there’ll be no escape. They’ll be caught in a trap like the rats they are.’
The flat blast of a horn sounded from below, and a moment later the alarm was taken up by others and the noise swelled like a defiant challenge. At once the enemy warriors streamed through their shelters to line the ramparts, while those who had been foraging for firewood outside raced back to the gateways. Cato was impressed by the speed at which the Deceanglians had reacted. Moreover, they were well organised. Small parties of men formed up a short distance to the rear of the rampart to act as reserves, while mounted men raced out in front of the defences to form a picket line to investigate the intruders.
‘Sloppy watch-keeping,’ Quintatus mused. ‘We were almost on them before the alarm was raised. It is astonishing how long these savages have been able to defy us, given their dismal attempts at soldiering. Well, now they’re going to be taught a lesson they’ll not live to profit from.’
Cato made a quick estimate of the enemy’s strength, on both shores. ‘Several thousand, but no more than ten thousand, at the most, I’d say, sir. And many of them will be tribal levies.We have the edge in quality of men and equipment.’
‘Indeed. Nothing can keep victory from us now.’
‘I hope not, sir.’ Cato replied as he scrutinised the enemy positions. A boat was setting out from the island, with several figures in dark robes clustered in the bow observing the Romans in turn.
‘I say!’ One of the junior tribunes pointed. ‘Are those fellows in black Druids? I had dearly wished to see some in the flesh.’
The more experienced officers gave him pitying glances before turning their attention back to the scene below. As the Druids reached the shore, they dispersed along the length of the rampart, save one, who mounted a black horse and galloped out of the nearest gate towards a small cluster of horsemen beneath a long-tailed standard that writhed, serpent-like, in the strengthening breeze. Another signal blared out, and hundreds of riders began to concentrate around the standard.
‘I think it’s time we returned to the camp, sir,’ Cato suggested. ‘It looks like the locals are starting to resent our intrusion.’
The horsemen immediately around the serpent standard surged forward, and the rest followed, coming on at a fast pace directly towards the legate, his officers and the Blood Crows who were escorting them.
‘Fair point, Prefect. Let’s go.’
Quintatus took a last look at the enemy army and then pulled on his reins and turned his horse back down the narrow track leading along the coast towards the Roman marching camp. It was not long before a rider came up from the rear of the cavalry cohort to announce that the enemy were pursuing them. Cato looked back and saw that they had reached the ridge and were already streaming down the near side, half a mile behind the Blood Crows. He gave the order to increase the pace to a canter to keep some distance between them and the natives. There was no need to go any faster. Their pursuers had already ridden at full pelt up to the ridge and their mounts would soon be blown.
As they pounded along over the hard ground, he felt a brief sting on his face and blinked as something caught in his eye. Then he realised that snow was falling; small scattered flakes swirling through the wind that was blowing from the sea to their left. The leaden swell rolled in and spray exploded over the rocky shoreline, and it occurred to Cato that what was left of the fleet would be struggling to gain the safety of the bay where the first ships to arrive were anchored. The flurry did not last long, and as the clouds began to part, angled rays of golden sunlight spilled across the sea, illuminating the western faces of the hills and mountains and casting long shadows behind them. But it would not last, Cato realised, as he looked over his shoulder and saw a thick band of cloud swelling up. Beneath, the sea was blotted out by a grey veil of more snow as it swept in over Mona, heading for the mainland. The blizzard would strike soon.
